It was Friday, the week before Christmas, and I was taking one more tour of all the homeless haunts I could think of. The traffic light was red and I was lost in my own worries; I had given up on finding Joe, and so I didn’t see the man with the cardboard sign at the bottom of the freeway ramp.
Three sharp raps on my side-window were followed by, “Hey, Mac! Hey, Mac!”
I looked up into Joe Skive’s face. This time, he turned purple with rage instead of fear.
“You took my job! You son of a bitch!” He started to reach through the window. My hands flew up in surrender, but I refused to show fear, for I could take this guy in a second.
“Hold on, Joe! Let’s talk. Get in the car, man.” I reached over and popped the passenger door. Pensively, he walked around the car like a male lion sizing up its challenger. He hopped in, still holding the ragged cardboard sign clutched to his chest. Geez, he stunk.
The past two weeks searching for Joe had softened me. Time doesn’t heal wounds, but it sure can change memories or feelings—for better or worse. In Joe’s case, it seemed for the worse; in mine, I knew it was better. Hopefully, we could meet somewhere in the middle.
When I extended my hand for a friendly shake, Joe looked at it like it was a rattler coiled to strike and refused to take it.
“You took my freaking job, Mac!”
“Put your seat belt on, Joe. I don’t want a ticket.”
“What’s the worry? You can afford it now, sitting up in MY office.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I sure can, but I figure you don’t want the cops running your I.D.” I looked down my nose like a parent in a dispute with a six-year-old. Joe clicked his belt into place and muttered under his breath something about me not knowing the truth.
“What the hell you want with me, Marv? Is it take-a-bum-to-lunch day? Or what?”
“It’s or what —Maggie started this.”
“What a girl that Maggie is. You really lucked out on that one.”
“Joe, I would have let you rot out here, but the more I searched, and the more I covered grounds like the ones I used to run in, the more I felt you needed a break, at least for a little while.”
“Right...! You know nuthin’ about these streets!”
“More than you buddy. What? You’ve been out here for six, seven months, right?”
“Feels like years.” His bitterness gave way to a sadness I could feel in the pit of my stomach. The air in the car stunk, felt hot and suffocating, so I rolled up the sleeves of my high-priced white dress shirt. Joe’s eyes bugged out.
His gaze locked on the black peacocks and twin 9mm handguns inked onto the insides of my forearms.
“Would you still have hired me if you’d seen these?”
Joe didn’t answer, but sat stunned into silence.
“Yeah, imagine that, Joe. You come from the best home, schools, and all. I come from the streets: robbing, cheating, stealing, and strung out on dope. The tables have turned, that’s for sure.”