the envelope

Sitting on the couch, a documentary on Howard Hughes came on. I watched, somewhat interested, but not really.

My grandmother was with me. She started to squirm a little bit at what was going on on the television screen. This drew my interest more than anything that the voice over guy was trying to tell me about this man.

The early years didn’t elicit much of a reaction. But when it got to the 1950s and 1960s, she started to wince a bit and even cry a little.

“Ooms, what’s the matter?” I asked.

She looked at me, touching my hand ever-so-lightly before saying “I never liked that man.”

Whoah. This was kind of a revelation. My grandmother knew Howard Hughes? Could it be possible? Or did she just not like the celebrity Hughes. The guy who may or may not have gotten away with manslaughter. Or the crazed 90-pound guy that died back in 1976.

“Why’s that?” I asked slyly.

“He was so mean to everyone. Especially your grandfather.”

At that very moment, a shot of Hughes appeared on the television. I was astounded by how much he looked like my grandpa. The eyes, the chin, eerily similar.

The voice over started talking about Hughes’ doubles. How they became the public face of the billionaire as he further sank into his mentally ill world, but still tried to keep his empire going strong.

“You mean…”

“Yep, he was one of those guys. Used to pretend to be Mr. Hughes.”

“That’s amazing!”

“I thought so too. At first.”

Of course this response only piqued my curiosity up another notch on my brain’s amplifier.

“But he was so much older than Grandpa,” I said with a stern “It’s hard for me to believe this” voice.

“Yes, but remember he had a huge hold on Hollywood. The makeup people could do amazing things. Even back then.”

Made sense.

“So, Ooms, tell me more. Please.”

I’d never really asked much about my grandparents. And now that three of the four of them are gone, I regretted it. I knew only bits and pieces. My grandpa was in the Navy. Saw a lot of ugly stuff, and didn’t talk much about it. I’d found out since he passed that he smoked a bit of marijuana from time to time. Was a bit of a racist from birth, but worked hard to not be. And he had a very confrontational relationship with god.

That was more than I’d ever known growing up. Heck, I knew even less about my dad’s parents. He worked for the railroads and was a drunk. She was a librarian. That’s about it. Sad to think. So, I pressed on with my mom’s mom.

“This could be a very interesting movie,” I continued.

“No. No. No. We are not allowed to talk about it. Had to sign a contract that said as much. Hell, boy, I shouldn’t be telling you.”

We stopped talking for a little bit. She took a few sips on her Bloody Mary, I on my Sam Adams. The program continued. It got to the Vegas years. My grandmother smiled.

“Ok. Now you’ve done it. I need to know why that makes you happy?”

“Because that’s when he stopped needing doubles. Everyone knew he was nuts, so the act didn’t work anymore. My Paul was free.”

That line made me smile too.

“So, how much money did they pay for this?”

“Well, let’s just say that the money we had when he retired was a hell of a lot more than you’d make working for Firestone for 40 years.”

I always wondered how much money they had. And if my grandfather had really been such a stock market wiz like my mom always said he was. This, obviously, swept that assessment out the door. Or at least opened it and got out the broom.

“You have any pictures?”

“What? Of him as Howard Hughes? Of course. You just saw a couple of them in that show.”

“Really? That’s neat. How about any proof?”

“Still have the contract we signed. Was told to hold on to it forever.”

She got up from the couch and went into her bedroom. A couple minutes later, she came out with an old yellowed envelope. She handed it to me.

Inside were three sheets of paper. Typed from an old typewriter, complete with a couple of white out marks. I read it. It was very straight forward. It was fascinating.

In short it said my grandpa would be on call 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. He could never say why he was leaving if he had to leave. He would be paid, in cash, every time he was needed. And he could never say a word about it, or would have to “face the consequences.”

It was signed by my grandpa, a lawyer Jonah Jones Jr., and Howard Hughes himself.

“Wow,” was all I could muster after reading the contract.

“Indeed,” Ooms said. “Now, you know, you can’t talk about this. At least until I’m gone.”

“OK,” I nodded in a Ralphie on Santa’s lap kind of way.

She patted me on the hand again, then went back to her bedroom to put the envelope away.

I woke from my daze and blurted out “Ooms, can I have that envelope….One day?”

“Maybe, darlin’. Maybe.”