It might not have been as bad if it had happened somewhere else. If it had been in the city, pssshh, nothing, no problem. If it had been at the high school, forget about it. Even the middle school kids probably would have worked their way around it without much of a fuss. But the elementary school kids? At Our Lady of Perpetual Hope? Catholic school kids in the suburbs? It was a disaster before it was even an incident. And, if he cared to admit (which he didn’t), disaster was exactly what Gabe Stillson had in mind. Well, to be fair, maybe “disaster” was a little harsh; a willful disruption of order might be more appropriate. But standing on the curb at the corner of Maple and Summit, with the watery autumn sunlight dripping onto the ground covering of dying orange and brown leaves, Gabe didn’t have time for semantics. His white hair whipped around in its crescent, tickling his ears and the top of his head, but he made no move to stop it, to lick his fingertips and press it back into place, as he would on most days. Today, the small memorial to Gabe Stillson’s once prodigious coif would not be tamed, would not fall in line, would not do as it was told. And neither would he. It had started with the third graders. Sister Margaret Ann always had them done their lessons and ready for dismissal three minutes before the bell, so that when it rang, they were out the double glass doors before most of the school had even packed their backpacks. Seventeen representatives of the Land of Cursive Writing and Long Division marched down Maple, wrapped in plaid and navy blue and clip-on ties, baseball cards traded back and forth, braids braided and unbraided, saddle shoes and docksiders slapping on the concrete sidewalk. The world around them, the world above three and a half feet, might as well have not existed. Gabe stood at five foot nine and three quarters. Vinyl, nylon, and canvas backpacks, looking like discolored, oversized growths, threatened to tip them over backwards; the only thing keeping them balanced must have been the extraordinarily strong thumbs hitched into their shoulder straps. As they approached, Gabe unconsciously mimicked their stances, hooking his own gnarled thumbs, gray hairs sprouting out like an already-dead crop, into his bright yellow vest, the handheld stop sign firmly placed in his back pocket. And there it would stay. They came in like a wave, like they do every day, and stopped at the curb as if surprised to find a street in their way. The first line pulled up, abruptly, sending a ripple through the rest, forward motion halted, a wobbling in place commencing, and, strangely, a stop to the chatter. They stood attentively, still not recognizing Gabe’s presence, but focusing on the far side of the street, on the continuation of their sidewalk, the pathway to sweatpants and Nintendos and, for the lucky ones, golden retrievers or Labradors who had been sitting around all day waiting for partners. And Gabe stood facing them, or, more accurately, facing over them, his eyes pressing down upon the tops of their heads more forcefully than hands might have. Still, they waited, gazing at the opposite shore, waiting for him to part the waters and provide them safe passage. Moses of the suburban desert. Let his people go. It was fully five minutes before anyone spoke. Gabe had loosed his thumbs from the vest (having recognized his unintended mimicry) and instead crossed his arms, radiating sternness. Six or seven cars had passed on Summit, each one whipping Gabe’s hair into a frenzy to contrast his stone-carven face. The third graders had eventually stopped their hopeful stares across the street and instead exchanged confused stares with one another. It was Lindsay Welkins, though, who finally spoke up, tilting her head back so far to look up at him that, from Gabe’s perspective, she was nothing but a face, floating in space somewhere right around his belt buckle. “Um,” she began, as she probably began every sentence of her life, “can we cross now, Mr. Gabe?” At last. “No,” Gabe replied in a voice like tree bark, rough and grating from underuse, “you may not.” And that was that. Lindsay Welkins let her head fall back its proper line and turned to her classmates, an exaggerated shrug lifting her shoulders to absurd height, as if she were imitating shrugs she’d seen on TV, but had never tried one out in real life before. A murmur, nothing solid, no actual words, rustled through the group, which then turned back to staring longingly at their far off destination. They might have crossed themselves, but that would be Against the Rules. And good Catholic boys and girls didn’t break the Rules. They might have gone back to the school, requested the aid of another adult, recruited a nun or two to their cause. But… going back to school? After it was over? It was too ridiculous a thought to contemplate fully. And so, they were, essentially, out of options. But only another minute passed before there was a buzz of excitement from the back of the stalled third grade herd. The fifth graders were coming. The fifth graders, loosening their ties (real ones, tied themselves or by patient fathers invested in such arcane knowledge), untucking their shirts, joking with one another. Fifth graders with haircuts they chose themselves, wearing hooded sweatshirts over their uniforms, their backpacks rakishly slung over a single shoulder. Fifth graders would know how to work this conundrum out. Fifth graders like Lindsay Welkins’ brother, Pete. Pete assessed the situation almost immediately: the third graders should be halfway home by now, well out of the sight of any authority figures, targeted for Indian burns and wedgies and general good-natured bullying that didn’t involve any exchanges of money. Instead, they were clustered at the end of the block like the marching band lead down the dead-end alley. “What’s happening, Gabe?” Pete said in his best impersonation of his older brother Tom, in the tenth grade at Archbishop Fellows. “Traffic heavy today?” “Nope,” replied Gabe, still not having worked out the kinks in his voice. “So… can we cross, or what?” Pete delivered the line with a smile that would eventually win him easy friends and easier girlfriends, but it held no power over Gabe Stillson. “Nope,” he said again. And with that, Pete Welkins was effectively out of ideas. Over the next ten minutes, the second graders and fourth graders joined the convention, the line of kids now stretching halfway down the block and starting to attract attention from passing cars. They milled about, afraid to speak too loudly, confused and powerless. One or two contemplated just making a run for it, but the idea was just on the other side of sanity. Crossing Summit without the crossing guard? What if someone’s parents saw it? What if Gabe reported you to Sister Agnes in the front office, and you ended up clapping erasers after school for the next two weeks? Some grumblings about soccer practices and ballet lessons cropped up here and there, only to be eventually silenced in the overwhelming strangeness of it all. What was Gabe doing? What was everyone else supposed to do? Finally, in their tightly packed group, practically bent double under their backpacks, all hand-me-down slacks and shirts with collars entirely too big, came the great gaggle of first graders. They approached the assembled school body with heads down, their steps serious and plodding, and they broke around the group of fourth graders at the rear of the whole mess like they were a river and the fourth graders just another outcropping of rock. They were silent, and they brought silence upon the rest in passing. The two smaller groups moved around their elders, reassembling at the curb that had recently been vacated by the third graders, who had turned desperately to older siblings as they arrived. This tiny army stood at attention at the curb, not even blinking in recognition of the all the others behind them, not discussing it, not even thinking about it if you had to guess at the thoughts of a five or six year old. Out of the pack, making her way to the front without pushing or shoving, just moving through her compatriots, came the youngest of the Welkins clan, Abigail. With twenty-two first graders at her back, all with eyes firmly focused straight ahead, Abigail walked up to Gabe and shoulder shrugged off her backpack. It clunked to the ground like it weighed an impossible amount, like Abigail Welkins’ legs must be made of far sturdier stuff than the Earth normally produces. With a zip heard through the entire congregation, she opened her bag and withdrew something. “Happy crossing guard day, Mr. Gabe.” She reached up to hand him a piece of construction paper bearing an image that could only be described as the true Gabe Stillson. His yellow vest had been transformed into a cape, flowing behind him majestically. With his red octagonal shield, he blocked a speeding car while a line of children smiled and waved appreciatively. Across his chest, the letters “C” and “G” stood out in sparkles. This was the truth hiding behind grayed hair and arthritis. This was the Gabe that Gabe saw every afternoon. This was the Gabe that Gabe was waiting for someone else to see. He took the construction paper gently, turned it over to see the names of every first grader at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope inscribed in a rainbow of Crayola colors. He mouthed a silent “thank you” to Abigail Welkins, who nodded solemnly in return. Some things don’t need words. And, as Abigail heaved her planet of a backpack onto her back again, Gabe withdrew the handheld stop sign from his back pocket. And Gabe Stillson stopped traffic like nobody’s business.