Meatball

Meatball lived in a ranch-style house two doors down from ours on Codwise Street. He was the Superintendent of Highways for the Town of Ulster, and his real name was Ed. I don’t know why he invited us neighborhood kids to call him Meatball; it might have been to ease the intimidation of his presence. His size and saunter, and the bigness of his voice always made me think of John Wayne. In my memory, the two men are one person.

Since Meatball was the Superintendent of Highways, Codwise Street was always kept in good repair. Potholes never got a chance to get too big. We didn’t have to wait long for the snowplows to come through in wintertime.

He also owned and operated the local garbage collection business. He housed his trucks in a huge garage he’d put up on the lot beyond his house. The return of his roaring white fleet in the afternoon was one of the ways we told time.

Donny Van Etten lived next door, between Meatball and me. He was my best friend until Kindergarten broadened our horizons. We spent our summers mostly doing things that made us very sweaty. That wasn’t difficult in the beastly swelter of Ulster County.

When we’d played ourselves into a sufficiently wilted state, we’d stare longingly through the fence at Meatball’s pool. If he wasn’t outside, it could take a while. Once he spotted us he’d holler, “Well, what’re ya waitin’ for? Go get yer swimsuits on!”

We’d take off like bottle rockets, and be back in no time, all suited up. It amazed us every time that he somehow knew how badly we needed a swim. It was like he could read our minds or something.

Our parents must’ve been embarrassed by our shameless angling, but Meatball genuinely liked us. We could tell. In point of fact, shameless is the perfect word to describe the way we waited for his invitation. We weren’t ashamed to be openly desperate.

It’s a hard thing to pull off without the grace of ignorance, though. As the years have accumulated, I’ve learned not to be bare. Part of becoming a grownup has meant attenuating my expectations and concealing my neediness.

But like the rest of humankind, I was made to expect good things. When I pray, I try to remember that it’s not unlike staring longingly through Meatball’s fence. I try to forget to be ashamed of my wilted, sweaty soul. It still amazes me that he knows how badly I need to be in the pool.