Hare Today, Rabbit Tomorrow

Recently, I overheard a neighborhood eccentric inform his companion that he at long last learned the difference between a hare and a rabbit. This local oddball, a former college professor, has been around since time immemorial, living in an increasingly dilapidated house and, sadly, body as well. Like us all, he is aging and aging fast.

For years that turn into decades, there are countless individuals in our lives—on the periphery—that we know very little about. Men and women who cross our paths too many times to count that we barely acknowledge or don’t acknowledge at all. The nutty professor looks the part, acts the part, and keeps pretty much to himself. That is and always has been his modus operandi. Once upon a time, he was regularly spotted walking a strange looking, hairless little dog and—before that—pushing around his wheelchair-bound wife. The man nodded to me a time or two when our eyes met. But I got the impression that even such minimalist greetings made the professor extremely uncomfortable, so—when sharing the same sidewalk—I thereafter avoided any and all eye contact.

As time marches on and neighbors die and move away, life’s fleeting nature becomes impossible to ignore. Suddenly, these obscure folks in my tiny earthly orbit loom larger in my eyes. There’s this peculiar, misshapen fellow about my age who is frequently seen chiding his pooch to behave or—heaven forbid—suffer the consequences. I know his name and remember him from way back when—as a teen—thumbing through the dirty magazines in the back of—what was colloquially known as—“Optimo” or the "cigar store." This guy is pushing sixty now and looks worse for the wear, but I’ve known of him for more than forty years.

These days when people leave town who have been around forever, I feel on occasion as if I’ve missed something by not getting to know them better. After all, living in an ever-changing neighborhood for—in some instances—a half century or more, we shared much in common. And the clock is ticking. If I so desire, I could—the next time I encounter him—engage the nutty professor in conversation and discover what exactly he taught and where he taught it. I could, too, try to break down the wall of the man who—all those years ago—thumbed through Playboy magazine but never once purchased a copy, much to the disgust of the shop’s proprietor. Oh, truth be told, I can’t say for certain whether he did or didn’t, but I’m pretty confident it was the latter.

On second thought, I’ll leave these two cases in point alone, because that’s how they have long wanted it. And one day in the not-too-distant future they will be only memories. The professor will go to his grave at least knowing how to distinguish a hare from a rabbit, which is something, I suppose.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)