Shuffling Joe

I didn't set out to become homeless, but it still happened. Now I call a whole city home.

Before, I thought there were plenty of spots to take shelter in New York: shops, subways, doorways, malls, libraries, museums. The city seemed littered with warm welcoming places but by my second night sleeping rough, those doors started to slam in my face. Day by day I drifted further into invisibility until the multitudes passed me blindly.

Everyone has their own route to the street and mine was booze. It was a slow decay. First, I didn't even notice it myself. It was a beer after work, then a few more. Then came the liquid lunches and a quick shot in my morning coffee to stop the shakes in my hand. As things gathered momentum, I kept telling myself that I could stop, if I wanted to. By the time I admitted the truth, my job was hanging by a thread and my marriage was on the rocks. The only sensible thing to do was to take a few more shots to block out the pain.

The last months of my old life went by in a haze. When I finally woke up in the shadow of a dumpster, it was too late for anything. The cold of the concrete soon seeped into my bones and I began to hate the people who dropped quarters in my cup. Assholes, one and all. I did manage to make one spot my own; a tiny arch under an overpass. It smelled of trash but it was dry and protected from the wind. It was here that I first bumped into Shuffling Joe or more accurately, Shuffling Joe bumped into me.

It was a terrible night; the rain was coming down in sheets while I lay cocooned like a human taco in my alcove. I’d nearly drifted off, with the help of a bottle of Tequila Rose, when something crashed down on top of me. I lashed out at my attackers, fighting for my life, or so I thought. The truth is, when you live on the street, life is cheap and nobody much cares if yours gets taken or not.

"God-damn-it! Get the hell off me!" I screamed as I battled my way out of my sleeping bag. I expected to feel the bite of a blade, or have my brain rattled, but none of those things happened. Instead, my attacker scrambled away and huddled in the far corner with a haunted look in his eyes.

"Get out of here, this is my place!" I yelled and managed to sit up. The traffic rumbled overhead, the wind made the weeds outside dance, and water dripped through the cracks in the roof; but my uninvited houseguest was as still as the grave. He just crouched there, with a box cradled to his chest, and gazed out into the night.

"Can't you hear me? GET OUT!" I yelled, but he didn't budge. I thought about getting up and evicting him, but this guy’s elevator didn't go all the way up. He was damaged and damaged people are dangerous. Hell, who wasn't dangerous? The tequila was wearing off and I was feeling less than brave if the truth was known, so I decided to stay as far away from him as I could. As long as he stayed in his corner, I'd stay in mine.

"Crazy as a bag of frogs," I huffed, and pulled my sleeping bag around me once more. I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but I did, and when I woke the stranger was gone. I jumped up and checked my stuff. I was sure the guy would have robbed me, but he hadn't. Well, I guess we can all be wrong about people from time to time.

A few days later I saw my visitor again, this time in the food queue at St Mary's community centre. It's a good spot for a warm meal but he arrived late. The kitchen was about to close and only the dregs were left in the soup pot. I watched as he edged up to the counter and stood there. He didn't take a tray like the rest of us did, he didn't try to pocket a few extra bread rolls like I had done. He just stood there as the volunteer apologised for the condition of the liquid being slopped into a bowl. The man just nodded his thanks and hurried over to an empty table on the far side of the room. I could tell he was starving by the way he lapped up the first four or five spoon full of the grease-covered liquid. But something happened, I saw it in his face, it was as if he had been caught doing something naughty and he slowly straightened up, forcing himself back from the steaming meal. With a shaky hand, he laid aside the spoon, then slowly stood. In a blink of an eye, he was gone.

I wolfed down my own meal. I had a date with a bottle of Wild Turkey that the Holy Rollers would confiscate if I broke it out here. As I passed my visitor's empty seat, I spotted his half-full bowl and an untouched bread roll. I checked nobody was watching as I slipped the roll into my pocket, then made my escape. He might be a looney-tune, but I wasn't.

That night, winter kicked in for real and the raindrops were so cold, they pinged as they landed. He appeared out of the night like a ghost, I nearly thought it was my double vision playing tricks on me until he moved into my cave and hunkered down as far from me as he could. The box I'd seen before was with him but nothing else. How could he have so little? Even on the street, we all have possessions, this guy didn't even have a blanket to throw over his shoulders.

"So, your back," I slurred. The ghost said nothing.

"God damn cuckoo. That's you? Are you a cuckoo going to shove me out of my nest?" I asked. It made sense in my head. "Well, I'll cuckoo you if you try it!" I slurred and rolled into the corner, turning my back so I didn't have to look at him lurking in the shadows. I felt the bread roll press against my leg. I’d forgotten I had put it there. I took it out and held it in front of me. There was nothing in my stomach but gut-rot hooch.

"Cuckoo," I said to myself and devoured the bread. It was a dog eat dog world and I would have two if they were on the menu.

After that night he started coming more regularly, particularly as the winter closed in on us. No matter what I asked, he never spoke a word to me. I thought he must be mute, but he sure as hell could hear. I knew he was clever, an educated man, you can just tell, even though the dirt. The more I got to know him the more I was convinced he was different to other street-folk. He was still crazy, bat-shit-crazy, just different crazy than the rest of us. After a while I christened him Shuffling Joe, because of the way he walked. It was as if the weight of the world sat on his shoulders.

Over the years, I got used to having Shuffling Joe about the place, and as hard as it is to admit, I missed him when he wasn't there. His silence suited me. I talked enough for the two of us, particularly when my tongue was loosened up by cheap whisky. We were like an old married couple in the end, right to the end.

Joe left this world as he lived. Silently.

I woke one morning and found him still rolled up in the corner. I got up and gathered my belongings but Joe didn't move.

"Up you get," I said, giving the soul of his boot a gentle nudge. His foot flopped over and settled at an unnatural angle.

"Joe?" I said, my voice hushed, my heart heavy. I knew he was gone before I laid my hand against his cheek and found it cool. I sat back and rested my head against the concrete.

"Guess I'll never know your name now," I said to my cooling friend and felt something hard try to climb its way out of my throat. I forced that feeling back down, right back down, and hammered it home before it got the better of me. Joe's troubles were over but I had issues of my own. It was a new day and it wouldn't block itself out! Time to feed the beast and quench the thirst. I thought about dragging his body outside, where someone else would find it, but I didn't have the heart. I decided just to give my cave a swerve for a while, surely someone would find him, eventually. I was about to leave when I noticed Joe's box, he still had one hand wrapped around it.

"You don't need this no more, Buddy," I said, pushing his stiffening fingers from the aged cardboard. The box was secured with string. I pulled one end and the knot fell loose. I lifted the lid with no idea what I would find. Money, I hoped. What I did find left me baffled. Inside the box, on a bed of crumpled newspaper, lay a small pair of pink ballet slippers and nothing else.

"You really were a screwball, Joe," I said to my recently deceased cave mate. I was about to toss the box aside but then I remembered how much Joe cared for it. As stupid as it seemed, I couldn't make my fingers let go. With a roll of my eyes, I put the lid back on the box and stuffed it in my pack with the rest of my stuff.

"If they guys down the mission see you with these," I said to myself, "you better stay out of the showers for a month, or even a year." I shouldered my bag and left the cave for the last time. I took a last look at Joe and wondered who he was. An enigma, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in rags.

That night, I got more out of my head than ever before. The booze blacked out everything and it was only when I found the shoes in my pack the following day did that I thought about Joe again. I sat on a bench in Central Park and took out one of the slippers. It wasn't new, I could see the way the inside had been moulded to fit a delicate foot after hours of practice. Although the Satan still was lush, it held a smudge here and there. Whoever wore them had a tiny foot. It hadn't been Joe, that's for sure, but it might have been someone Joe loved. As I sat there, I knew I had no right to keep these things, they meant nothing to me but someone else might treasure them. I rummaged through the papers but there was nothing else in the box. That was when I spotted a yellowed label on the underside of the lid. It had the name of a shop on it. Suzette's. The address was in the West Village which wasn't so far away. With nothing else to do and a hangover to walk off, I headed south into unfamiliar territory.

I never felt comfortable in Manhattan, I guess I was never a Manhattan kind of guy. When I eventually found, Suzette’s, it turned out to be a brownstone building on an idyllic tree-lined street. It was a dream place to live, a dream from a life I once knew. I tried the door but it was locked. I pressed the bell, but nobody came. I was tired so I took a seat on the steps to rest. About an hour later, a lady in her sixties mounted the step and gave me a wary look as she swerved around me. She smelled expensive and existed in a cloud of floating scarves. She put a key in the door and I decided to ask if she was Suzette. The lady stopped with one hand on the key as she turned to look at me.

"In a way, I guess I am. Why do you ask?" she said, her accent sounded like money, but it wasn't hard. Still, she was far from welcoming. I took out the box and handed it to her.

"I have these," I said and handed her the box. She opened the lid, as if she expected to find a turd inside. When she saw the shoes, her face softened and she lifted one out with great care.

"I haven't seen any of these in...well... twenty years or more. Where did you get them?"

"A friend of mine had them. I was hoping to get them back to his family if I could." I said.

"And what was your friends name," asked the lady, still stroking the side of one pretty slipper.

"That's the thing. I don't know." The woman looked at me and I could see all the questions flitting behind her eyes but she chose not to voice any of them. Instead, she turned over the lid of the box and gazed at the label which had got me this far.

"You're lucky that this is the original box. It has a ledger number on it. Wait here and I will see what I can find out." The lady unlocked the door and once she was inside, I heard the security chain rattle. I didn't blame her. I wouldn't have let me in either. When the door opened again, she had the box and a piece of paper in her hand.

"I'm sorry to say but I have very little. It's a girl’s name, Annie Leisman, but the delivery address is an investment house on Wall St. That’s all I have. The bill was paid in cash so it's a bit of a dead end."  She handed over the box and the piece of paper and regarded me earnestly. "I hope you get these to Annie. A lot of love went into these. I'm sure she will want to have them back."

"Thanks, Lady," I said, hoisting myself off her stoop. I hadn't got to the sidewalk when I heard the chain rattle again. Wall St? Could Shuffling Joe and Wall St have ever gone together? Only one way to find out I guessed and headed south once more.

It was a long walk, and by the time I reached the address on the paper, the doors were locked for the night. So, I panhandled a few bucks from passing people, got myself a bottle, and spent the night in Battery Park. The next day I went back to Wall St and the address I had for Anne Leisman. It was a typical building for this neck of the woods; old stone, new glass and miles of brass. I got as far as the lobby before a suited guerrilla blocked my way.

"Not today, Buddy," he said, shepherding me back toward the door.

"I'm looking for someone," I stammered, trying to stand my ground.

"And who would you be looking for here?" he said with disdain in his voice.

"A friend," I said, and it was the wrong thing to say.

"Yea, right." This time the hand was less shepherding and more shoving.

"I'm looking for Annie Leisman."

The guy grabbed me by the jacket and half lifted me out of my shoes, "You're looking for a slug in the kisser. Nobody here knows no drunken bum, now beat it," he said, shoving me through the door. I’ve been thrown out of enough places to know how to keep my balance. From the sidewalk, I give the guard a one finger salute and hot-footed it before the cops appeared. 

That night, back in Battery Park, I held shuffling Joe's legacy in one hand and a bottle of cooking brandy in the other. I was on the verge of giving up when I felt Joe's ghost watching me. A shiver ran down my spine and I knew I had to do this thing. I owed it to Joe.

The next morning, the tattered box and a still full brandy bottle were in my pack when I returned to the investment house on Wall Street. I ducked my head in the door but didn't enter. The same suited guard recognised me straight away but instead of going in I beckoned him over to the door.

"I told you yesterday to beat it," he said, as he got closer.

"I know. Just hear me out for a second. I really am looking for someone. I have a box I got to give them."

"Just leave it with me, I'll take care of it," said the guy. I knew the kind of taking care of he would do. Joe's box would be in the first trash can he passed.

"Can't. Got to do it myself. Look, I just want to ask that lady at the desk if Annie Leisman works here. And, I'm stone cold sober," I said hoping the guy would see that letting me ask the lady would be the quickest way to get rid of me. But it turns out he was not that kind of guy.

"You might be sober, but you’re still a bum so, OUT!" he said, spinning me out the door again.

"God damn corporate Nazi," I shouted and snapped out a straight-armed salute. I goose-stepped up and down the steps and could see the guy getting ready to come knock my block off. His huge muscles were straining under his suit. I turned my back on him and moved to the pavement. I sat outside the building with my cup on the ground to collect quarters and asked all the women who went up the steps, "Are you Annie Leisman?"

Three days I stayed sober, and three days I stayed at the door calling out for Annie Leisman. It was looking like a lost cause when a man entering the building heard me ask if a passing woman if she was Annie Leisman. The man stopped and came back down the steps. He was forty or so, rich as hell, with the slicked-back hair of a guy who thought he was the bee’s knees.

"I knew an Annie Leisman," he said, standing before me.

"Does she work in there?" I asked, throwing my thumb toward the door behind my back.

"No, but her Popps did."

"Popps?"

"Yea, the Annie I know is eight. Was eight. She's dead now," said the guy and he genuinely looked sad about that.

"Is her Popps still here? I got something for him." I said, taking out my box and holding it out to the guy. He didn't take it he just looked at me as if trying to make up his mind about me.

"What's in it?" he asked at last.

"Ballet slippers, Annie Leisman's ballet slippers."

"Christ! You got to be kidding me?" The man went pale under his year-round tan and lowered himself on the step beside me. The shock of whatever he knew stopped him from realising he was sharing his seat with a bum.

"What's wrong with that?" I asked, the box still in my hand.

"Charlie Leisman was a senior partner in this company when I was doing my internship. The big cheese, you know what I mean. He was married, with one little girl, Annie, she was eight. One morning, they were all rushing around the house, getting ready for work and school and such. It can be crazy; I got a little girl of my own, so I know. Well anyway, Charlie's wife was going to drop Annie to school and Charlie was coming to work. The all left the house together but Charlie took a call on his cell. He didn't see Annie get out of the mom's car and go behind his. He backed out... backed out... and well he just didn't see her. She’d forgotten her ballet shoes. The next day, Charlie vanished and took nothing with him except those shoes. That was twenty-five years ago. Never been heard of since." The man looked down and seemed really broken by the story. Was it possible that my Joe had been this Charlie Leisman?

I described Joe and the guy sitting beside me nodded his head, "Sure sounds like him."

So, Charlie Leisman, my friend Charlie, was a Wall St guy. You live and learn. I handed the box to the man sitting beside me and said, "Could you get these to Mrs Leisman and tell her Charlie never forgave himself for what happened. He's gone now too, I guess that's all she needs to know."

"She's dead. Five years ago, breast cancer or so I heard."

"Perhaps they will fit your little girl so," I said, and shook the hand of the man who put a name to my friend. I put my bag on my back, the still full bottle of cooking brandy rubbing against my shoulder blade, and walked away from the steps. I saw the man lift up the box and take out one of the shoes that lay inside.

I was on the crosswalk when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the guy I had been talking to.

"Hold up! Have you seen this?" he asked, holding out the box. I look at the pink shoes and said sure.

"NO! These!" he said, picking out one of the crumpled pieces of paper.

"The newspaper?"

"Jesus Christ! They're not newspaper," he nearly yelled, but then remembered people were standing around us. He lowered his voice and put his arm around my shoulder to draw me away from curious ears. In a quieter voice said, "They're bearer bonds. Hundred-thousand-dollar treasury bearer bonds. Dozens of them!"

"I don't understand," I said, gazing into the box.

"Its money, lots of money. Could be two million or more!"

"I swear I didn't steal it," I said, throwing up my hands and backing away from the box. The guy started to laugh.

"I know you didn't, but you have them, which makes them yours."

"They were Charlies, not mine."

"Charlie has nobody left. If they go back into the system they will be gobbled up by taxes and fees. I think Charlie wanted you to have them. Look, come up to my office and I will talk you through it. You can't go walking around New York with millions stuffed in a shoe box."

"Charlie did."

"I guess he did," said the guy, patting me on the back. I carefully put the lid back on the box and followed the guy up the steps to the investment brokers. I didn't even register the furious look the security guard gave me as I passed, I was in too much shock. I was a millionaire.

That was five years ago and now I have a small apartment of my own. I still go down to St Mary's, but as a volunteer. I miss my friend all the time and often think the world would be a nicer place if we all talked a little less. I could never get the hang of calling him Charlie, he would always be Shuffling Joe to me. It turned out there was 2.9 Million dollars in his box and although the government took its share, I have more than enough left to see me off to the next world. At home, my home, I have two things that I will never part with. One is a pair of pink ballet slippers, sitting in a tatty cardboard box and beside them stands a still closed bottle of cooking brandy.

I often think of my friend and wonder if he found peace at last.