A Prayer for Owen Meany

I began to think more highly of the colonel who thought Owen was too small for a combat branch. His name was Eiger, and I tried to talk to him once; in my view, I was doing Owen a favor.

“Colonel Eiger, sir,” I said to him. Despite the liver spots on the backs of his hands and the roll of sun-wrecked skin that only slightly overlapped his tight, brown collar, he looked capable of about seventy-five fast push-ups on command. “I know that you know Owen Meany, sir,” I said to him; he didn’t speak—he waited for me to continue, chewing his gum so conservatively that you weren’t sure he had any gum in his mouth at all; he might have been engaged in some highly disciplined pattern of exercises for his tongue. “I want you to know that I agree with you, sir,” I said. “I don’t think Owen Meany is suitable for combat.” The colonel—although this was barely detectable—stopped chewing. “It’s not just his size,” I ventured. “I am his best friend, and even I have to question his stability—his emotional stability,” I said.

“Thank you. That will be all,” the colonel said.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

It was May 1965; I watched Owen closely—to see if he’d received any further discouragement from Colonel Eiger. Something must have happened—the colonel must have said something to him—because that was the spring when Owen Meany stopped smoking; he just gave it up, cold. He took up running! In two weeks, he was running five miles a day; he said his goal—by the end of the month—was to average six minutes per mile. And he took up beer.

“Why the beer?” I asked him.

“WHOEVER HEARD OF SOMEONE IN THE ARMY NOT DRINKING BEER?” he asked me.

It sounded like something Colonel Eiger would have said to him; probably the colonel thought it was a further indication that Owen was a wimp—that he didn’t drink.

And so, by the time he left for Basic Training, he was in pretty good shape—all that running, even with the beer, was a favorable exchange for a pack a day. He admitted that he didn’t like the running; but he’d developed a taste for beer. He never drank very much of it—I never saw him get drunk, not before Basic Training—but Hester remarked that the beer vastly improved his disposition.

“Nothing would make Owen exactly mellow,” she said, “but believe me: the beer helps.”

I felt funny working for Meany Granite when Owen wasn’t there.

“I’M ONLY GONE FOR SIX WEEKS,” he pointed out. “AND BESIDES: I FEEL BETTER KNOWING YOU’RE IN CHARGE OF THE MONUMENT SHOP. IF SOMEONE DIES, YOU’VE GOT THE PROPER MANNERS TO HANDLE THE ORDER FOR THE GRAVESTONE. I TRUST YOU TO HAVE THE RIGHT TOUCH.”

“Good luck!” I said to him.

“DON’T EXPECT ME TO HAVE TIME TO WRITE—IT’S GOING TO BE PRETTY INTENSE,” he said. “BASICALLY, I’VE GOT TO EXCEL IN THREE AREAS—ACADEMICS, LEADERSHIP, PHYSICAL FITNESS. FRANKLY, IN THE LATTER CATEGORY, I’M WORRIED ABOUT THE OBSTACLE COURSE—I HEAR THERE’S A WALL, ABOUT TWELVE FEET. THAT MIGHT BE A LITTLE HIGH FOR ME.”

Hester was singing; she refused to participate in a conversation about Basic Training; she said that if she heard Owen recite his preferred COMBAT BRANCHES one more time, she would throw up. I’ll never forget what Hester was singing; it’s a Canadian song, and—over the years—I’ve heard this song a hundred times. I guess it will always give me the shivers.

If you were even just barely alive in the sixties, I’m sure you’ve heard the song that Hester sang, the song I remember so vividly.

Four strong winds that blow lonely,

Seven seas that run high,

All those things that don’t change come what may.

But our good times are all gone,

And I’m bound for movin’ on,

I’ll look for you if I’m ever back this way.

They sent him to Fort Knox, or maybe it was Fort Bragg; I forget—once I asked Hester if she remembered which place it was where Owen was sent for Basic Training.

“All I know is, he shouldn’t have gone—he should have gone to Canada,” Hester said.

How often I have thought that! There are times when I catch myself looking for him—even expecting to see him. Once, in Winston Churchill Park, when there were children roughhousing—at least, moving quickly—I saw someone about his size, standing slightly to the side of whatever activity was consuming the others, looking a trifle tentative but very alert, certainly eager to try what the others were doing, but restraining himself, or else picking the exactly perfect moment to take charge.

But Owen didn’t come to Canada; he went to Fort Knox or Fort Bragg, where he failed the obstacle course. He was the best academically; he had the highest marks in leadership—whatever that is, and however the U.S. Army determines what it is. But he had been right about the wall; it was a little high for him—he simply couldn’t get over it. He “failed to negotiate the wall”—that was how the Army put it. And since class rank in ROTC is composed of excellence in Academics, in Leadership, and in Physical Fitness, Owen Meany—just that simply—failed to get a number-one ranking; his choice of a “combat arms designator” was, therefore, not assured.

“But you’re such a good jumper!” I told him. “Couldn’t you just jump it—couldn’t you grab hold of the top of the wall and haul yourself over it?”

“I COULDN’T REACH THE TOP OF THE WALL!” he said. “I AM A GOOD JUMPER, BUT I’M FUCKING FIVE FEET TALL! IT’S NOT LIKE PRACTICING THE SHOT, YOU KNOW—I’M NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE ANYONE BOOST ME UP!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ve still got your whole senior year. Can’t you work on Colonel Eiger? I’ll bet you can convince him to give you what you want.”

“I’VE GOT A NUMBER-TWO RANKING—DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? IT’S BY THE BOOK. COLONEL EIGER LIKES ME—HE JUST DOESN’T THINK I’M FIT!” He was so distracted by his failure, I didn’t press him about giving me a dynamite lesson. I felt guilty for ever speaking to Colonel Eiger—Owen was so upset. But, at the same time, I didn’t want him to get a combat-branch assignment.