I was forming a polite no thank you when I noticed Joey walking toward where this man was just pointing. The woman who had approached Joe was also bubbling with enthusiasm. She had a sort of cute college friendliness to her, flirty and attentive to Joey’s apparent interest, his slow affirming nods as he blew out his cigarette smoke.
Joe with Cigarette, taken by Claudia, 1992.
We walked for almost five blocks, Joe and the girl leading, me and the guy following behind. It was Fall and the windows of dormitory brownstones were festive with college tapestries. I remember trying to tell Joe, while fast-walking behind him, in not so unkind words, that this was some sort of sham we were being shoveled into, that we should turn around, high-tail it the hell out of there. But he had already been sold enough by this girl who kept tucking her hair behind her ear when she talked. Ah yes, the allure of the siren’s song. “Let’s just check it out,” he kept saying.
So I assumed the role of some naturalistic character in a novel and just followed the path that was laid out by some higher source. When we finally made it to the church, the two of them escorted us inside, got us each a glass of wine (we were both twenty-one) and told us to help ourselves to the cheese and fruit. There were about a hundred or so people milling around, chatting with intense joy. We were given a questionnaire and pencil and directed to two Windsor chairs where we were to color in the bubbles to our answers. I filled mine out in a minute and a half, but Joey really labored over his, considering each answer carefully. I can’t remember the exact wording of any one question, but I remember the nature of them. Personality questions – do you prefer company to solitude and shit like that.
We were there forty-five minutes before meeting with a representative. Yes, a representative. These representatives turned out to be the same girl and guy who initially accosted us five blocks down the road. They were now our individually appointed personality analysts. We were led into separate pews and were then teased into discussion, the point being to, I don’t know, unearth our deepest fears and faiths or something. Anyway, I didn’t like leaving Joe with that Goddess of Hubbard, and things were becoming just a bit too Clockwork Orange for my comfort level, so I gave the dude the stop sign and went to the pew where Joey was having an animated discussion with the church babe.
“We’re out of here,” I said.
“You go,” he said.
And that was that. I left. I walked around Back Bay for a while, stopped into the Pour House for one, and then returned to the church. It had been three hours since we first were ushered in and I felt very tired. When Joe was done we went home.
Joe on Suzuki, 1992.
About a year later we were on his Suzuki motoring around Back Bay. It was late summer and the college kids were starting to return with their futons and tapestries. We wended our way through the congested, tree-lined streets, dodging college kids, U-Haul trucks, and colorful joggers. Joe skidded to stop lights, slowed for dog walkers and bike riders and nervous parents with children, but yielded nothing when we finally made our way to the B.U. Bridge, portal to open road. I tightened my grip around Joe’s waist. The force of acceleration suddenly introduced itself and the front of the bike tilted upward, and my view became blue sky. Then Joe brought the bike down to two wheels, yielded in a jolt to the cars rounding the rotary, turned right onto the ramp leading up to Memorial Drive and sailed toward Route 1A and headed for the ocean on the North Shore.
Andrea and Tom "Mag Wheels" Maginnis. Salisbury Beach. 1992.
Neither one of us ever had anything to do with L. Ron Hubbard again, except that Dianetics literature was regularly sent to my parents’ house. I had given their address when I had filled out the questionnaire. My mom thought I had joined a cult and I gave no indication that her worries were unnecessary. It was the son in me. In fact, I asked that all communication from the church of scientology be forwarded to my address in Watertown. She didn’t think that was very funny at all. Still doesn’t.
Joe and I never really talked about what it was that so interested him in that scientology fest. It could have been the girl, but Joe had more depth than that. A ride on a motorcycle can teach us more about our place in the world. I suppose it had something to do with identity. He was interested in that. I have all his graduate school essays, his videos, his photographs. His search for identity was always his holy grail.
When a stranger to his work can see the relationship Joe has with his subjects, the godly pursuit of truth, there is artistry. And thank god for these kinds of strangers.
I remember one time Joe and I had gone to see some bands at Jumpin’ Jack flash on Queensbury Street. We parked in the lot of our friend’s apartment house . . . . and, of course, we were towed. The friend told us where to go to get Joe’s van—way the hell down off of Huntington Ave. The guy gave us a ride to a certain point, and then told us, “That’s it. I won’t go any further.” Anyway, we hoofed it the rest of the way and ended up—after being stopped by the cops, who told us, “Get the fuck out of this neighborhood”—at a towing company that doubled as a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie. We got in there and confronted a couple of guys who took Joe’s money and told us to “fuck off and go get your van.” (I’m serious.) Almost at the van, we get braced by a pitbull of a moron from Southie or somewhere like it. He had blood splattered all down the front of his dingy “white” thermal shirt. He was full on ready to fight, for real. He worked for the company and thought we were trying to jack the car out of there. Joe never turned from the guy or minced words. “We paid,” was all he said. The guy didn’t budge, and was ready for one of us to make some kind of move. Joe then said, “We paid, now watch out.” He commenced to walk straight ahead at the guy. Christ, I thought. Here goes. But the guy moved aside and we enjoyed a wide berth down the gauntlet of seized cars. Of course, they got our money and the van . . . for awhile at least. But the incident shaped me in an important way. Not in a macho, “fuck you” kind of manner. Not exactly, at least. More in a kind of “I don’t care what you do, man. It just ain’t gonna be that way, or at least not with my say so.” It’s tough to put into words. But I was different after that incident. Joey taught me a lot of stuff like that.
ReplyDelete