A belated retrospective.
I think about Harold a lot.
More than I thought I would, anyway. When he was alive, he never really crossed my mind unless I was walking down Gessner, past the Pizza Hut where he worked for many years. At first he was a driver. Over time, upper management decided Harold should move up the grease ladder. After taking the required test something like four times, he became a well-liked Shift Manager who often went by the nickname "Cowboy", proudly printed on an official Pizza Hut nametag. I suppose it just went to show that real-world knowledge and a congenial nature can go a long way in the face of a pithy thing like "corporate testing".
There's a Pizza Hut down the street from where I live and work. "DRIVERS: NOW HIRING!".
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I sometimes hold Pizza Hut responsible for Harold's surreal, depressing, and all too stark end. It's something I know isn't entirely rational, but it's... somehow more convenient than blaming a dead man who I care more about now that he is dead than when he was alive. Maybe that's a sign that my concern is somewhat more with my own mortality - or with the fact that it was what I consider my first meaningful experience with death and all that it entails, from dealing with a grieving parent to a boyfriend who is neurotic about funerals.
Harold was a unique figure in my family, though. I don't think he ever quite fit in, even if the level of intellectual activity was about the same across the board for him and for the family he married into. He was too passive, really - he didn't want to get into family feuds, he didn't want to assert a position as the "leader" of the part of the family that consisted of my mother, myself, and Shawn - he really just wanted to be left alone to slump on the couch, watch TV, smoke cigarettes, and eat some hot wings, maybe pork chops on a good night. He didn't like to give rides, either. For a while as a preteen I was convinced that Harold didn't like me because he didn't wanna give me rides anywhere; truth was, he was just lazy and apathetic. Never let it be said that Harold was ever willfully an active man in his middle age, which was in no small part a contributor to his demise. Aside from that tangent, he was, I suspected, not well-liked by my uncles, grandfather, or grandmother, with one shining exception - my uncle Edward, who has never been a particularly appealing personality. Ed had been in two comas in his life, and had not come out of them mentally stable. When he found out Harold was dead, he responded by slamming doors and breaking things. It wasn't the first time he'd done that in response to news he found unpleasant - he'd done it to Harold before - so I suppose it was a fitting end to go along with what had sometimes been routine behavior for the two. Once, my uncle Robert - or was it John-? I can't remember - had gotten angry with my mother, and since he "wouldn't lay a hand on his sister", he shoved Harold to the ground instead. Harold responded by staring, and then getting up and walking away, as was his passive way.
I guess it's fitting that my thoughts on Harold are mixed. I rarely felt strongly about Harold while I knew him, but whenever I did think something of him other than "oh, look, it's Harold, observation made, let's think about something else now", it was rarely ever positive. Harold was not a man of stout mind. He wasn't unstable like my other family members, he wasn't agressively mean or cruel, he just wasn't smart. That was always a hurdle between himself and I that was never really addressed and remained in some form until his death. Immediately after his death I was constantly reminded of the fact that it was his own lack of intelligence that was an immediate cause of his death - he died of a massive heart attack, brought about by his absurd (and I still have a hard time believing it myself sometimes) belief that pizza was, in fact, a core piece of the "health food" structure, because, as he said, it contained foods from all food groups and therefore, must be good for you. I'm not sure how hot wings, which made up the other 50% of Things Harold Ate, fit into that idea, but whatever it was, it was really, profoundly dysfunctional. Does it even need to be said?
I only wish I'd been a bitch to him about it, but I'm not sure it really would have helped. I wish I would have gone fishing with him, but I don't think it would have helped. Harold was not really a guy I could be close to - I am pretty sure he liked John better than he liked me, though he didn't hate me by any means. I'm not sure there was anything I could have done to make our relationship better than the sort of apathetic ride through blank nothingness it was, because Harold was, though a joker and a man who liked to laugh, very apathetic at the core of his being. Perhaps this is why he liked John so much; that and John would never try to hurt Harold, as members of my family were wont to try to do, or as he perhaps felt Greg was more likely to do, being all tall and hairy and beating-up-Johnlike. I think Harold really related to John, and it would have been interesting to see what would have come of their relationship. I rather wish John could have come to the funeral, instead of a few days later when we had trouble even finding the grave. We didn't even know if the grave we were kneeling next to was really Harold's; but it was later confirmed that it was. Everything connected to Harold's death has been surreal. The way he died, it was surreal. He died on the toilet, taking a shit from what my mother had managed to share. Did he scream when he died? Was it too fast? Did he know he was dying alone?
Sometimes I still feel like it's a practical joke.
His eyelids were wrong.
The fish embroidered on the inside of the casket - such a happy trout - made me think of corporate manipulation, what a thing to think of at a funeral. Greg hugged my mother. I think my mother was grateful, though Greg himself was, as is common, all too difficult to read. Greg met my aunt Gretchen, he was wearing a stupid blue jacket and stupid gray pants and someday, I hope I am with him while we buy him some new dress clothes, because that's the second time he's worn those and he looks silly every time, like that one time his mom tried to make him wear a sweater that was something like three sizes too small.
I wonder if Pizza Hut still remembers him.
Someday the rate of turnover at Pizza Hut will eradicate him from memory entirely.
Goodbye, Cowboy.
More than I thought I would, anyway. When he was alive, he never really crossed my mind unless I was walking down Gessner, past the Pizza Hut where he worked for many years. At first he was a driver. Over time, upper management decided Harold should move up the grease ladder. After taking the required test something like four times, he became a well-liked Shift Manager who often went by the nickname "Cowboy", proudly printed on an official Pizza Hut nametag. I suppose it just went to show that real-world knowledge and a congenial nature can go a long way in the face of a pithy thing like "corporate testing".
There's a Pizza Hut down the street from where I live and work. "DRIVERS: NOW HIRING!".
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I sometimes hold Pizza Hut responsible for Harold's surreal, depressing, and all too stark end. It's something I know isn't entirely rational, but it's... somehow more convenient than blaming a dead man who I care more about now that he is dead than when he was alive. Maybe that's a sign that my concern is somewhat more with my own mortality - or with the fact that it was what I consider my first meaningful experience with death and all that it entails, from dealing with a grieving parent to a boyfriend who is neurotic about funerals.
Harold was a unique figure in my family, though. I don't think he ever quite fit in, even if the level of intellectual activity was about the same across the board for him and for the family he married into. He was too passive, really - he didn't want to get into family feuds, he didn't want to assert a position as the "leader" of the part of the family that consisted of my mother, myself, and Shawn - he really just wanted to be left alone to slump on the couch, watch TV, smoke cigarettes, and eat some hot wings, maybe pork chops on a good night. He didn't like to give rides, either. For a while as a preteen I was convinced that Harold didn't like me because he didn't wanna give me rides anywhere; truth was, he was just lazy and apathetic. Never let it be said that Harold was ever willfully an active man in his middle age, which was in no small part a contributor to his demise. Aside from that tangent, he was, I suspected, not well-liked by my uncles, grandfather, or grandmother, with one shining exception - my uncle Edward, who has never been a particularly appealing personality. Ed had been in two comas in his life, and had not come out of them mentally stable. When he found out Harold was dead, he responded by slamming doors and breaking things. It wasn't the first time he'd done that in response to news he found unpleasant - he'd done it to Harold before - so I suppose it was a fitting end to go along with what had sometimes been routine behavior for the two. Once, my uncle Robert - or was it John-? I can't remember - had gotten angry with my mother, and since he "wouldn't lay a hand on his sister", he shoved Harold to the ground instead. Harold responded by staring, and then getting up and walking away, as was his passive way.
I guess it's fitting that my thoughts on Harold are mixed. I rarely felt strongly about Harold while I knew him, but whenever I did think something of him other than "oh, look, it's Harold, observation made, let's think about something else now", it was rarely ever positive. Harold was not a man of stout mind. He wasn't unstable like my other family members, he wasn't agressively mean or cruel, he just wasn't smart. That was always a hurdle between himself and I that was never really addressed and remained in some form until his death. Immediately after his death I was constantly reminded of the fact that it was his own lack of intelligence that was an immediate cause of his death - he died of a massive heart attack, brought about by his absurd (and I still have a hard time believing it myself sometimes) belief that pizza was, in fact, a core piece of the "health food" structure, because, as he said, it contained foods from all food groups and therefore, must be good for you. I'm not sure how hot wings, which made up the other 50% of Things Harold Ate, fit into that idea, but whatever it was, it was really, profoundly dysfunctional. Does it even need to be said?
I only wish I'd been a bitch to him about it, but I'm not sure it really would have helped. I wish I would have gone fishing with him, but I don't think it would have helped. Harold was not really a guy I could be close to - I am pretty sure he liked John better than he liked me, though he didn't hate me by any means. I'm not sure there was anything I could have done to make our relationship better than the sort of apathetic ride through blank nothingness it was, because Harold was, though a joker and a man who liked to laugh, very apathetic at the core of his being. Perhaps this is why he liked John so much; that and John would never try to hurt Harold, as members of my family were wont to try to do, or as he perhaps felt Greg was more likely to do, being all tall and hairy and beating-up-Johnlike. I think Harold really related to John, and it would have been interesting to see what would have come of their relationship. I rather wish John could have come to the funeral, instead of a few days later when we had trouble even finding the grave. We didn't even know if the grave we were kneeling next to was really Harold's; but it was later confirmed that it was. Everything connected to Harold's death has been surreal. The way he died, it was surreal. He died on the toilet, taking a shit from what my mother had managed to share. Did he scream when he died? Was it too fast? Did he know he was dying alone?
Sometimes I still feel like it's a practical joke.
His eyelids were wrong.
The fish embroidered on the inside of the casket - such a happy trout - made me think of corporate manipulation, what a thing to think of at a funeral. Greg hugged my mother. I think my mother was grateful, though Greg himself was, as is common, all too difficult to read. Greg met my aunt Gretchen, he was wearing a stupid blue jacket and stupid gray pants and someday, I hope I am with him while we buy him some new dress clothes, because that's the second time he's worn those and he looks silly every time, like that one time his mom tried to make him wear a sweater that was something like three sizes too small.
I wonder if Pizza Hut still remembers him.
Someday the rate of turnover at Pizza Hut will eradicate him from memory entirely.
Goodbye, Cowboy.