In
a downtown world screened off by grapevines, Chapado Joe lived his whole
life on grilled fish, crusty bread and cheap homemade wine. He didn’t realize
fate would require of him only one choice.
In the beginning Joseph
was thought of as special. He was a polite, good-looking boy with intense
eyebrows, dark curly hair and a charming smile. He was popular at high school and
his ball hockey team became Ontario Champions; the peak of Joe's success.
Chapado Joe drank everyday.
On Baldwin Street loud
fishmongers in scale-splattered smocks would call him “Hey Chapado!” to hose
the gut-strewn floor or other horrible jobs for a cup of homemade wine. He
would collect empties to buy bottles of booze, which you could see sticking out
of his dirty, oversized coat pocket. Sometimes Joe would stand in the middle of
the street, yelling in a voice so husky it was hard to understand, his arm
outstretched with a stubby finger pointing a downwards “I live here”; in
halting mini sentences, depending on his mood, “Fuck you" or "I love
you". One thing he knew was where to be when the wine came out.
Often at the bakery,
drunk in the afternoon, Chapado Joe would be told to leave. On automatic pilot
he’d make his way back to the garden where his family used to live. He would teeter
onto a flimsy chair and blearily look at the hands on his lap. Later, sitting
there, he would pull his coat over his head and with just his knees and boots
showing, sleep.
264 Words
