Waving Willie

by AJS

NONE OF US knew his real name. My college students affectionately named him “Waving Willie,” this graying, bearded fellow who stood on the shoulder of the road each day and waved to us—one broad and cheerful wave to each car, a kind of blessing on our passage to work.

We could only guess the circumstances of his life from the shabby house behind him and his tired clothes, a faded all-weather jacket and khaki pants, his scruffy beard.  It was rumored that he had been struck on the head in a car accident. He was out there morning and evening, warm weather and cold, carrying out his self-appointed task.  I wondered why he sacrificed himself to the elements that way. 

It seemed that all he hoped for in return was some sign that we had seen him.  Most drivers returned the gesture by blowing their horns and waving back.  I did, too.  At first, I waved back because (I rationalized) I was being kind to him, encouraging him to keep his lonely vigil on the shoulder of this busy country road.  Later, I realized that he was being kind to me.

You see, I discovered that I began to anticipate the bend in the road where he would be standing, even before I rounded it.  On the days when he was there, I’d honk my car horn loudly and wave back.  I watched for his smile of acknowledgement.  My day was brightened.  On the rare day he wasn’t there, I felt disappointed. 

He had worked his way into the hearts of my students also, those who traveled the same route I did.  We didn’t know him, yet his impact on us was real, and mysterious.  We counted on his being there.  Why?  Perhaps because on that lonely stretch of highway, Willie created a neighborhood and we were welcome there.  For the brief moment of our passing by, we—drivers heading north and south, and all honking our horns in response to Willie—were also connected to each other by our shared affection for him.

His house, a neglected cabin-like structure that stood behind him not far back from the road seemed hardly substantial enough to withstand New Jersey winters.  I found myself wondering (almost worrying) about him.  Does anyone shop for him?  Clean his home? Launder his clothes? 

Once—and only once—I encountered Willie in person.  I had stopped at a local supermarket on my way home.  As I was hurrying toward the door, I noticed a stooped, elderly man carrying a plastic grocery bag in each hand—that same gray jacket and khaki pants.  It was Willie.  Our eyes met—this time not through the window of a car, but at close range.  I expected him to react, to acknowledge that he remembered my face.  But some emptiness in his eyes held me back as if to say, “Don’t come any closer.” 

I felt hurt.  I must have waved to him a thousand times.  I puzzled on the way home.  Maybe the only human contact he was capable of was a fleeting one.  I never knew the answer.

Not long after that, I began to notice that Willie was sometimes not at his post for several days in a row.  And even when he was there, he lacked energy.  Lifting his arm was becoming so difficult that he could only wave at groups of cars.  He smiled less and less. Sometimes his face looked pained, but he still kept up his vigil of neighborliness. 

And then came the day when Willie hadn’t the strength to stand there any longer.  But that didn’t stop him.  He continued his duty, sitting, his graying figure framed against a colorful beach chair placed at his chosen station.  Eventually, when it became too strenuous for him to lift his arm any longer, he began to nod his head at each car, a deep nod, occasionally almost a bow.  It reminded me of an actor’s ritual bow at the end of a performance.

Finally there was an entire week when Willie didn’t appear at all.  And he didn’t appear in the weeks that followed. 

I never pass that spot on the road without feeling his haunting absence.  I wonder why he did it.  I wonder, too, how those people feel for whom Willie’s wave was the only one they would receive that day.  Perhaps—just like me—they could still see him waving.

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