your own soda?” he asked. “I don’t have any mon- ey,” I responded. “Just tell your father that you want a soda every day and he can give you the money; then you don’t have to always be asking me.” I of course knew enough not to ask my mom or dad as they would never have given me mon- ey for something as unnecessary as soda. I would have had more of a chance asking the heav- ens to open and asking Jesus to do a fishes and loaves or water into wine type of trick. We may not have been poor, exactly, but we lived like we were. My par- ents were frugal. The refrain at dinnertime I remember hearing constantly was, “Seven Ways. It’s got to go seven ways.” This was a reference from my mother that there were seven of us and that the food needed to feed all of us, and not to eat more than one’s share. I remember be- ing hungry much of the time. But Joey was an only child. He always had money in his pock- ets and the best food brought-in at home—not just made by his mother. It’s through Joey that I first heard of take-out , which of course today everybody knows. But back then, it was an un- known concept to us. Fast food hamburgers, pizza, and Chi- nese food were delicacies which we kids only dreamed of. And he had the best of everything.
We kids were all pretty envious of Joey. He had Pro Keds sneak- ers—not like the dreaded and very ridiculed Skipps we had. He had a Schwinn 5-Speed Fast- back with the banana seat and stick shifter—not the hand-me- down, jerry-rigged, no-name bicycles we had. Joey was al- ways talking about what his fa- ther had bought him. His father was a cop and Joey told stories of his father’s exciting exploits that kept us all enthralled. While when our parents all had mun- dane jobs, his father seemed to be a superhero of sorts, involved in crime stopping and other he- roic excitements And though we heard that sometimes Joey got hit when he was bad, Joey sometimes did really bad things. Take, for example, when he set fire to “the Lots” (our name for the few acres of neglected city property at the end of the block) and the fire department had to be called. I once overheard one of my other friend’s moth- ers saying that he had the devil in him. This was the year “The Exorcist” had come out, though, of course, we hadn’t seen the movie. Not only were we too young but the Catholic Church had banned it—as my mother was happy to point out to me in the St. Anthony Mesenger mag- azine we used to get delivered. And so I stayed away from Joey for a whole week just in case his “condition” was contagious.
Here my story speeds by for twenty years or so. I moved away and lost touch with my Our Lady of the Cenacle community and friends—including Joey. I lost my faith and the Church. Things once so important to my every- day life faded into my long-ago childhood. Still, news does slow- ly make its way east to find me as an adult living on Long Island. I hear that Joey has had a real tough time as he got a little old- er. Bad decisions, a bad environ- ment—who knows what caus- es could have been the cause. I heard the news with great sad- ness that Joey had taken his own life. Rumors circulated that his dad had also died by suicide a few years earlier after he had got- ten caught taking kickbacks and someone had snitched on him. Since that time, I have known far too many people who have succumbed to suicide. I don’t judge, and I don’t pretend to know how tortured anyone’s life must be to make such a choice. But sometimes, when my mouth feels parched, I’m thankful to recall a more innocent me in a more innocent time — when, long ago, I was a thirsty child on a hot day, and the kind- ness of a friend allowing me a sip of his soda quenched my thirst. And today, I feel a wist- fulness for when life had not yet found a way to overwhelm.•
Winter 2026
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