Detroit part 2: Howard.

Detroit, MI

With the van properly restocked, re-licensed, and repaired, we went to meet Howard. On the way there we discussed what Howard might be like, at this point all three of us had at one point or another talked to him over the phone, or e-mail.

A brief history: Lotten found Howard on Craig's List. His main concerns were about how old we were, and if we were "normal". I thought we might be in trouble when Lotten first showed me the E-mail (on account of the normal comment), but I decided we should just go for it anyway and figure it out later. Worst case, he bails, and we're out 30$. The day after we received the E-mail I talked with Howard over the phone and he seemed very concerned about getting character references from us, I told him he could talk to my mom, but she'd probably just say I was great because I'm her son. I asked him what other reference he might want, and he wasn't sure. So jokingly, but he took it rather literally, I suggested I give him the E-mails of some of my former professors and bosses, all of whom I knew were far too air headed to ever respond in time, not that it mattered. Again, I told him these people are all on my side, they aren't going to say anything bad, and I don't really don't have any objective references. he told me it would be fine, and I gave him my mom's e-mail and number. I don't think he ever called. He also gave me his mom's phone number, who was nearing 90 - just in case I wanted it. I didn't.

So this is Howard, a person who wants character references for a ride-share, works in a Detroit suburb, and generally seems worried about everything. I began compiling what I thought he was going to be like in my head: short, dress button up, glasses, a mustache, and 50ish. Everyone was in general agreement to this as we were approaching the address of Howard's friend's house, where we were supposed to meet him.

As we pulled into the driveway a rather stout polish man greeted us from in front of the garage. Howard hadn't arrived yet, so we killed some time talking to him about car mechanics, or something like that. I'm somewhat confident I was thinking about either spaceships, or David Bowie, or both.

Howard pulls up in some janky sedan, and he fits my description almost pin
on - sans mustache. We talk for minute, pack up his bag in the back of the van, and right before we take off Howard's friend looks at a stick on the back of my van that says DK and says, "Denmark! I lived there for a while." I didn't have the heart to tell him that I feel it's more likely to mean Donkey Kong. Although, no one really knows what it means, so I just let him have his Denmark experience.


By this time it's about 3:30, and I knew we were looking at a fucking late arrival in Jersey.

Fuck it. We rolled out anyway.

Howard ended up being a decent conversation, nothing too exciting, but he did at least know how to keep awkward silences at bay. We talked about running, health super foods, and some other mildly entertaining things, again nothing spectacular.

The whether decided to give us hell once we got into the Cleveland area. I felt a couple ways about this: Annoyed that it was going to take us even longer to drive through a raging storm, but at the same time it meant that at least there would something to look at while we drove through east Ohio and western Pennsylvania, and by that I mean Rain and Lightening which are far more interesting than anything you'll find in western Pennsylvania.


Then something odd happened. There are something you don't expect to come out of the mouth of a 50 year old Jewish man. But there we sat, driving down some podunk road in Pennsylvania when he brings up New York, and he says to me, "yeah, I used to go out on the pier and watch The Clash all the time."

"Excuse me?" I said back. "You used to go watch The Clash?"

"Yeah, we'd pull on our leather jackets and take a train up to the city and watch them play on the pier."

I was having trouble imagining Howard punked out in leather at a Clash concert, but the man isn't lying. He just sits there, content as can be, peering out the window through his glasses adjusting his collared shirt. I take a few more quick glances at him and get a picture of him in the early 80s in a ripped leather jacket, sitting on a pier, and singing along to London's Calling...and it's just not clicking. I just gave up after a while trying to figure out how he ended up where he, and just accepted the world was weird. 50 year old Jewish man used to be a punk rocker...whatever, add it to the list next to the California fruit detective.

We get to Jersey at 5:30 a.m. at a city called Monroe Township. Howard's mother lives in a more or less planned community with a guard at the gate. We get in, and drop Howard off and then passed out.