HARRY

He was a quiet man, never said much or mingled with the other members of the office, yet there was a mystic to him that drew my interest. He appeared to have no special skills, and no one knew much about his personal life.

When I would arrive at my office every morning, way ahead of everyone else, there would be Harry, the coffee perking, a cup in his hand, and a roll or Danish in his mouth, reading the NY Daily News.

Drawing Harry into a conversation was not easy, but it could be done, but you needed to keep in mind that Harry had a raspy voice, like it may have been injured at one time in his long life. He was a slight man, graying and winkled, I could never figure out his age.

No one knew what his family life was like, where he lived, or what he did for amusement, but we did know that Harry was always there for you.

He would come into my office, softly tapping on the door first, and check to see if I needed anything, then when I did, off to a supply room or two to get it, and add it to my day.

A ceiling light needed changing, and you would find Harry on a ladder. If I needed a ride downtown in Manhattan for a meeting in which I was running late, Harry took out the company station wagon and off we went.

The company had a kitchen, completely equipped, and Harry would surprise us with great gourmet meals, serve the whole lunch or dinner, quietly clean up and leave.

Then one day, Harry failed to show, after three days of no Harry, no one knew where to look, who to call, and what to do. The company records had an address and phone number, but both were old, we didn’t know when it changed, but must have been recent. As we contemplated calling the police to help us locate Harry, an old lady appeared in the waiting room. Dressed rather shabbily, her hair like bramble, no teeth in her mouth, she told us that Harry was dead! She sat down on the couch, and started to talk to us.

Harry had awakened one morning like he did every morning at 4 am, and prepared to leave for the office. The old woman, his wife, said that she noticed he was particularly quiet that morning, and she arose from bed to find him bent over at the kitchen table in pain. She called an ambulance but he had died from a heart attack in the ambulance.

Her grief was somewhat strange, in that she could so freely relate to us all that transpired those few days past. They had been evicted from their apartment months ago, and Harry was too ashamed to tell us.

“You know, my Harry had a lot of pride. He was a good man with bad luck. You know he was a hero during the war, yes; he fought in the Pacific but never spoke about it. He later became a chef and went to work in a fine hotel in New York then Philadelphia.” Then she related how he came down with throat cancer, lost his job, moved back to New York, but couldn’t find work anymore. She was there she said to get Harry’s personal things and she would be off.

Here was a man who made his life what he could of it, after trying circumstances. He made me feel important, and everyone else he came in contact with, quietly doing what he could, never once complaining about what life brought him, always a gentleman. Rest in peace, Harry.