Big Joe, Midnight Philosopher

I found Big Joe in the south L. A. Greyhound bus terminal in 2008. It’s a long story and one I will tell. Since then Joe has been my constant companion, a thug with no excuse for anything, my bodyguard who wants to do nothing except stomp the shit out of anyone I feel deserving. I began writing about Big Joe shortly thereafter. It’s time to begin again and bring you up to date.

I returned from Las Vegas last night and a series of late night discussions with those in know about the endgame -- recession, depression, and hyper-inflation all shot through a fine whiskey-prism.

For most, being right on how we lose will determine the few who will win and whether one orders steak tartar or waits in a soup line and fights a toothless hag for their one meal that day. For me it is about posturing correctly to haggle over the ruins.

Big Joe was waiting outside the Leon airport in a no parking zone idling the flat-black Suburban he uses for high-speed airport runs. The beast has a 454 with high compression heads, radical cam, run-flat tires, darker than legal glass, and two gun mounts between the front seats, complete with matching Benelli M4 tactical shotguns, each with an eight-round magazine and fitted with a three-position telescopic stock. Extra ammo is enclosed in custom stainless containers below the seats. I consider them as essential as seat belts.

Joe saw me as I approached the vehicle; hit the door locks, got out, took my bag, put it in the back seat and opened my door.

“Welcome back, Mr. Jim. Need to tell you about some shit that went down yester . . . ”

“Shut up, Joe. I’m tired. I don’t want to hear it. ”

“But, this was not my fault . . .

“Joe,” I barked, “of course it was your fault. Everything is your fault.

He shrugged his shoulders, closed my door, walked around the front of the vehicle and got in.

I could see he was agitated which didn’t make it any different than every time I see Joe, but this time something was different. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, until I did.

“Did I hurt your feelings, Joe?”

He bristled but said nothing and headed out of the airport at 50 miles an hour over the posted speed limit.

“I hurt your feelings. ”I smiled. “I’m sorry,” I added insincerely.

“Really, Mr. Jim? You are sorry?”

“Really, Joe, I am sorry,” I lied. “I have a lot on my mind right now -- the world falling apart like a cheap suit and how I am going to profit from the misery of others. ”

He had no idea what I was talking about but was excited that he might actually have my sympathy.

“Well, it’s not a problem, Mr. Jim. No sir. I just wanted to tell you about this dude who . . . ”

“Not now, Joe!I know that given an opportunity you’re going to tell me about someone who did you wrong and you fucked him up real good and now the cops or process servers, or both, are after you. And, frankly, I’m tired of that story. ”

I thought a moment and stated softly, “What I want to talk about tonight, Joe, is happiness. ”

I paused and stared across the darkness that separated us, punctuated only by the LED dash lighting.

“Are you happy, Joe?” I asked.

“God damned right I’m happy, Mr. Jim! You took my dumb ass of the streets of east L. A. where I might have had another six months to live and . . . .

“Three months,” I interrupted.

“What?”

“Three months to live, if you were lucky and you’re aren’t lucky. But, I digress, please continue. ”

“Well, Mr. Jim, you are the best boss anyone could ever want, period,” Joe stated flatly, as if he was looking for someone who was not there to disagree with him so he could kick their ass.

“Joe,” I shook my head knowingly, “to the contrary, I am an asshole, a real prick. I regularly light you up you with a fucking Taser for no good or apparent reason. I am a terrible boss, which is why I have to pay you and others so well to stay around. That’s not why you’re happy. ”

“Uh, well . . . ”

“Think Joe. Think, God damned it! Why are you happy? Take your time. ”

“Uh, uh . . . ”

“Let me help you. Are you afraid of anything, Joe?”

“Hell no. ”

“Are you worried about anything?”

“Nope. ”

“Does it bother you when people point and laugh at you?”

“Before or after I stomp them?” he asked, seriously

“Before and after,” I replied.

“No, not really,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“Then, one more time, Joe. What makes you happy?”

He paused as we drove at top speed along the rain slick road from the airport into Guanajuato. He said nothing for five minutes, maybe more, but I could tell he was deep into the question, at least a deep as Joe can get into any question.

Then, he penetrated the silence . . .

“Well, Mr. Jim, the way I see it is this,” he said. “Being happy means not giving a shit. ”

He paused and looked over at me as if to emphasize the next point.

“Happiness is not giving a shit about anything,” he emphasized.

I was stunned. I have never heard Big Joe say anything intelligent until that night but even a blind pig finds and acorn now and then. This was Big Joe’s acorn.

I flipped on the satellite radio and listened to Tom Petty at top volume the rest of the way home and just thought. As the gates to the compound opened, I told Joe to stop and I got out of the Suburban.

“You don’t want to me take you up to the house, Mr. Jim?” he asked.

“No, Joe. I’ll walk. ”

“You want a shotgun?” he said, reaching for a Benelli.

“No, not really. ”

“Why not, Mr. Jim?”

“Because tonight, Joe, I am happy. ”

He smiled and nodded but said nothing and I walked up the drive in the rain.

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