Just another Joe Story

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• At the corner of oak and vine Every day and every season, he grew larger and stronger. Nothing phased him, not the rain, not the snow, not the hurricane winds. He stood there, stoic, like a roman statue and watched as the world spun around him....
  • At the corner of oak and vine


Every day and every season, he grew larger and stronger.  Nothing phased him, not the rain, not the snow, not the hurricane winds.  He stood there, stoic, like a roman statue and watched as the world spun around him.  Every day of every year that passed on the hill where he stood, the sun would set more beautifully than the day before. Those twilight hours were all he lived for. The days continued to pass and the moss grew each spring as the air flowed through his leaves. He stood there strong, breathing in the thinnest air that the high altitude delivered. The thought of a life growing in the sun, drenched in the rain, in the coldest and hottest days made him smile as early morning dew dripped from bright green leaves he held so high. 

While his branches grew further and further, higher and higher year after long year, he began to become lonely. The beautiful sunsets he watched fall each night in his earlier years started to lose their excitement while he watched them night after cold night alone. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even look-unlike the days when he’d wait all hours for the pinks and the purples. He often thought about how his best years were the ones he had already lived. He thought about all he had seen, all he had felt, all he had dreamt about all those nights beneath the milky way and the moon while more morning dew would fall to the ground, but now more like tears onto a pillow.

A fire off in the distance excited him. It was the first time he felt this excited in years. He watched and waited in hopes it would reach him. He no longer wanted to be the strongest, the toughest, the statue that people just stood near, climbed, looked at, and never truly cared for with the love they very simply gave each other. His branches tightened and he felt very small as the smoke reached the highest hill in town. He breathed in the darkness as the hot wind began to suffocate him. He heard the cries of the leaves as they dried, cracked and crumbled to the shaded grass below him. This was it. This was the end. He had grown from just a seed. He had seen the world grow from a spot where an oak never had grown before and this was the end.  The fire began its casual crawl up his base as if this was just another walk in the park. He shook, he weakened and twig-by-twig he disappeared into the darkness wishing he had been stronger. Wishing he had enjoyed the freshness more, the beauty, the life that he wished away. He lastly wished he had loved when he had the chance, but knew it was too late and he hung his head and closed his eyes as the inferno engulfed from his root to the leaf that lasted the longest.

“Wake up,” said a soft voice as the early morning sun crept slowly over the horizon. He looked around as his fully bloomed branches swayed in the summer wind. “What happened?” said the Oak to a Vine that wrapped herself around the strong, sturdy trunk. “I didn’t want you to miss this,” she said as the sun rose higher, and the colors changed quickly off in the distance. He smiled and breathed the clean air his leaves pushed in his direction. “I had another nightmare where I couldn’t breath,” he said. She looked up to him. “Are you ok now?” she asked in her concerned, loving voice. He looked down to her as she tightly held on with love she would only give him, smiled and replied…”I am now.”

“Hand Me Downs” The clothes never fit. The pants needed hemming, the sleeves needed sewing and I often walked around with socks that didn’t match. By the time they got to me, the print had faded and the fabric was worn. I always got the leftovers-...

“Hand Me Downs”

The clothes never fit. The pants needed hemming, the sleeves needed sewing and I often walked around with socks that didn’t match. By the time they got to me, the print had faded and the fabric was worn. I always got the leftovers- the things everyone else was finished with. It doesn’t pay to be the baby especially when you have three older sisters. Come to think of it, why was I wearing their hand me downs anyway?

The Caveman I watched this man in the depths of the city as we both waited for the train. Two men with totally different lives were there in the same place waiting for the same train. It was as if we were both there for a reason. I watched as others...

The Caveman

I watched this man in the depths of the city as we both waited for the train. Two men with totally different lives were there in the same place waiting for the same train. It was as if we were both there for a reason. I watched as others looked past him, above him, below him, and wherever else they could so that their eyes wouldn’t lock onto his. The Homeless are often discarded and ignored. However, I sadly understand why they are ignored. Some have such serious mental problems that they appear scary, threatening and violent. When I look at the homeless, I think of Frankenstein; like Frankenstein, they aren’t understood or accepted. It’s as if they aren’t human.

I stood there staring at his reflection through the plexiglass of a subway map sign and watched as he reached into a trashcan and pulled out a cup of coffee. He instantly popped the lid and began drinking it. He didn’t even look for what was inside. Half of me wanted to look away, embarrassed for him and myself for getting any form of gratification out of watching how he lived. The other half of me was intrigued and fascinated since for him, the only thing that mattered was staying afloat - there was no embarrassment in that.

The train arrived and we both got on. I watched as passengers moved a few inches further to the left and right of him as if he were filled with disease that seeped from his pores. The man started talking, making some jokes but no one seemed to listen. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I haven’t walked past many homeless men and women who would often say, “Excuse me sir?” Today, I wanted to listen. He was a funny guy, cracking jokes for the public, trying to get a laugh or two. Before the stop he told everyone on the train, “I’m gonna go have a smoke. Whoever holds the door for me gets a cup of coffee.” He looked at the woman behind me and asked, “How do you take yours, honey?” Instantly a laugh erupted throughout the car. Many who ignored him now saw him, heard him and suddenly he was real.

The subway car slowed to a crawl and he totted his garbage bag of relics out and up the stairs. I was in the subway that day in hopes to get some pictures I had never taken before – capturing the conductors and the people that passed. Then, my eyes wandered and I watched as his broken down body crept up the flight of stairs. I looked back to the conductor, then to him, then the conductor. I put my camera to my hip for a minute and thought, “You should have a cup of coffee with that guy. I bet he has one hell of a tale to tell.” So, I left the conductor and I chased down the man who walked with shoes that he most likely found in a dumpster downtown.

I ran up the stairs as he dragged his bag up each step and asked, “Hey, would you like to grab a cup of coffee with me?” He froze for a second as if he were a statue and had never been asked this before and yelled, “SUUUUUUURE!!” He was wittier than wit itself, carried a conversation better than most as we walked to the nearest coffee shop. “What are ya havin?” the barista asked. “Two cups of your finest” the man whose name I didn’t know yelled out as he raised a couple fingers as if he were saying, “Peace Brother.” I smiled. “This is great” I thought to myself as I watched him put as many free sugar samples in his pockets before anyone noticed.

We sat down near the window and he told me about his life and I told him about mine. Extremely different paths we’ve taken but we were both reaching for something. That was the incredible part of it for me. It was something I hadn’t even thought of before. I was reaching for success in my 30th year of life while he in his 71st was reaching for survival. He loaded his cup of bad coffee with ten packets of sugar and gulped down the piping hot cup as if it were ice-cold water and he had spent days in the blistering hot desert.

“Where do you live?” I asked. “Well…” he said before he took another sip, “Manhattan is my home. I can live anywhere I want.” With no bills, mortgage or responsibility aside from trying to stay alive…he made a very good point. “But…” he continued, “I lived in a cave for 35 years in a park far uptown, I think it was Harlem.” “A cave?” I asked. “Yep.” He said as he gulped more burning hot coffee. “How are you not burning your mouth?” I asked. “I’m a man.” He replied. I had to laugh at the greatest answer I have ever heard in my life.

“I sell Metro Cards too,” he told me. I was amazed by how much of a hustler this guy really was. He’d go around looking anywhere and everywhere for forgotten and abandoned subway cards and he’d put them all onto one card to sell. “Some of my cards have over a hundred dollars” he went on to say. He even tried to sell me one. Not only that, but he had over 18 regular customers that counted on him from the Financial District to the Upper West Side. Now I knew why he was digging in the trash can so vigorously.

The conversation never dragged. I wanted to stay and chat more, but I could see he had somewhere to be. “Well, thank you for the coffee, but I’ve got to go. There are cards to sell and people waiting for me” He said with a toothless smile. “Anytime,” I said.  We walked outside and headed in the same direction. “Are you sure you don’t need a metro card?” he asked. “No thanks,” I said as I put on my winter hat. He smiled. It was the kind of smile you see when someone really wants to say something but doesn’t know how to do it right.  “Bye now,” he said as he turned to walk away, but stopped before he did. “Here,” he said as he reached into his pocket pulling out a stack of subway cards. “Have a ride on me.” 

Charlie

“Can I borrow a dollar?”  It’s always hard for me to say “no.”  I looked into the eyes of this homeless man and I saw such desperation and hopelessness. 

This morning I tried something different. “Wanna go for a walk with me” I asked. His bearded, puzzled face looked at me wondering what was going on. “Come on” I said as I started to walk. He stood up and followed, looking behind himself as if someone was going to take his spot on 52nd street. His nervous tick, his raspy voice, his hands without gloves came along with his limp walk. 

We walked a few blocks and I bought him a cup of coffee. We sat down as everyone stared and I asked him about his life. At one point I made him laugh and for a second I saw him as a friend and felt he may have seen me the same way. 

When the conversation lulled and neither of us asked for anymore refills we said our goodbyes and we walked outside. “Hang in there” I said as if it were that simple for him. He simply said, “Thanks.” I turned to walk away and he yelled to me, “Hey Jim…” I turn to him with a smile thinking about how he already forgot my name was Joe. 

He continued, “…how’s about that buck?”

Yesterday

Do you Ever ask yourself, “Who was the first to stand where I’m standing?”

In Paterson I feel at home. Now, one of the slums of New Jersey, “Silk City” makes me feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be.  My parents were born there, raised there, my sisters as well, but me, I’m just another suburban kid who was only taught street smarts on a street where we never locked our doors. I often find myself driving around that town, miles and miles away from where I live, and wander to different spots wondering if the places I stood were spots my father once stood himself.

My grandfathers were both businessmen. Loyal and hardworking. Or so I was told, as that would be the only way I would know, because they both overworked themselves to death before I was born. I often wonder, were they like me? Were they writers, dreamers, explorers?  As I drive through their streets that are now littered with trash, I wonder what those sidewalks looked like when they walked those streets themselves. 

There is one spot in particular that often draws my eye. My car tends to drift there on its own. I don’t even need to steer. At the top of the mountain stands a castle. Its closed, its beautiful, but there is no longer a pretty princess with golden hair waiting to be rescued. Past the castle, past the fallen tree, and broken glass is the spot where I feel most free. Garrett Mountain.  From there you can see every house, every schoolbus, every building, person, plane and car from there to NYC. From there I feel the world is mine. That’s all I see. I will sometimes sit there staring at the cars on the highway, wondering where everyone is going, and watch the planes come in and out of Newark airport. Then, I think about how at one time the buildings weren’t there. The buses, the highways, the cars, planes, and castles weren’t either. None of it existed.

I try and envision just trees. Sometimes, I can actually imagine it just right and green is all my eyes will see. I didn’t find this spot, my cousin showed it to me. Someone showed him, and someone showed that person and so on and so on. The amazing thing to me, is that there was someone who found it first. There was someone who sat where I sat, and felt how I felt. It makes me think- when he came across that mountain and looked out at that view did he ask himself, “I wonder if my grandfather was just like me?”

The General’s Kid

They moved me around like a penny would drift from one stranger’s pocket to the next.  I never had a “home,” or at least a place I could say I grew up in, because no home that I lived was ever my own. 

The smell of the family that drifted before me was stained into the carpets and I could always feel the pain they left behind, and the pain I carried with me. They’d be the only ones who’d understand me, but we never got the chance to meet, as we were always a few days behind.

I often wondered if the people who I became “friends” with at every new school I went, were the friends of the kids whose beds I now slept. I never fit in and use the word “friends” loosely because I never had time to share my secrets with the other pretty girls who walked the halls.

I carried more than just books in my backpack, I also carried a lot of anger and it was more anger than any 11 year old girl should hold.  My father was more concerned with “capturing the flag” on enemy soil, and winning the hearts of the people who saluted it, than the heart of his daughter who was left alone with his cold, lonely wife, a woman whose nails were bitten down to the nub.

I normally hid away in the woods, my favorite place, amongst the falling leaves, maple trees, and birds that chirped a pretty song of life I always wanted. I always wished I could fly away to a neighborhood with white picket fences, cute trees that lined the streets and childhood friends who I would know longer than six months to a year, but the fenced in Army base was littered with kids who wandered around not knowing each others names and left me to be just another Prisoner Of War.

Years drifted just like that penny, and now I was a woman. I felt like I was looking down at my young self as I stared into the eyes of my only son, while he held back his tears trying be a strong American boy. “Don’t leave mommy.” He begged as he hugged me with all his might. Another war and another deployment fell to my feet. I realized in that instant that the life I never wanted was the same life I gave to him. It turned out to be the only life I knew how to live. I was disconnected from the ones who needed me most, just like my father was to me and today was just another day I’d be leaving “home.”

When I had time to myself out in the desert, as the hellish sun drenched me in sweat, I often wondered to myself only one thing…is my brown eyed little “soldier” hiding in the woods somewhere…wishing he could fly away. 

Helen, My “Mrs. Robinson”

She was my “older woman,” my “Mrs. Robinson.” She was my first and I miss her each and every day that I breath without her.  She had many miles on me and more experience than I may ever have. I often wondered what she’d done and where she’d “done” it.  I tried not to think about the men who had her before me because I felt that it was better to think that I was the only one she shared that connection with.

I found out later how my “best” friends would make fun of her when I wasn’t around. They’d talk about how she had twenty-two years on me, and how beat up she always looked.  I’ll admit, at times I was embarrassed, but looking back now, I regret those days because I wasted them not seeing how beautiful she really was. She might not have been the prettiest, but deep down I didn’t care. To me she was perfect. 

We spent a lot of time alone. A lot. Away from my friends and my immaturity… those were the days I remember most. Those are the days that I wish I could get back even for just a minute.  The Sunday drives, the drive-in movies, the way she protected me, sang to me, and took me to places I never envisioned going.

I truly loved her and I felt she loved me too, though she never actually said it. The more I think about her, the more I think about how attached I always got to the ones I’ve been with since, because I hoped I’d feel the way I did with her. I never have though.  

Unfortunately, like many great love stories, I can’t do anything now but reminisce and wonder that if I had been better, would we still be together?  So, now and then, I’ll drive with the one I’m with now, down the same streets, back alleys, and highways and pretend I’m with her. It’s true what they say about losing a great love, because for me she was my first, my last, and my favorite…of all my cars.

The Trade

Like a dollar bill, she was passed from one scary face to the next.  She smiled when she had to, laughed when she should, but inside, she was just a sad, little girl.  A “little girl” inside the body of a 22 year old woman.  Each day, she wished for her twin brother, to come, and save her, but her brother was many miles away, and most likely thought she was dead, or so she could only assume.  At the end of the night, when the neon light went out, and the cigarette smoke was all sucked up through the vents, she found herself alone with the others, all normally sitting silent in the back, where no customers were allowed. Scared, and abused, they knew what they needed to do to survive, so they kept quiet, and continued on. 

She hummed to herself in the corner, as the other girls put themselves back together and brushed her long, blonde, silky hair like a little girl would brush her doll. Tonight would be no different than last night, she’ll cry herself to sleep, and dream of happier days in Poland, with her brother, sister and mom, but before she could dream of the faces she missed, she’d have a visit from the boss who enjoyed tucking her in most.

The next morning she woke up…again.  She often wished she wouldn’t wake at all, but when she would, she’d wonder if “today would be better than yesterday,” but deep down she knew it never would.  The sad silence and locks on the doors made her a prisoner who was forced each day to put on a happy face, but all the make up she made herself up with, couldn’t hide the scared girl behind it. 

The neon light was lit, the bell rang, and the group of girls lined themselves up. Another man, with another big belly, and sweat dripping from his brow and another fake smile to save her life. “Take my hand.” She said with a wink, as he followed her like a teenage boy.  She kissed, and he smiled, and when it was all finished, another piece of her was sucked up through the vents never to return.  That day was a busy one. There was no time for lunch that afternoon, but every man feasted as if they were kings, with the pretty, little, blue eyed polish girl, who thought she was going to be a movie star.

The neon sign went off, the smoke went away, and again she ran to her little corner, and brushed her pretty hair, as tears made their way to the floor.  Her heart raced as she prayed to God to make it stop, but for her and for the others, those thoughts were nothing more than words, and wishes that would never come true. 

A year had passed, and she was up to the same old tricks, as if she had a choice to be up to anything else. Like a dog trapped in a tiny cage, she wished she were dead.  “How did this happen to me?” She often wondered.  It’s been months since she’s been outside, and she wondered what season it was. She went to sleep, in her lumpy little mattress below the stairs, in the room with no windows or heat.  The dark, cold brick and dimly lit lights that often flickered or didn’t work made her feel like she was in hell.

 

A few sleepless hours had passed as she cried alone to herself and heard one or two more of the girls doing the same.  Some girls were able to get through it, embrace it as it was now their lot in life. The drugs helped. For her, it wasn’t so easy.  She had been a slave for longer than she could remember, making money off her body for other men to spend. The water from the toilet overflowed and trickled to the floor just a few inches from her bed, and row of glittered high heels. The smell in the tiny, cold room smelled like a rotting body as many girls were forced to throw up the slop they were cooked, to keep their money making bodies tight and irresistible by the men who expected to pay for perfection.

The alarm woke the “sleeping” girls. They were fed a little food, dolled up to look pretty and they lined up as another bell rang. This day was another back breaker. She couldn’t even move by noon, but the drugs they fed into her veins made the pain go away for at least a few hours.  The neon light was just a few more “dates” away from going out, along with the smoke being sucked through the vents.

Her last customer was a very large man.  He walked in with tattoos all over his neck, hands and arms. He wore a big blue flannel, and ripped jeans.  His shaved head, and earrings in his ears painted a picture of another end of the day from hell, but to her she didn’t flinch. It was nothing she wasn’t used to. Just another miserable hour of her life she’d never see again. She took his hand with a smile, walked as cute as her beaten down body could and closed the door behind them, in the room with pink lights and purple candles.  She walked to her radio, turned back to him and smiled as he seemed more concerned with looking around than looking to her. “What song would you like to hear?” she asked in her Polish accent, as she looked back hiding behind her long, silky hair. He continued scanning the room and said, “Put on whatever will help you relax.”

She thought about what would really help her relax.  The song she yearned to hear. The pretty one her sister sang each winter at church just an ocean away.  She smiled for a second, drifting away into that thought, humming the sound she hadn’t heard or thought of for years and stood in the corner beside the radio that was still turned off. She swayed to the pretty tune in her head, remembering better days. Then suddenly the sound of the large mans boots crept up behind her and she woke from her pretty daydream to stand in her ugly reality. She turned to him to make sure he got his moneys worth, put her arms around his neck and asked what it was he would like to do, as her red lipstick stained his chest with just a kiss.

He smiled at her as his hooded eyebrows made his eyes darker than they already were and puts his lips to her ear and large arms on her skinny shoulders.  “Ania.” He whispered. She pulled away, put her hand over her mouth and began to breath heavily. “How do you know my name?” she asked as she hadn’t been called her real name since the day she left Poland. “Your brother is in America Ania. We’ve been looking for you for a very long time and I’m here to save you.” She looked up to him. The big, scary man who suddenly looked more like a protector, and angel from above than he did a biker in a gang. He looked into her big, scared, tear-filled, polish blue eyes as she shook uncontrollably and asked, “Ania…are you ready to go home?”  She wondered what he meant. “But how? There are a half dozen men out there that will kill us both. What about all the other girls?”  He smiled at her. “Do you really think I came alone?” He slowly shook his head “no.”  “This is what I do Ania.  So, are you ready to go home?” She looked around her pink room and flickering purple candles that burned beside the bed and with her timid, little voice amongst the smell of cigarette smoke, and glow of the neon sign from beneath the door, she quietly whispered…“Yes.”

…she loves me.

 No matter the words I used in the most vicious of verbal battles. No matter my shunning her for many years and turning my head when she would call my name. No matter the love I never showed, the only voice she turned to, the only eyes she focused on, the only tear she shed, was for me…her little brother.  All this time, I didn’t realize that the one who I said I never cared for, never stopped caring for me.