Howard

Howard was a regular. He was also the first grown black man who I had ever spoken with since our hometown demographic was 99.9% white. He drove a teeny-tiny white Nissan truck whih was nothing short of ragged. He came around about 3 times a week that second summer. When Howard showed up he was getting 1 of two things, either scaffolding or a pressure washer. His job was washing houses.

Howard was all of about 5' 4 inches and maybe 125 pounds, a little on the scrawny side. You could see every vein in his arm. He was always high. The cool thing about Howard was that no matter oppressing the southern Indiana humidity, he always wore a sock hat. I thought that was cool.

Like all the others, we had one basic conversation which we replayed with each visit.

"Whassup youngblood?"

"Not much Howard, man...how are they treatin' you?" "Man, they are workin me like a damn slave! I need that little pressure washer again. Can you hook me up?" The rhythm and timber of his voice rivaled Snoop Dogg's, it was cool and smooth. I loved listening to him talk.

I would ring him up and then walk back to the warehouse to load up his truck. We also sold gas to dentist's offices, you know, laughing gas. "How about you hook me up with a balloon?" "Ok, but just this once." So I would fill up a balloon with the laughing gas, and he would huff it down and grin at me. "Your alright, youngblood." "Yeah, man, you are too."

Of all the people that came around that place, Howard treated me as an equal, not as just some kid. He only came around that one summer and I never saw him again.