I really never knew my Uncle Joe very well. He was my father’s brother, a slender, impeccably dressed man with the kind of long thin face that just bordered on being handsome.
The family never talked much about Uncle Joe when I was a kid, but when they did, there would always be a smirk on their face. Divorce was not a casual thing in my family, but the whispers were Uncle Joe had had several wives, divorcing one right after the honeymoon. My mother always said Uncle Joe didn’t date girls, he married them — every last one of them. My father would just look at me and wink.
By the time I was old enough to know Uncle Joe, he had settled into a conventional marriage. He and Aunt Grace had no children, but otherwise appeared outwardly happy. They lived in a small rowhome in South Philadelphia. Their house was furnished beautifully, Mom saying Joe was the one with exquisite taste, never failing to add without children they could afford the finer things in life. Although Uncle Joe was illiterate, he had refined tastes. He adored classical music and was said to have a terrific collection. No matter how menial the job he held, Uncle Joe went to work dressed in a Chesterfield coat and wore a gray Homburg hat with matching suede gloves. This caused the family to smirk even more — that and the fact Uncle Joe liked to tell tall tales.
Eventually Uncle Joe’s stories became a source of embarrassment to me. In those days, every neighborhood in South Philadelphia was like a small town. Everybody knew everybody else and all their business. Uncle Joe was a favorite topic among the older guys on the corner because of his bizarre untruths. Somehow the subject would get around to Uncle Joe and the stories would begin and everybody would smirk. I would just get uncomfortable.
The conversation of guys hanging around the corner develops its own rhythm and cadence. The yarns spun are often repetitious, but certain to provoke laughs. Much to my discomfort, there was a favorite story about Uncle Joe that became timeless.
Uncle Joe worked for years as an elevator man in the old Sun Oil Building, but he always told the neighbors he was a top executive. Each day he would go off to work wearing his Chesterfield topcoat with the gray Homburg hat and the matching suede gloves, playing the part. One day, a neighbor happened to have some business in the Sun Building. He saw Uncle Joe standing in the lobby in front an elevator. Undaunted, Uncle Joe explained how he pretty much ran Sun Oil and abruptly stepped onto the elevator in the middle of the conversation and hollered, "Going up!" That story was repeated endlessly, always ending with everyone roaring with laughter.
Years later, I had pretty much lost contact with Uncle Joe, except when I would run into him hanging outside the McDonald’s at Broad Street and Snyder Avenue. Suddenly, one early evening, he showed up at my door. By then I was married with a couple of kids. I didn’t realize Uncle Joe even knew where I lived. I have to admit my kids probably didn’t even know I had an Uncle Joe, but there he was, smiling and friendly as if he were a regular visitor.
My son was an impressionable 8-year-old and a wrestling fan. We all sat in the kitchen while my wife made coffee and, much to my chagrin, Uncle Joe embarked on his tallest tale of all. My son was all ears as Uncle Joe told us at age 66, he was actually a professional wrestler. He claimed he was Mr. X, the wrestler who wore a black mask in the ring. Uncle Joe showed us a photo, a man with the torso of a much younger man, wearing a trademark black mask. My son’s eyes glowed with admiration. Uncle Joe said he had just returned from a bout in Atlanta. After he left, we found some gentle way to explain to our son Uncle Joe was a nice man who liked a good story.
Uncle Joe was gone for some time before I realized he was more than our family’s version of the great imposter. He was a bright guy, trapped for whatever reason, inside the prison of illiteracy. He was a guy who loved opera, antique furniture and fine clothes. He was a good man and, if not for his illiteracy, he might have been an executive (I’m not so sure about the wrestling).
