The Procrastinator
It was a cold, foggy early morning when I arrived at the funeral at Mr. Adolfo’s house.
“He was so dedicated. He was always on time,” were the first comments I heard as I passed by a small cluster of teachers who stood outside in the cold, whispering to each other. The vapor from their breaths eddied like ephemeral ghostly fog out in the cold. I recognized some of them. Some squinted at me; others smirked when they saw me. As I walked inside the house, I saw Mr. Adolfo’s wife, Marie. She looked shy and troubled and stood like a grounded child, sobbing by the doorframe of the living room where a long shiny casket lay solemnly open.
The coffin was coated with a glossy, cherry-wood enamel, brass handles on each side, like a first impression of a hazel wooden chest filled with papers and dusty books in it. The casket was illuminated by four memorial candles in each corner. There were old chairs and raggedy sofas against the deteriorated paper walls all around the living room where some teachers, dressed in mourning black, sat dozing off or sobbing for the deceased. A few others who sat next to each other looked depressed as if they were waiting for their turn to take Mr. Adolfo’s place.
“My most sincere condolences,” I said to Mrs. Adolfo as I approached the living room.
“Are you one of his students?” she asked.
“Yes, I was in his primitive literature class,” I replied, mumbling my words.
“He’d have been happy to see you. Today is his birthday,” she said and smiled at me behind her tears and red eyes. What strange coincidence, I thought, to die the day before his birthday. I was probably the only student in the room, if not in the whole funeral. She acknowledged me with an approving gesture and dried her eyes and runny nose with a white and moist, raggedy handkerchief she crumpled and tucked inside her sleeve.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked, still sobbing. The tone of her voice was maternal.
“Sure.” I agree to avoid being awkward and ungrateful.
When I approached the coffin, I felt a chill that tingled and crawled from the back of my neck and spread down to my lower back. There is always an eerie feeling when meeting the dead. But the fact that he was dead and the thought that he had not graded my final project before graduation were pretty good reasons to meet him for the last time. I had made great efforts to submit my final project on time and secure a passing grade in his class. Looking at him dead now, in a way, felt good after all of the pain and suffering the man had caused to an infinite number of students like myself.
When I looked inside the coffin, Mr. Adolfo looked like a traveler ready to depart, like an elusive fox that keeps a prey for a better day. He was dressed in the same golden tie and crimson suit he wore to school everyday. On the flap of his jacket, the man carried shiny pins and colorful flags, a retired and distinguished general perhaps, whose only remnants of his mettle and merit were his medals. His grayish-dark hair was slicked back. His face looked well-rested, relaxed, fresh, worry-free, and relieved. The few whiskers he had on each side of his mouth gave him an air of contentment, possibly happiness. Of course, he was no longer teaching.
“You forgot to grade my final project,” I whispered to him as I leaned forward over the coffin. “‘You slowmo,’ you used to say to me, remember?” I felt the stinging of my words as I whispered to him. With her head tilted back against the paper wall, Ms. Bulchairer, the astrology teacher sat adjacent to the head-side of the casket and was snoring lustily with her mouth wide open, adding a sharp wheezing squeal followed by a guttural grunt that added depth and gloom to the occasion and enough noise to make my whispering inconspicuous.
“Rrrooonnncccc…” it echoed in the room, “…ssshhh…” Her whistling was acute and sharp.
“Did you grade my late assignments? You burned-out, low-paying babysitter,” I whispered to him again. “You didn’t grade my final project plus the extra credit assignment you had promised. On top of that, you lost my last quiz.” I looked sideways for a moment when Mrs. Bulchairer stopped snoring and struggled to clear an excess of phlegm from her throat.
“Where did you hide my quiz?” I whispered again, looking directly into a pair of light hazel brown, glossy marbles with half-open lids that sunk deep in his eye sockets. Bulchairer rallied and the snoring continued. For a moment a quick twitch by the side of Mr. Adolfo’s mouth, as if he were making an effort to smile at me. I stood back—shocked.
“What the hell!” I said. I looked at him again, as Mrs. Adolfo startled me from behind and handed me a mug with hot coffee.
“Oh, thank you,” I said, reverently, hiding my anger and apprehension.
I took a final look at him. On his face now, a friendly reminder he had not graded my final project and late assignments. On the lapel of the crimson jacket he always wore to class, the cheap brass-colored pin read: don’t put off until tomorrow what you could do today.
Now What?!
John D. Conandes 
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