28 October 2007

Howard Forgot Every Last One of Us

Howard Forgot Every Last One Of Us
By Gary Nye

The last time I saw my grandfather I said, “Hi Howard, how are you?” Howard said, “I’m doing good, but I’m not doing everybody.” He was a funny man who insisted that his coffee come like his women: naked. That day, wearing loafers and slacks and a white Hanes undershirt, he asked my girlfriend her name. “Madison,” she told him. “That’s a beautiful name,” Howard said. It was Megan’s graduation party and I imagine that all of the people and the cigarettes and the yelling and the celebration brought Howard back to Korea, to some base full of friends and dancing women. Everybody was ever so cordial with Howard, since his wife had died two years prior. Her name was Erma, and she was short and beautiful. She was my grandmother, and together with Howard, they gave their grandchildren twenty dollars in their birthday cards every year until their son ran their million-dollar business into bankruptcy. When Erma died my mother wept. My father, a man who could live by the Gander Mountain mantra: Hunt, Fish, Camp, and loved Michigan Wolverine football cried. On the day of Erma’s funeral Howard sat in the front row and asked where Erma had gone. She’s with God now, we said. “Where is Erma?” And Pastor Rob said, “In Heaven.” So Howard forgot that his wife had died, and that he had named his children, Wesley, Ernie, Roseanna, Howard, and Corrine. He forgot I was named Connor. Howard forgot every last one of us.

2 comments:

shauna said...

I'm glad that you didnt change your original story and wrote this one. I like it a lot.

Gary Allen said...

Thanks for the comment.

I felt that it was sort of impossible to re-write the previous piece without losing the tone, which would simply drastically change the piece, presumably for worst.

The tone, the language, adds to the fact that the narrator is supposed to be drunk, is supposed to only vaguely know what's happening. To change the language would be to change direction.