That's Rich.
His name was Pimentel.
Rather, that was his last name. But that's what we called each other in high school.
I loved that kid. We were good kids and terrible students.
Once, we agreed to switch our exams once we'd each done as much as we knew. Five minutes in, he's already giving me the signal. I gesture back. Something like, do everything you know first. He leans forward.
"I don't know anything."
His father was an executive at the local cooking oil company. It was the first time I heard the word executive used to describe what someone did. He drove a Mercedes, and like his son, well-groomed, with an open smile that seemed to have no care in the world.
I loved going to his house.
It was spacious. Mahogany everywhere: the chairs, the beds, the picture frames, the doors, the sofa, the dining table.
They had hot showers. We left buckets in the sun to warm ours.
At home, we ate in shifts — whoever got there first. At their house, there was space for everyone at the table, even guests. And the table had a little thing that moved, so you could reach the ketchup without asking.
That was it. That was rich.
Since then, I've made my own list.
To walk in the rain, because it reminds me of childhood.
To eat with my hands, because some meals deserve it.
To wear no shoes, and feel the ground.
To say I don't know when I don't know.
To leave when staying would be easier to explain.
To love someone just because they exist.
To be loved the same way.
Maybe that's what I had noticed at Pimentel's house before I had words for it. The mahogany caught my eye. The hot water amazed me. I couldn't get over that little spinning thing carrying ketchup across the table.
But what stayed with me was the room.
Room at the table. Room to laugh. Room for a boy five minutes into an exam to admit, without shame or ceremony, that there was simply nothing happening upstairs.
I thought rich meant never having to reach. Now I think it means having enough room in your life to choose what is true.
Pimentel knew that before I did.
"I don't know anything," he said.
For once, he was wrong.
Season 2. Letter 10. A letter whenever truth asks for it, when the repair demands it. When love insists. If you're curious about the coaching work → sundaymorning.life
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