I was supposed to meet someone at the mall the other day. It was very important, trust me, otherwise I wouldn’t be at the goddamned mall.
However, meeting me in a large public space can be dicey because I don’t own a cell phone. It’s okay though. I like living on the edge. Kinks occasionally arise, and this particular rendez-vous went awry. I soon found myself idling on a bench outside of a mall restaurant that, for some reason, is named after a brand of automobile.
As I lazed there, an older black gentleman sidled up next to me. His feet were giving him some trouble, one of the symptoms of his diabetes. We started talking, and in no time he showed himself to be a charming and foul-mouthed rapscallion. And with that, his life story began to unfold.
Joe was born in Philadelphia and went into the U.S. Army shortly after World War II. It would become a career for him, serving in the Air Force during times of peace and war, including Korea and Vietnam.
While stationed in London during the 1950s, Joe impregnated a woman and wanted to bring her back to the United States. When he informed his commanding officer, the U.S. military devised different plans. They ordered him to pack his things and get on the next plane back to America. He was distraught.
Back home, he and his mother had a lawyer draw up adoption papers for his soon-to-be-born daughter. But the courts were unsympathetic, and she remained with her mother. He didn’t 
eventually track her down until she was twenty-three years old. They’ve been in regular contact for the last thirty years, through letters, periodic visits back and forth, and of course nowadays Skype.
During the interim, Joe married a German woman while stationed over there, and they eventually had a daughter of their own. The two of them would remain married for half-a-century until she passed away a few years ago.
He fondly recalled to me how his German mother-in-law treated him like one of her own sons. “That really meant a lot to me,” he said, lowering his voice.
Joe’s daughter eventually grew up and married a successful real estate mogul in suburban Maryland. But that was later. Initially, things were trying after he retired from the Air Force in 1969.
He and his family had settled in the Washington, D.C. area, and that town had a much more Southern feel to it back then than it does today. Segregation might have officially ended a few years earlier, but that hardly meant racism and discrimination were things of the past.
As an electronics specialist, Joe was unable to find work in his field. Typical was the time a friend and fellow vet told him that AT&T was hiring people by the dozen. When he went over, they took o
ne look and said there were no jobs for him. Then one woman spoke up and mentioned that they did have a janitorial position if he were interested.
Despite all of his skills and service to this nation, Joe ended up working as a waiter at the Congressional Country Club. Even today, it’s the kind of place with a website that offers very little information unless you you have a member login. And what’s the price of membership? According to Wikipedia, it’s a cool $120,000, after a ten year on a waiting list of course. And even then, you have to pay a monthly fee, and it’s two more years before you can use the world class golf course.
As an overqualified waiter at an overpriced country club, Joe worked hard for two years. But if anyone asked him, he didn’t soft-pedal the truth. All he really wanted, he’d tell them, was the opportunity to work in his chosen career.
One day, a member grilled Joe about why he was always mouthing off about wanting a career in electronics. Joe smelled trouble, but he didn’t pull any punches. The man listened, then took out a business card. He signed the back, and told Joe to go to the address on the front. It turned out the man owned the company, and Joe had just landed a job installing alarm systems.
He worked 10-12 hours a day, typically installing twice as many systems as his fellow workers. The job was largely commission work, and he was soon rolling in it. During the early 1970s, he was earning in the low six-figures. After two years, however, he quit and opened his own business. It did well, and he added a couple of more down the line.
Now he’s got a twenty-three year old grandson who’s already wrecked five cars. He takes after his mother, whose demolished three and almost got herself killed recently. Damn kids. But he loves them dearly.
Joe cussed angrily and smiled easily as he told me his life story. I loved every minute of it. Suddenly an hour had passed, and I needed to go. We shook hands, exchanged cards, and took our leave of each other. His feet were feeling better, and he ambled out to the parking lot as I went in search of my lost companion.
And that’s why I don’t have a cell phone.