"Red Face": A Short Story

“Red Face”

            The flavor of fluoride mint toothpaste in my mouth as I brushed my teeth this morning conjured up childhood memories of none other than my fourth and fifth grade orchestra teacher, Mr. Picardo.

            He looked like the kind of person who might’ve worked as a Santa Clause in a two-bit mall on his days off. His greying hair lay thick on his head down to his impressive beard. It was clear that he rarely shaved and, his rounded belly bulged past the buckle of his black leather belt. After we squeaked D and F scales out of our violins, “Smashing,” he would reply sonorously, with a hint of sarcasm mediated by an eye-wrinkling smile. It seemed like he was always in tune with the music, his arms and head bobbling with the beat as he conducted.

            I don’t remember the color of his eyes, grey perhaps or green, I never really paid attention. Most of what I did notice was that his cheeks blazed with color, like he was constantly blushing, but never embarrassed. “Why is your face so red?” my classmates and I would ask, brimming with playful curiosity.

            He stopped for a moment and feigned innocence, “What? My face isn’t red…”

            “Yes, it is!” we continued.

            “Well, that’s normal, isn’t it? Why aren’t your faces red?” His gaze shifted and indicated that we should go back to playing Hot Cross Buns. He scratched his salmon skin under his blue Hawaiian shirt with his pudgy, weathered fingers and readjusted his legs. He was that kind of guy; the crazy Hawaiian shirt and acid wash jeans kind of guy.

            “Haha, nobody else’s face is like yours!” We giggled and, like the elementary schoolers we were, started running around him teasing, “Red Face! Red Face!”

            He chuckled a few times, shrugging it off and unsteadily asked us to come closer, “Alright, alright everyone. Janna, practice your bow form, and the rest of you need start practicing Hot Cross Buns for the Fall Concert.” But as soon as he opened his mouth, the room filled with an uncomfortable odor like fermented saliva. I held my breath and tried not to breathe when I was near him. Suddenly, somebody broke the silent thought in everyone’s minds.

            “Mr. Picardo, your breath STINKS!” she exclaimed, smirking because even though the stale smell was indeed terrible, we still looked upon him with unwavering admiration. He was our funnily sardonic, always enthusiastic orchestra teacher after all. All the kids loved Mr. Picardo for his openness, his droll disposition, but the other teachers seemed to keep a steady distance away from him. Perhaps it was the smell, we thought.

            It isn’t until now that I realize his habits and appearance embodied one of an obvious alcoholic. Yet, why does my growing maturity bring upon such instant judgment? Why does the label “an alcoholic” seem to say something about his entire being, not simply a part of his life that he might’ve struggled with?

At the time, I only understood that it was Mr. Picardo who taught me what each string on the violin was and what rosin was for, gave me an enthusiasm for music and helped me string together tunes from a collection of broken notes. Now, what runs through my mind isn’t how well he taught scales or conducted our concerts, but rather why he drank the way he did, how he became an elementary school music teacher (maybe he couldn’t make it in the music world), and how many bottles of wine he would consume when he wasn’t teaching us – none of which has anything to do with how he treated me.
I am nineteen, technically a legal adult, but I think I saw people more clearly when I was nine.

I hope you enjoyed this true story from my elementary days.