Joe Cromwell

Today a recruiter sent me some resumes to look over, in preparation for an interview process starting Monday. The recruiter's first name was "Joe" and, while I noted the commonness of the name, for some reason it stuck with me. Tonight I was driving the family home from dinner at Mexican restaurant (with a baja flavor, walls decorated with surf posters, administered by a couple of hardy waitresses, one of whom was dressed in a taco suit) and I suddenly recalled another Joe -- Joe Cromwell, a friend of my brother and me from high school. We worked together on a construction crew for two summers. Our job was to go to the empty shell of a house and spread a massive pile of sand with our shovels. A menial, backbreaking labor, the end of which receded before you like a mirage. We were the lowest of the low on the totem pole, and were rudely ignored and insulted by the carpenters and cement men; we had a little radio we listened to, and at lunchtime we would throw down our shovels and head to a nearby convenience store to load up on fountain sodas and junk food, and to forget for a few minutes the long afternoon still to come.
Someone told Joe he looked like Richard Marx and so, as Joe was keen to increase his odds with the fair sex (and in high school nothing trumps a resemblance to a movie or rock star), he began to work on a Marxist lid. Over the course of two years Joe grew himself a magnificent mane which first equaled, then overtook, then completely dominated the hairdo which had served as its initial inspiration. Joe's hair was like an entity unto itself, with brassy sausage curls spilling down the back, to his shoulders, and ellipses of bleached bang falling rakishly over an eyebrow; that second summer Joe employed the 'do in a number of easy seductions at a nearby 7-11, which was staffed almost entirely by the cheerleading squad of a local high school. All those nights of lovemaking took their toll; Joe's eyes receded into the shadows of his bangs, and his face grew lean. After one of these sportive nights he would be found leaning against his shovel, staring into space, or snoozing in the shade of our giant sand pile. My brother and I felt it was our duty to support Joe's run; it was accepted as a universal truth that the pursuit of trim trumped all other concerns, so we let Joe sleep while we did our work and his, too. At lunch he related in painstaking detail every move, every word, every sensation with a crooked, incredulous smile. The carpenters and masons nicknamed him "loverboy." Joe did not lord his talent over us; he was always keen to find out if his latest girl had any friends. Alas, our short mousy locks, our tonsorial timidity, were disappointing to the wide-eyed cheerleaders, but there were occasions, in that second summer, when the three of us were all tired on the same morning and then we said very little, and just worked, and stayed lost in our private reveries.