25 Cents of Justice

Sometimes, in reference to an individual, it’s appropriate to say “when so and so was made, God broke the mold afterwards.” There are those, however, where a simple mold-breaking is not good enough. Some need to be shattered, preferably with a heavy mallet, then pulverized further into a fine powder, then expeditiously scattered into the deep Atlantic.
Let’s talk about Joe Stanton. Joe is a walking apparition – a very effective scarecrow. A marionette brought to life by someone both persistent and humorously cruel.

My sentence started at the beginning of my junior year of college, as I was innocently enough sitting with six other roommates in the cozy confines of apartment 4D.

Joe came in with wild, owl eyes. He had a makeshift beard, seemingly put together by a first grader with too much time and a whole box of S.O.S. pads. His grating, crackling voice, stuck in perpetual puberty, carried the fact that he was our new roommate.

Now, I know that many of us have looks better suited for radio than television. I’m not judging Joe wholly for that. It was just a single piece of a bigger picture, for Joe Stanton was the whole enchilada. The complete package. The real deal.

I have to preface this all by saying that I have a soft spot for the Stantons of the world. I guess I’ve always been a social worker at heart. I’m not trying to pat my own back – it just seems that something from Boy Scouts stuck besides making a survival tent using only a garbage bag and shoe strings.

This soft spot made me take Joe under my wing during those early dorm days. He was reviled and abused from the onset. Now, he made himself a target, mind you. He would, in lieu of a shower, take what we called a “Stridex bath”, leaving a wastebasketful of dirty acne pads in his wake. He would come into your room at ungodly hours and report on random baseball scores, whether you were a fan or not. He would mooch soda, and never return the favor. And one day, to our shock, horror and delight, he freaked out this poor, sweet girl from next door. She had approached him in a kind, neighborly way – you see, Joe arrived a week late, after all other introductions were made – and her nice, friendly, innocent intentions were met by Joe with wild-eyed fear. Joe groped down into his own shirt, a tattered The Who t-shirt nearly worn through, and produced a ring on a chain. He proceeded to hold it out right in the girl’s face, as if thwarting a vampire with a cross. He was simultaneously spouting a near-incoherent, screeching babble that, roughly translated, said “Thanks but no thanks. I already have a girlfriend, thank-you, therefore your advances are unwelcome.”

That girl didn’t step into our apartment for weeks, regardless of our numerous apologies and assurances of Joe’s relative harmlessness.

Later on, we found out that the mystery ring girl did exist. She had broken up with him, due to failing mental health caused by too much stress in her public library clerk position. I guess the shhh! signs are there for a reason – so the library staff can focus properly.

Anyway, the next two years – yes, two years – were filled with various Stanton antics and insanities, some of which can’t be mentioned in mixed company, and one of which has caused a lingering effect. It was the day that I, in a rare weak moment, borrowed twenty-five cents from dear old Joe.

Nightly we would invite Joe to join us for dinner at the Student Union, after which we’d venture to the pinball machines for a game or two. Out of kindness I’d stake Joe to games more often than not, and although I kept no true count I’m sure it was over ten dollars. One day it was I without cash, so I bummed a mere quarter. He reacted as if I’d said kidney instead, but, under duress from others, he forked it over, mumbling all the while.

A few days later, Joe began a systematic reminder system, like a smoke alarm low on batteries. At odd times and in odd places, he’d state openly that I should repay my debt. Everything reminded him of this source of lost cash, evident by the constant bleating of “oh, that reminds me, Jason, you still owe me a quarter.” Dinner – reminded him of the debt. Homework – a reminder. Breathing – a reminder.

My roommates begged and cajoled me into not paying him to see just how long he’d persist. It was only after I mistakingly drank one of his RC Colas, which nearly brought on the Biblical Apocalypse, that I relented and offered him a shiny Canadian quarter, take it or leave it. He took it with a grumble and a dirty look.

And, not surprisingly, all the while that I stayed in debt to Joe, he attempted to mooch what he could, especially soda, oblivious to the irony.

I could go on, but I won’t. The story’s not over yet, anyway. Joe keeps coming back into my life, like the swallows of San Juan Capistrano, haunting me all those years after showing him a little kindness and comraderie. Nowadays it’s bizarre, cloudy requests to get together for some insane quest, like finding a mint Wonder Woman issue seventy-three, or to invite my family over to watch a video of his vacation to a soccer game in London. Or it’s an email wondering if I’ve ever met someone from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but not telling me why he’s asking. I guess it’s all part of a bigger scheme, a way to get his long-overdue twenty-five cents of justice.

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