Remembering Henry Addleton’s New Year’s Resolution
Usually, he’d think it: “You’re your own man. You make your own destiny.” Occasionally, he’d speak it, sometimes with the addition of a final exclamation mark, or in particularly dire times, a question mark. It was his mantra, his constant psychological companion. “And why shouldn’t it be?” he’d think. “After all, it’s the kind of adage grandfathers bestow to toddlers on their knees. It’s the spiritual pronouncement of self-made men!” But for Henry Addleton, it had yet to bring him fortune or fame. Had he done something wrong? Was there perhaps some set of instructions that certain individuals possessed, and he did not? And if so, why them and not him? Why was it always that Henry, delightful Henry, time and again suffered the cruel hand of fate? How could it be that such a lovably affable, miniature, stooped, stout, near sighted, hard of hearing, bow legged, missing the index finger on his left hand, inexplicably somehow never stricken with polio, bald man could not be asked to the table, to partake in the feast of victory, if but only for an aperitif? And to make matters worse cherished letter writers, the good years, if they were ever really good, had now long since faded into the should-have and could-have-been’s of yesteryear. So in the quiet of his one room apartment on the outskirts of Cleveland, on one particularly rain soaked New Year’s Eve, Henry made a resolution. He wrote it in big black bold letters, so he wouldn’t forget it. He wrote it with a permanent marker, so it would always remain. He wrote it on every door, every window,...