Chapter 6 enter school

When my rental car turned onto Murray's street in West Newton, a secluded suburb of Boston, I had a cup of coffee in my hand and a cell phone between my shoulder and ear.I'm talking to a TV producer about a show.My eyes bounce between the digital clock—the hours before my return flight—and the mailbox numbers on the tree-lined street.The car radio was on. It was the news station.This is my rhythm of life, one mind can do five things. "Rewind the tape," I said to the producer, "let me listen to that part again." "Okay," he said, "just a moment."

Suddenly, the house jumped into my eyes.I hit the brakes and the coffee shakes out of the cup.When the car stopped, I caught a glimpse of the big Japanese maple tree in the driveway and the three people sitting next to it.Sitting on either side are a young man and a middle-aged woman, and in the middle is an old man in a wheelchair. Morrie ----- I was stunned to see my old professor. "Hello!" The producer's voice rang in my ears. "Are you still listening?..." I have not seen him for sixteen years.His hair was thinner, almost gray, and he looked haggard.I suddenly feel that I'm not ready for a reunion—at least, I have to deal with the call for now—I hope he doesn't notice me coming, so I can drive a few more blocks and finish my business. For official business, be mentally prepared.But Morrie, the old man I used to be so familiar with but now is so strange and haggard, is smiling at the car.He folded his hands in his lap and waited for me to emerge from the car.

"Hey," the producer yelled again. "Are you listening?" For our years of getting along, for the thoughtfulness and patience that Morrie once gave me, I should throw away the phone, jump out of the car, hug him, and kiss him. But I didn't do that.I turned off the engine and crouched down as if looking for something. "Yeah, I'm listening," I whispered and continued talking to the producer until things were settled. I did what I do best.I still care about my work, even though the old professor who is dying is waiting for me on his front lawn.I'm not proud of it, but that's what I do.

Five minutes later, Morrie hugged me, his loose hair brushing my cheek.I told him that I was looking for the keys just now, so I stayed in the car for so long.I hugged him harder, as if trying to crush my little lie.Although the spring sun was warm, he was wearing a windbreaker with a blanket covering his legs.There was a faint sour taste coming out of his mouth, a smell common to people who are taking medicine.As his face was so close to mine, I could hear his labored breathing. "My old friend," he said softly, "you are back at last." He leaned against me and swayed, never separating from me.As I leaned over, his hands grabbed my elbows.I'm amazed that he's managed to maintain this relationship after all these years.But think again.Because of the stone wall I've built between my past and my present, I forget how close we were, and I remember graduation day, the purse and his when I left. tears.But I didn't show it because I realized deep down that I wasn't the good student he remembered giving him gifts anymore.

All I wish was that I could spend the next few hours blindfolding him. Once inside, we sat at a walnut dining table near a window that looked out over a neighbor's yard.Morrie kept moving in the wheelchair, trying to make himself more comfortable.He wanted to treat me to something to eat, this is his habit, I agreed.Among the assistants was a stocky Italian woman named Connie who served the sliced ​​bread.Potatoes, and a salad with chicken.Plate of hummus and wheat salad. She also brought pills.Morrie looked at them and sighed.His eyes were sunken deeper than I had imagined, and his cheekbones were more prominent.It made him look older—only when he laughed did the sagging cheeks draw back like curtains.

"Mitch," he said softly, "you know I'm not far from dying." "I know." "Okay," Morrie swallowed the pill, put down the paper cup, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Shall I tell you what's going on?" "What's the matter? What's the matter with death?" "Yes," he said. Although I didn't realize it yet, our last class had begun. It was my first year of college.Morrie was older than most of the teachers, and I was younger than most of the students because I graduated high school a year early.In order not to look immature on campus, I wore an old gray tank top, boxed at the local gym, and walked with an unlit cigarette in my mouth, even though I didn't smoke.I was driving a shabby Mercury car, and music was blaring from the unrolled windows.I tried my best to be rough-but I was attracted by Morrie's geniality, and I was relieved just because he didn't see me as an unworldly child.

I finished my first course with him and took another course with him.He is a professor who grades very loosely and doesn't pay much attention to grades.It is said that one year, during the Vietnam War, Murray gave all the boys A's so they could get a reprieve. I started calling him "coach," the way I called my high school track coach.Morrie liked the nickname. "Coach," he said. "Well, I'll be your coach and you'll be my player. Anything that's good in life but I'm too old to enjoy it, you'll be my player." Sometimes we eat together in restaurants.To my delight, he was even less slovenly than I was.He was talkative while he ate, and he grinned widely, his passionate thoughts streaming from his mouth full of egg salad and his yolk-stained teeth.

He made me laugh out loud.In the time I've known him, two of my strongest desires have been: to hug him and to give him a napkin.