Mr. Hilton

 

Mr. Hilton

My Uber driver in bushy white beard
says Wowza! with a memorable pitch
not heard since high school as he
conveys me skillfully, rapidly
up and down the streets of San Francisco
so I say “Excuse me, but did you once
used to teach eleventh grade English
in Montgomery County, Maryland?”
For half a minute he grimaces, shakes his head.
Awkward, he says. ‘Did you once used to.’  
Wowza!

In memory I drown. Speechless.
I’m the kid who doodled poems, stories for nobody
and for no purpose until clean-shaven Mr. Hilton
praised, encouraged, cheered.
Back then he was gay and couldn’t say.
Quoted Walt Whitman in a singsongy voice.
Sometimes he’d vow to quit teaching
and drive a taxi around D.C. and write
a novel about political mucketymucks.

“Did you write a novel?” I ask.
Drove taxi.
“And wrote a novel?”
Not exactly.
“You were my best teacher.”
Thank you. He grins. You just made my day.

He studies me, eyes in mirror. Who are you?
I tell him my name and say, “You inspired me.”
Inspired what?
I tell him I write poetry.
Sorry, he says. A miserable occupation.

The ride ends and I say, “You changed my life.”
To be honest, he says, I don’t remember you.
“Thank you for discovering me.”
Nonsense. Wowza! You were always there.
He won’t accept a tip.

…..

First published in Naugatuck River Review
Photo by catceeq on Pixabay