In a random, unfounded, thought spore the other evening, I
plucked the name of Howard B. out of my murky, cerebral recesses and googled
him. Yes, there he was, departed in 2002
at the age of 80. But the dates and the
age and the year really mean nothing, since his craggy face with the big-toothed,
bashful grin, remains middle-aged in my mind.
The bio of his life provided stats of his family: three sons,
a loving wife of fifty years, and surprisingly, an estimable career in the Air Force
as a young man. He had flown 29 missions as a bombardier; he’d received a medal
of valor. He’d built his whole life in advertising, the memoriam said, and retired
as an art director.
I knew Howie for only
a handful of years, and there was enough of an age difference that I never addressed him by his first name at the time. Why was this old memory remnant coming to the
forefront in my head? Was it the fancy French lunch he’d taken me to one Spring
day? His affable openness? His acknowledgement of our age disparity, the
comfortable and easy conversation that afternoon? Was it the chilled white wine, the flattery I
felt as a lowly billing clerk, being asked to dine with the dashing account
exec?
He was an account executive at the ad agency. When he walked
through the accounting department, with long, loping strides, he cut a perfect
swath through the rows of large wooden desks. The wide open area offered up a view
of Madison Avenue somewhat obscured by clouds of cigarette smoke rising up from
every desk and hanging in the air. As Howie
breezed by, a quick blur of navy blue, a striped tie, seemingly flung over his
shoulder, a shock of prematurely grey hair falling unruly over one eye, that
lopsided smile on his face, the air seemed to clear. We all loved Howie, all of us young foolish
females. But he was married, “older”, untouchable; I was young, single, fickle,
and, other than that memorable lunch, nothing ever happened. We smiled and nodded in the halls, exchanged
small talk in the elevator, and life went on.
I left advertising, moved to NJ, and raised a family.
Eighteen years later, I found myself in Manhattan interviewing for a job. Afterwards, eager to reacquaint myself with
the city, I walked up to Midtown to pass the office building I’d worked all
those years before. Two blocks away from
the building, I spotted Howie walking my way.
I was prepared to walk on past, with a slight disbelieving smile to
myself. After all, eighteen years. But no, he had caught my eye, he recognized
me, he walked right up and gave me a hug.
“You don’t really remember me” I asked laughingly. “Of course I do” he answered with that lopsided
grin “I can’t remember your name, but how could I forget you?” We laughed, as
though we’d been sharing jokes like this all the time. He said he was retired and consulting; I told
him I was about to start working back in the city. “Good luck to you, you deserve the best” he
said. I thanked him and we parted. Yes Howie, I remembered you too.
