Mr. Pelligroni

             Mr. Pelligroni was an odd sort, an “eccentric,” as his neighbors liked to call him. He kept to himself. The only time he was ever seen was when he was returning home from the library. Dressed in his long wrinkled gray coat and black wide brimmed hat, he always walked very slowly, hunched over, his face to the ground, his nap sack full of books weighing him down. His house was covered in ivy, and his lawn was overgrown with weeds. It must have been years since it was last cut. It was known to some that he was an Italian immigrant who had been a professor of some sort in his native country. He was thought to have no family, and no friends.

One day, as Mr. Pelligroni was making one of his return trips home from the library, a young boy stopped him on the street. “Old man!” he cried. “What have you got in your bag?”

            “Just some books,” said Mr. Pelligroni.

            “Will you read me one?”
            “Certainly,” said Mr. Pelligroni. He pulled out a blue book and opened to a page in the middle. It was Nietzsche’s Human, All Too Human. He read a passage from it and the boy looked up at Mr. Pelligroni with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. Then he ran away. Mr. Pelligroni went home.

            Later that day, as Mr. Pelligroni sat at his desk reading, he heard a knock at his door. It was the mother of the young boy. She looked angry. “Have you been reading inappropriate material to my son?” she asked in an angry voice.

            “I have been reading to your son,” said Mr. Pelligroni, “but it was hardly inappropriate material.”

            The woman looked past Mr. Pelligroni into the foyer, which was filled with books. “What did you read to him?” she asked.

            “Just a passage from Nietzsche,” said Mr. Pelligroni.

            “Nietzsche? You think that is appropriate reading material for a six year old?”

            “Ma’am, he couldn’t possibly have understood a word of it.”
            “On the contrary,” said the woman. “It horrified him. He came to me in tears.”

            “Ma’am,” said Mr. Pelligroni. “It wasn’t Nietzsche that horrified him. It was me.” And with that Mr. Pelligroni slammed the door in the woman’s face.