The Book of Joe

wit, while sharp, was never cutting or caustic, and he possessed an infectious energy that seemed to breed goodwill wherever he went. I was jealous as hell of him, but never resentful, since none of it was a conscious effort on his part.
    I tried insistently to convince Wayne to forget about his internship at Porter’s and come work at the factory. Linguistic and social barriers prevented me from having anything more than a nodding relationship with my coworkers, who I was always convinced were mocking the boss’s son in their indecipherable native tongue. Wayne’s presence would be the perfect antidote to my isolation, and a diversion from the sheer boredom of the work.
    “Thanks, man,” he said as we walked home on one of the last days of the school year. “But I’m already gainfully employed.”
    “We get off at three,” I pointed out.
    “You wake up at the ass crack of dawn,” he countered.
    “This pays more.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “There are things in this world besides money.”
    “Such as?”
    “Air-conditioning.”
    He had me there.
    I came home later that evening and found my father eating a frozen dinner in the den, bitching to the professional athletes on his television. He’s got nothing left. For Christ’s sake, send in a goddamn closer already. What do you bother having a damn bull pen for anyway? I told my dad that Wayne wasn’t interested in the job. “So ask someone else,” he said.
    “There’s no one else I can think of.”
    He turned away from the television to look at me, an event that should have been heralded by trumpets it was so unusual. “You really have no other friends besides Wayne?”
    he asked, frowning incredulously. That was my father, sensitive to a fault.
    “None that are interested in working in an oven,” I said.
    “It’s a good wage.”
    “No need to convince me. After all, I wasn’t given a choice.”
    My father appeared ready to retort when his head suddenly jerked back to the television as someone hit or slid or did something clearly more important than the second fruit of his loins. “Okay,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “If you really have no other friends ... ”
    “Thanks for pointing that out once again,” I said, but he was already submerged in his baseball fog. The goddamn Mets might actually go all the way this year. I stood there for another moment to verify that the conversation was truly over, and then, with a sigh, headed into the kitchen to forage for my dinner.
    The first time I met Sammy, he was standing in my father’s office, looking atrociously colorful in a brown cotton vest over a mint green T-shirt, gray Gap chinos rolled at the cuff, and black penny loafers, nodding nervously as my father frowned skeptically at his gangly form. “This is Samuel Haber,” my father said dejectedly, as if pointing out a troublesome wart on his toe. “He’s here about the press job.”
    My father was a broad, hulking six foot three, thick Polish stock, with a square jaw set just beneath his perpetual frown, and a wrestler’s neck that looked as solid as a tree trunk. Next to his intimidating bulk, Sammy looked like a twig.
    “A pleasure,” Sammy said, extending his hand and shaking mine crisply. “I don’t have any friends yet, but if I did, they’d call me Sammy.”
    “I’m Joe,” I said. Looking at his skinny frame and his hairless baby face, I understood my father’s skepticism. I wondered how often, if ever, Sammy shaved. “I guess you’re new to the neighborhood.”
    “Just moved in,” he said. He turned to my father. “So, big guy, when do I start?”
    My father’s eyes narrowed to slits. He was not the sort to appreciate jocular familiarity from his own children, let alone a strange boy. Arthur Goffman didn’t relate well to any boy who wasn’t an athlete, as I knew so well from painful experience, and Sammy was definitely a whole other breed. I liked him immediately.
    My father grunted. “Listen, Samuel, I’ll be honest with you,” he said, which is what he generally said when he was about to put you down. “That’s a big machine, and you’re a skinny little guy. If you can work it, the job’s yours. But if you can’t handle it, you’ll just gum up production, and I can’t have that.”
    “Understood. Understood,” Sammy said, nodding emphatically. “Don’t worry. I’m stronger than I look.”
    “You’d have to be.”
    “Good one, sir.”
    “And you lower those guardrails, you