‘Mister Joe’ we kids called him. And Mister Joe would come over to our house for Christmas and Thanksgiving, always by himself. He was nice but al...ays seemed lonely. Never knew much about him. Then one Saturday when I was eight or nine years old, this was in the mid-1960s, my father took me to Mister Joe’s apartment. I think my father had loaned him money or something because Mister Joe handed him an envelope when we got there.“Anyway, Mister Joe lived on the third floor of an old red brick row. Long enough for David, my boss, to find and join me.“You look content.” I gazed over at him as he sat down on one of the deck chairs, his eyes nowhere near my face. I’d made the right choice of suits, apparently.“Very content.”“Then you’re going to hate me. I need to run some errands in town.”I rolled my eyes at him, and let out a soft groan. Despite them being hidden behind my dark lenses, I knew he was aware by the way he grinned.“Come on. It won’t take long. Just throw on a t-shirt and some. More

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