Howie Shuck
A long, long time ago in a small town not so far away, I took a job working as a stock boy at Avery’s Bells.
Howie Shuck, who was two years older than me, was my boss that first night. I found him seated in the back room.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
Howie gave me a list.
I was looking to make a good impression...I hustled away...he called me back.
“Chill,” he said. “Take a breath. I’m not gonna’ fire you.”
And that summarized all the work I ever saw Howie do in the time I worked with him.
He was chill.
In fact, I remember him calling me over to him one day...he was seated in the same spot.
“Relax with that girl,” he said. “You’re making it way too apparent that you love her.”
I tried to deny my crush.
“I’m not in love with her.”
“Dude, everyone knows it. I heard two customers talking about it.”
“What?” I asked.
“Seriously, two old ladies were discussing it in the soup aisle. They were talking about the sad sack sack boy.”
But he wasn’t picking on me...he was helping me.
“Just chill. Be yourself.”
And that was Howie to me.
“What a cool guy he was,” my buddy Tom said. He also worked with Howie then.
He was a great golfer, a smart guy, and he suffered a horrible fate.
He spent the last 11 years of his life in a wheelchair. I didn’t know much about it.
In fact, I didn’t know anything about it when he friend requested me on Facebook.
We started chatting during a Yankees game.
One funny remark at a time. We made each other laugh a lot.
Then we hit on music.
We went back and forth talking Pink Floyd and the Stones.
Our last set of conversations were about Donald Trump.
We laughed a lot there too.
One time...
...one single time I broached the subject of his illness and the wheelchair that was his constant companion.
“I’m doing worse than some, better than most,” he wrote.
Chill.
Howie was a good golfer.
A funny guy.
Brilliant.
And my friend.
Damn.
He’s gone too soon...
...and I’m gonna’ miss him.
He’s going to make sure the Yankees get me a title soon.
RIP Howie.
Howie Shuck, who was two years older than me, was my boss that first night. I found him seated in the back room.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
Howie gave me a list.
I was looking to make a good impression...I hustled away...he called me back.
“Chill,” he said. “Take a breath. I’m not gonna’ fire you.”
And that summarized all the work I ever saw Howie do in the time I worked with him.
He was chill.
In fact, I remember him calling me over to him one day...he was seated in the same spot.
“Relax with that girl,” he said. “You’re making it way too apparent that you love her.”
I tried to deny my crush.
“I’m not in love with her.”
“Dude, everyone knows it. I heard two customers talking about it.”
“What?” I asked.
“Seriously, two old ladies were discussing it in the soup aisle. They were talking about the sad sack sack boy.”
But he wasn’t picking on me...he was helping me.
“Just chill. Be yourself.”
And that was Howie to me.
“What a cool guy he was,” my buddy Tom said. He also worked with Howie then.
He was a great golfer, a smart guy, and he suffered a horrible fate.
He spent the last 11 years of his life in a wheelchair. I didn’t know much about it.
In fact, I didn’t know anything about it when he friend requested me on Facebook.
We started chatting during a Yankees game.
One funny remark at a time. We made each other laugh a lot.
Then we hit on music.
We went back and forth talking Pink Floyd and the Stones.
Our last set of conversations were about Donald Trump.
We laughed a lot there too.
One time...
...one single time I broached the subject of his illness and the wheelchair that was his constant companion.
“I’m doing worse than some, better than most,” he wrote.
Chill.
Howie was a good golfer.
A funny guy.
Brilliant.
And my friend.
Damn.
He’s gone too soon...
...and I’m gonna’ miss him.
He’s going to make sure the Yankees get me a title soon.
RIP Howie.
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Susan Puntillo
Susan Puntillo