Howard was a complex man. I never met him, and for most of my life, I knew very little about my grandad. I still know very little, but I’m more curious now than ever. My mom told me he was a pathological liar, an unrelenting charmer, and a spinner of improbable yarns. In his day, people charitably described him as a bit of an exaggerator. Less charitably, they probably said old Howard was full of shit.
I also know that he was impulsive and likely an addict. The vice I heard the most about was his love of gambling. He gambled so much, in fact, he had to borrow money from the mafia in order to cover his debts.
Aging debt is bad enough, but when the loan is signed by parties unbound by laws governing banks, there is real danger involved. As I heard it, the lives of my grandmother and her children were threatened if the money wasn’t paid back right away.
So, like any reckless, compulsive madman, my resourceful grandad pivoted from gambling to robbery. He got himself a pistol, targeted a bank, walked in broke, and walked out with bags of cash.
With his debts settled and his family safe, grandpa did his best to lay low for a bit, then resurfaced to rejoin his life without missing too many beats.
Being impulsive and compulsive myself, I can empathize with the appeal this must have carried. The ease of bank robbery charmed him as more than mere survival, but as a way to thrive.
Apparently, he walked back into the exact same bank, with the exact same pistol, and demanded bags of cash in exchange for not firing it. The clerk apologized and informed him that the moment his wheels rolled into their lot, a silent alarm had been triggered by the same clerk whose face the pistol had threatened before. The police were already outside waiting for him.
Howard was arrested, and if not for the fact that his chosen weapon was a non-lethal starter pistol, the kind used to encourage sprinters to launch into action, his punishment would have been much worse.
Now, I’ve told you this story for a few reasons. One, I want to remind you that I come from fine stock, and hopefully, your expectations for what is to come will adjust accordingly. Also, I tell this version of the story to illustrate that I’ve possibly got my facts completely wrong.
I heard the tale of Howard originally from my mother, the youngest sibling and only girl in her family. Her relationship with her father was categorically different from the relationship between Howard and his eldest son, my uncle Jim. Now, that doesn’t mean she’s got the story wrong, but I know from personal experience, perception is reality, especially within a family dynamic.
Uncle Jim, the same uncle I have to thank for indirectly convincing me my current business model is one worthy of maximum effort, told me a similar version of the life of Howard, but with some key differences.
He did not deny that his dad was full of shit or that he liked to gamble. But he did tell me that it was the Irish mob who recruited my grandfather to rob the bank (this is also how I found out I’m Irish, by the way). Sure, Howard probably owed them some money. But mostly, my uncle said, he agreed to do the job to make a little dough on top of paying back his debt. Evidently, it was an inside job, wherein the bank manager and the mob conspired to have my grandpa walk in with a non-lethal pistol, demand the cash, and get away with a well-timed robbery.
It was later, after tasting that easy money, when my grandad robbed the same bank, was caught, and imprisoned. According to Uncle Jim, the mob gave him white glove treatment, resulting in a lighter sentence from a judge who owed a favor, and a TV in his cell – a luxury, and a sign of respect.
Incidentally, I also learned that my grandpa was a wildly talented drummer who would sit in for the legendary Gene Krupa on occasion. That’s not really part of the story….it’s just cool.
While the man in both versions of the story was a bank robber, a gambler, and a liar, the subtle discrepancies make a big difference. Was he a reckless and craven nitwit who endangered his family, or an addict who needed help that didn’t exist? Was my badass drummer of a grandad also a part-time mobster? Was he lying to my uncle about the mob, and did my uncle want to believe him to make the madness make sense? Or did my uncle’s closeness to him give him clear-eyed insight into the true nature of a wildly complex man?
I’m not certain that either my mom or my uncle has the definitive version of the legend of Howard. They both have their own stories, clouded by a point of view, the passing of time, and the demonstrably unreliable nature of memory. It makes me wonder how much of my own recollection of history is out of sync with what actually happened.
What’s lacking here? For one, my granddad’s voice. At least two people in this story would agree it was totally full of shit, so there’s no guarantee the tale wouldn’t be even more outlandish if I’d heard it straight from him. We’re also missing my grandmother’s testimony. And who knows the madness of a man better than the woman lying one pillow over?
So, what I’m left with is a rather confused portrait of a man with whom I’ve been told I share some similarities. Those similarities have also been left suspiciously vague, and have me wondering if perhaps people think I’m full of shit.
In any case, I’m thinking of Howard today. I’m also thinking about my dad, another guy I barely knew. If he were alive, he would have celebrated his 80th birthday this week. He died at 56…a lifetime ago, it seems. To sit in the shadow of men who had such outsized influence over my life, about whom I know so little, is hard to get my head around. For some reason, it feels similar to waiting on news that has a 50/50 chance of being awful. Of course, there’s a 50/50 chance that the news could be good.
Am I willing to gamble on those odds?
Do I have a choice?
Is that how grandpa saw the world?
Who knows?
So, I’ll place a bet today, in honor of Howard. I’ll do it to the beat of a Dixieland swing, just in case fate rewards synchronicity.
And I’ll tip the hat covering my head, in honor of my father. While I inherited the worst parts of Howard’s hairline, my dad’s genes made me tall enough to damn near hide the bald spot.
So well written, as always. And I still say you should be on The Moth.
Just so damn good. Great story, well told.