Edit and Compose

In the fall of 2002, the volunteers of Bald Hills Fire Department wielded a peanut butter sandwich.

To great and powerful effect.

Lou and I arrive at the station simultaneously. I never drive if I can help it, and he never takes his foot of the floor. We arrive at the house within minutes. Mr. Howard.

My kid likes coming to Mr. Howard’s house on Halloween because he gives out real Snickers. Kids don’t forget the house that doles out full-size candy bars.

“He was stumbling around outside in his underwear,” the neighbor calls to us from her window when we arrive. “Drunk.”

Mr. Howard doesn’t drink.

“He’s okay.”

One of the signs of low-blood glucose is ketoacidosis, a state that can mimic drunk-like behavior.

The neighbor frowns.

One of the signs of loneliness is giving out full-size candy bars to the kids on Halloween.

“He’s diabetic.”

We knock to no answer, and enter to no surprise. He is sitting on his couch, in white boxers and a tee, in a near catatonic state.

I recognize this house because Mr. Howard has had three episodes already this week.

I recognize this house, because two years ago, Alex and I nearly bought it, deciding in the end it was too large for our needs.

I recognize Mr. Howard, because he is my greatest fear. A man abandoned by his family, holding to them by memories alone, and perhaps a shoebox of faded Polaroids.

“How’s the Cobra, Mr. Howard?”

Lou always asks this, because Mr. Howard owns a ridiculously cherry muscle car, one that absolutely petrifies me. I imagine him hypoglycemic and behind the wheel. Destroying the lives of innocent children completely unaware.

“When was the last time you ate, Mr. Howard?”

In the kitchen I see day old dishes. I open the cabinet to reveal twelve boxes of powdered donuts.

“Esterdays,” he mumbles, his belated answer.

“Oh, we know Ester,” our usual joke.

“Your turn,” Lou calls to me, but I’ve already opened the refrigerator, and finding what I need, a jar of peanut butter, look for a loaf of bread while Lou takes Mr. Howard’s vitals and caresses his 65 year old hands.

The first three slices are molded, but the fourth and fifth seem okay. The bread is stiff, which makes it easier to put the sandwich together. I put it on a plate and bring it to the lonely old man.

“Want me to cut the crusts?” I joke.

Mr. Howard’s face sags unresponsively, but after he takes a bite, he seems to play along. “Triangles.”

Lou and I laugh.

It doesn’t take long before Mr. Howard is chatty. Lou’s own wife left him recently, and he struggles to find time with his their infant daughter. Alex is pregnant and trying to study for midterms. We all have places to go.

Mr. Howard catches us looking at the door and deflects our comments which forecast our pending departure.

“Want to see the Mustang?”

No, Mr. Howard.

“Hey, did I ever show you my navy medals?”

No, Mr. Howard.

“Wait right here, I want you to see pictures of my grandkids.”

Call us if you need us, Mr. Howard.

Backing out of the driveway, we see him silhouetted against the light from inside. A shoebox held against his side.

Lou stops the ambulance.

“What should we do?”

“He does give out full-size candy bars.”

“Have you ever seen the pictures of his grandkids?”

“Once.”

“And?”

“It was kind of depressing.”

He'll call again.