When I was a young girl,
I used to spend my time right after school on the pier and rocks
of San Diego, looking at the ships coming in and feeding the multitude
of seagulls. I was usually a shy kid and didn't have many friends,
so I counted the seagulls as my friends. I would go home, make
up a picnic and get a flask of soda and go down to my favorite
place.
One day I was down there a little earlier then usual and chanced
upon a hobo. At first, I felt a little put out that this old man
was on my seat, and I was about to leave when he turned around
and smiled at me. It was the nicest smile I had seen in a long
while and I offered to share my small picnic with him. From then
on old Joe and I became firm friends.
In fact he
was my best friend. I shared all my dreams, my sadness and days
with him and in return he shared his early life, held me when
I cried and made me laugh. The age difference was long ago gone.
He was 60 years older then I was but it didn't matter. And I went
down to the pier every day whether it was raining or not, and
spent hours with Joe. I guess it must have looked strange to see
us, but at that time I didn't care what anyone thought.
Joe was born
in the late 1920's and when he was six years old got his first
job as a newspaper boy earning two cents a day, which he took
home to his mother. He was one of five kids and the second youngest.
He said that his parents had a hard time in the depression era
and had lost their home and income. They moved constantly whilst
his dad was trying to find work. Eventually his dad got a job
in California working on the farms. Then his dad got drafted for
the war and he only saw his dad 4 times after that.
His dad died in the war in 1942. His mother never remarried. The
kids including himself all joined up. He signed up as an Army
reporter and got sent to so many places that he should have gotten
badges for every place he went. After the war he decided to join
a newspaper as an apprentice. He told me that it was the best
idea he had ever had and was with the paper for 20 years, mainly
doing advertising.
He said to me, "Just because your dreams never take you where
you want to go, it doesn't mean that you are in the wrong place,
it just means that one day you will get there."
I never understood that message until now. Anyway he got married
and had 2 children, a boy and a girl. He lost his wife and son
in an accident and was left to bring up his only child. He said
it was so hard. He then said, "Never drink your troubles
away, because they will never leave." He soon lost custody
of his daughter and soon afterwards his job. Then his house. Soon
he was living on the street. He never saw his daughter again and
didn't know what had become of her. He said that I reminded him
of her. None of his remaining siblings helped so he gave up on
them, too. His story made me feel so sad.
Old Joe lived in a carton nearby. In it was all his worldly goods.
A blanket. A primus stove and a fork and plate. Some clothes from
the thrift shop. Lots of newspaper and a kind of journal. Inside
the journal was all the newspaper adverts he had done. Plus letters
from his mother and a drawing from his son.
Whenever I got pocket money, I would go down to the local thrift
shop and look for gloves and socks and a scarf for him and buy
them. He said I shouldn't spend my money on him but I could see
he was happy and I would leave them in his box when he wasn't
there.
There is an unwritten code amongst the street people. Nobody takes/steals
from another hobo. If the hobo is gone or dead, then anything
he/she leaves behind is fair game. I met some of the other street
people and some of them were just strange, but most of them were
kind and always good-natured. If you become friends with them,
you are guaranteed safety on the streets. They always will look
out for your interests. I learned that well when some high school
bullies held me up and took my bike and my bag. I was upset and
fortunately knew a few of the street people. I told them what
happened. That afternoon I went down to the pier to be with Joe
and he had a big smile on his face. He had my bike and my bag!
I was astonished and he told me that the word on the streets was
that a friend of the street people had been mugged. Not only did
the street network find my stuff, they made sure the high school
bullies knew they had messed with the wrong person.
It was a good feeling to know that I didn't have to fear being
out. The street had eyes and I was protected.
Joe and I spent many hours looking amongst the rocks and twice
I took him on a bus to Balboa Park and we walked amongst the trees
and looked at some of the museums. Unfortunately, the first time
I took him he was denied entrance because of what he looked like.
I was angry that security would not allow him in because it's
in actual fact free to the public. He was a citizen no matter
what he looked like. The second time we went he was actually better
dressed because he said he didn't want to embarrass me. I was
hurt that he thought that and said so. He laughed and told me
I was too wise for my age. We had a great afternoon. I spent my
birthday money on burgers and sodas for us both.
For the next three years, as I grew up, I always spent my afternoon
after school with Joe.
Then came one terrible day I will never ever forget as long as
I live. I had packed up a nice lunch and a thermos of coffee for
us and headed down to the pier as usual. I had lots of bread for
the gulls. My mother had had a party the previous evening and
there were plenty of leftovers. I arrived and found the street
people crying and milling around. I began to get anxious and then
I saw all the cops. There seemed to be cops everywhere. I couldn't
see Joe and I started to panic.
I pushed my way ahead looking for Joe and then I ran to where
his carton was, but it was burned to a crisp. I began to scream
and was a little hysterical. One of the street mothers put her
arms around me and I kept saying, "Where's Joe, where's Joe."
Finally a police officer came over and wanted to know who I was
and I said Joe was my best friend. He didn't believe me and took
me to some detective nearby and I had to explain my relationship
with Joe. How is it that because I lived in a good neighborhood
I can't have friends on the street? The detective made me do a
statement and I kept asking him where Joe was. Finally, he took
me to where Joe was and I fainted. Some worthless pieces of trash
had beaten up Joe and then set him alight and he had burned to
death. It took awhile before I came round. I was totally heartbroken.
My best friend was dead. And as with all things, the cops said
they would look for the kids who had done it, but it never got
done. The case was closed and filed away. Just another tragedy
on a homeless person. The street people closed ranks again and
I could sense the fear everywhere as they hoped the bullies who
had killed Joe would not target them.
I never went back to the pier. But I often sit and think about
the wonderful carefree days I had with old Joe. He was a man in
a million. Kind and gentle and always forgiving. I like to think
that he is now in paradise where he can never be hurt again and
that one day I will meet up with him and we can carry on where
we left off.
On another note, when my mother found out I spent my days on the
pier with a hobo, she was horrified and I got a hiding and a months
punishment. But I would do it again.
Friends like Joe come once in a lifetime and I will always remember
my friendship with Old Joe.
He made my days brighter.
Jeanny Driscoll
Umhlanga, Natal, South Africa
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