May 31, 1994
There is no mercy in fate-- it a tireless brigand that chips away at a
man's soul until he turns back to dust. That was my first thought upon hearing
Jimmy's tale. For it echoed too much of the past for either of us to escape
unscathed. He had been tossed out on the street again after nine years settled.
It had the ring of Towacco again
-- and the phone call bore the same chattering desperation I remember when he
told me Ginger had put him out of the Towacco house. How history repeated
itself with the unwary. I wanted to say as much but heard the hurt in his voice
-- and the doubt. Like an alcoholic the day after a binge looking forward to a
life on the straight and narrow, making plans without foundation for a new
person.
For some reason, I knew was coming. Perhaps the sense of history made
me careful about solid things. Jimmy was never a settled soul. In 1975 he
thought he settled in Passaic, only to be evicted two years later after nearly
a year of unpaid rent. In 1983, he lived in his ex-girlfriend's house in
Towacco when her new husband decided it improper for him to remain.
In both previous incidents -- as well as other less memorable disasters
-- he scurried around for a new beginning, someone to take him in for a time
and help him get readjusted. In 1976, he went home and found his father's house
far less comfortable than it had seemed from afar, the old man telling him to
get a job or get out. He got out, settling three doors down from where he had
been evicted, taking up residents in the attic of Rocky's apartment to the
appalled awe of the landlady who still wanted her year's rent.
In 1983, he came to Passaic again, to me and a spare room in my apartment.
He and that situation contributed greatly to my breakup with Anne -- though not
exclusively, and over time, I moved out, bequeathing him the entire apartment.
I gave him my job at the Fotomat, and eventually my car (trading it for two
guitars, one of which I still own.)
I thought him settled. Indeed, the Lake Hopatcong house he moved to in
1985 with Rich seemed as close a compromise to Towacco as he would ever find.
He went from a Fotomat there to a Dunkin Donuts and eventually wormed his way
into the library -- he seemed destined to take over someday. He didn't earn a
great deal of money, but all seemed well with him, and he seemed content to
grow old in that lake's bosom.
Richi's mother owned the house. I didn't know the details of their
arrangement. But she seemed to have given them a lifetime lease, letting them
do repairs and pay the taxes for their existence there. She moved to Florida,
then with some personal disaster there, came north to rent an apartment in
Clifton -- apparently content. That was over a year ago, and only this month
did she give her son and Jimmy notice they had to leave. She was moving back
into the house by the lake.
I think I sensed disaster all along. It was too good a thing, and Jimmy
too comfortably disposed, his grey hair seemingly unruffled while the rest of
the world struggled to make ends meet. He'd always been a clever man for
finding the easy way out, manipulating himself into comfortable situations
where he didn't have to work too hard or think too much about the future.
Now he does -- now he faces the prospect of building a future starting
not at 18 or 28, but 45 years of age. He must be quaking inside himself,
ranting like an old wino about how he might yet still pull this one last trick.
I hope he does. But there is no Passaic to go home to now, only the cold street
and the even colder reality of people struggling through a particularly hard
time in history.
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