A tale of two Joes…
Saturday, October 21, 2023. This post is a digression into memoir. I have no explanation, except that I woke up this morning with a burning desire to tell this story. All the names are real, as best as I can remember them, 57 years later.
It was the summer of 1966. I had started talking to God again, in a half-assed repair attempt…
My “grandmother” was my spiritual matron, as it was her decision that the best place for me was in a seminary. If I would become a Roman Catholic priest, I would bring proxemic honor and blessing to the family.
This was significant, because, I was completely unrelated to my “family”… they had purchased me for $500 from a desperate unwed mother.. But to get a priest in the family? Now that’s a return on your investment!
But I digress.
As a first step towards seminary, it was suggested that I attend their summer camp in New Bedford called Camp Don Orione. There were 4 counselors for about 20 boys age 10-12.
We slept in barracks, our beds lined up in neat rows, military fashion…
The first counselor I met was a seminary student by the name of Brother Enitio. Brother Enitio was from Senegal, and made novel use of a heavy set of monk-sized rosaries carved from dense, African Blackwood.
That is to say, at night, when we returned to our quarters, he would order us to be quiet, and he turn out the light. Then, after a few hours, he would slip in, whip off their blanket, and flog some unfortunate campers buttocks once with a quick snap or two of his oversized rosary, and then slip as quickly out the door.
The second Camp Counselor I met was David, also going to seminary. He was pale, pudgy, giggly, and very much into popular culture. He spoke with a dismissive Irish accent, and had a bare minimum sort of engagement with the campers. He regularly showed up late, or sometimes not at all for planned events. When we complained to other counselors, they just shrugged and said “shut up, David does what he wants.”
Then there were the two Joes…
Then I met Joe Negron.
Joe was an angry Puerto Rican. When I say angry, I mean he did his best to constructively use anger as an organizing principle to steer his rather otherwise devout existence.
For some reason, I was both attracted and comforted by his dark piety, and sullen demeanor..
He once told me that that aboriginal people of Puerto Rico had no concept of last names, and his was purely descriptive, as it meant…black.
Joe was no where near as dark as brother Enitio. I wondered if Enitio meant the darkest. He certainly had a dark, inscrutable soul, and only occasionally barked commands. He was mostly furtive and silent.
But Joe could manage to be gregarious, curious, and social with the campers. But no where near as welcoming as the second Joe, Joe DeAngelis.
DeAngelis was tall, and luminous in white slacks and long sleeve white Italian shirts. He seemed to be a gentle soul. He was frequently fawning to parents, and had a habit of speaking urgently about the spiritual development of their children.
In 1966, one of my bunkmates was little Davey Jessup. Davey was a sad little boy He was as quiet as he was small. Except when he tried to stiffle his cries at night.
As I got to know Davey, he told me that his mother had been killed in a car accident, along with his beloved older sister a month before his dad put him in summer camp.
He told me his dad was a very important surgeon, and that he saved peoples lives everyday. I was impressed, because my “dad” was a drunk who, at the time, hardly worked at all.
I started to hang with Davey and he opened up a wee bit. Davey desperately missed his mother and sister. Joe DeAngelo also took a regular interest in Davey. But what puzzled me was whenever Joe DeAngelo and I were trying to make Davey laugh, Joe Negron would just hang back and stare menacingly.
I had many conversations with Joe Negron, but to be honest, I only remember one.
“Danny, I want to tell you something that I believe with all my heart. There a lot of good people in the Church who believe differently, but I believe they are not truly seeing the actual spiritual state of our world.”
He leaned in. He was so close to my face. I could see the specs of blood from shaving over his acne. He looked at me with hungry, weary eyes and whispered…
“Danny, please remember this. Satan has the world by the tail…”
Learning to pray alone…
The day it happened wasn’t like any other.
We had a big event planned, a soccer match. It was because “Father” was visiting. I can’t tell you too much about what I remember about Father.
He was a short, fat man with little neck of notice. His eyes were prominent, and he was breezing in for an “inspection” of the campground.
But the weather changed suddenly. Black clouds rolled in. We were all on the patio area overlooking the playing field. I remember a powerful gust of wind upending once of those heavy table umbrellas, which suddenly lunged toward Father with the business end coming at him at a high rate of speed.
Father fell backwards, and a tine from the umbrella carved a 6 inch scratch on his head. David attended to him frantically, and both he and Brother Enitio both took him to the local emergency room.
Joe Negron seemed unfazed. He was wearing dark sunglasses, and stomped out a Marlboro under his sneaker as economically as possible. He said nothing during Father’s injury, made no attempt to help, and seemed content just to hang back and watch.
Joe DeAngelo then barked with a undertone of constrained hysteria…. “ Well, as usual, you couldn’t care less…I’m going to go back to the field and collect the boys. Why don’t you check on the cook and tell her that we should have dinner a little later. I don’t want David’s dinner to get cold…and he wouldn’t like it either.”
Negron wordlessly started to walk toward the kitchen. Joe then told me and Davey to come with him, as we could help in wrangling our fellow campers.
The soccer field was at the edge of the property. In retrospect, it was just a large poorly mowed field that abutted a tree line and a typical New England forest.
But when we got there, there were no campers in or near the field. They were all in the clubhouse either playing ping pong, or watching TV.
Joe returned to a conversation he tried to have with me earlier about prayer. “….learning to be still, tune out the out world and go into yourself is a great spiritual power…. you do want spiritual power don’t you?”
“Is there any other kind?” I quipped. Yeah, at 12 and a half, I was starting to gel…
We walked to the tree line. Joe asked us both to get on our knees. We started with the Act of Contrition. I prayed hard as Joe shuffled and whispered in my ear… “Now I want you to pray without ceasing…listen only to your heart…”
I nodded vigorously and dramatically showed Joe that I was tightened my eyes even tighter. I can still remember hearing the crunching sound of Joe DeAngelis and Davey Jessup’s footfalls walking into the forest.
But do not be alarmed, gentle reader. This was not my first rodeo with a pedophile. I had felt the hunger of his lingering gaze. I had a powerful knowing.
As soon as I thought they wouldn’t notice, I bolted up and ran frantically for Joe Negron. I don’t know why, but it was important to me that Joe be caught in the incontrovertible truth of his sin.
My heart was pounding in my chest. I don’t remember being able to tell him anything. I was flooded. But Negron seemed to just know. We both ran back to where the soccer field meets the tree line.
Hearing our arrival, Joe DeAngelis emerged from the woods. Davey was behind him, and made a bee-line to be by my side, as we witnessed what happened next.
All I remember about what happened next was the two Joes collided…
Although Joe Negron was significantly smaller, he beat the living sh*t out of Joe DeAngelis. I remember hearing the sickening sound of his nose breaking, and seeing blood just gushing from his nostrils.
Joe DeAngelis pulled himself up from the ground. He was trembling. Joe Negron was bobbing and swaying, his fists up ready to continue to engage in a furious battle.
Davey was now standing next to me, and for some reason I remember taking and squeezing his hand…
“I’m going to tell Fatha about this…” DeAngelo moaned the words, and cupped his prominent Roman nose, streaming blood. One of his eyes was bloody, and closed. I think I saw part of a tooth on the ground, but it just may have been a white pebble.
Speaking of white, as I mentioned earlier, DeAngelis had a habit of always dressing in white, which made the splattered mayhem of his injuries all the more profoundly shocking.
“You better pack your bags my little brown friend, you’ll be gone tomorrow.”
I remember looking into Joe Negron’s pained eyes again. My eyes asked if he was right. And Joe nodded his head up and down and whispered so quietly, while his eyes bored into mine… Satan has the world by the tail…
Back to normal… less one Joe…
We languished in our bunks. Brother Enitio and David returned about an hour later. Father didn’t need anything more serious than a large bandaid.
The next day was a normal day… except for the conspicuous absence of Joe Negron.
I remember tormenting all of them with “Where’s Joe?” There response was “that is not your concern.” I was both profoundly annoying and relentless. I tormented them with a relentless question…
Where is Joe Negron?
Soon they told me that they wanted me to be an altar boy alongside Joe DeAngelis when “Father” comes to serve Mass next week. I felt a sense of dread, and profound responsibility.
On Sundays they usually shuffled us to the local church, but they also had a church building on the campground that could seat about 30 humans, give or take. Father was honoring us by holding a Mass for us at the camp.
I remember the start of the Mass. My last thought was to reach for the Sanctus Bells to remind us all of the joy of the Lord’s presence……
I guess I made it about 10 minutes into the Mass before I fainted…
I remember David was hovering over me when I came too. I was in the Sacristy. I had no idea how much time has passed.
“Aw, fer Chrissake..That was a helluva thing… you awake now?”
We decided we’ll be sending you home because you don’t seem to be keeping up with the other campers, and we can’t have you passin’ out on horseback, or while yer swimmin’, can we, little man?”
The next day at Camp Don Orione was my last…
Joe DeAngelis apologized for his appearance, explaining that he had slipped on a rug, and fallen down the stairs earlier that morning. I remember him gushing through the car window about my spiritual gifts, and how someday I would make a magnificent priest. ….But he seemed a bit too sensitive, in a good way, for this rough and tumble camp,” he explained.
My “dad” nodded approvingly, avoiding eye contact, as Joe handed him a generous refund check for the remaining unused 3 weeks. “and a little extra, for your inconvenience.”
As our car pulled away, my “father” muttered “Jesus H. Christ, what a fag.”
As we pulled away I could barely contain myself. “That’s it.” I muttered with finality under my breath…and then an explosion..
“I DECIDED THAT I DON’T WANT TO BE A PRIEST, GUYS!”
My grandmother said, “we’ll talk about it later.”
And then, once again, the car fell silent, as usual.
And the car remained silent for the long ride back to Hyde Park, a working class suburb of Boston.
Except, at some point, my “mother” turned on the radio. I’ll never forget what I heard. It was like we were into it again, God and me, once more…
The Irony was not lost on me… it pissed me off.
“You and I are NOT on speaking terms.” I said to God, in my heart.
Thinking that I’ll be talking to myself, again, instead…as usual.
For the first time in my brief life, I truly believed that Satan had firmly grasped the entire world by the tail.
