Puncher, America,
and Fake-Ass Jordans
by Joe Costal
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It’s 8 a.m., but it’s already hot. The Hudson public pool will be packed.
Before she leaves for the embroidery factory, Abuela warns me not to go to the pool. “Domincans will steal your shoes,” she tells me. Except she says “choos,” and she puts an “e” in front of steal. “No one wants my shoes, Abuelita.” I own a pair of knock-off, Pro-Joggs, twenty bucks at Kinney’s, red and black high tops—“the fakest of the fake-ass Air Jordans on the market.” Cousin Carlos calls them that, and he’s right. But I don’t argue abuela logic. She insisted the Pro-Joggs were Air Jordans when she bought them. She called to tell me she got me Jordans. When she came home with those fake-ass shits, I ran to my room and cried. |
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Today, she mumbles her warning and puts on a sweater. Abuela gets cold even on 90 degree days. North America’s not warm enough for her. She gives me her worried look as she leaves our apartment. The look of someone smelling something rotten. Like she smells my weakness.
I am weak. Yesterday, a thin, buck-toothed boy punched me on the head outside of Lucy’s bodega. He wasn’t from our neighborhood. I had never seen him before. I was drinking a purple juice, sitting on the stoop. I didn’t see him coming.
He punched me, and at first, I thought something hard had landed on my head, like a rock from a window. But there he was. Flaco as fuck, but aggressive. Pounding his arms downward, like a tiny King Hippo, bouncing in place and saying “yeah, yeah, yeah.” He had a friend with him. A shorter boy, less skinny, who bit his lip and held his chin tilted at the sky, like the football players do in the yearbook.
I should’ve hit him back. I should’ve pushed his scrawny ass to the floor and sat on him. At least told him off. But I didn’t. I rubbed my head and said “ow.” My ghetto juice barrel spilling at my feet.
When Abuela is safely away, Papi comes out of his room. He tells me to ignore my grandmother. “She racist,” he explains, “but she old, and old people is racist.”
Papi doesn’t work because he’s on disability. A truck tire exploded on his right leg. He doesn’t walk much, either. I can’t remember a time when I saw him outside our apartment. He goes from his chair in the front room to his chair in the kitchen. When the weather’s hot, like today, he drinks less coffee, more Budweiser.
Papi tells me to go to the pool. “If anybody fucking fucks with you, you fucking kill their icehole.” Papi likes some English words better than others. I don’t argue. I’ll go to the pool, but I won’t swim, and I will not kill any iceholes. Papi knows this. But even he doesn’t realize the length I will go to avoid trouble. In our town, too many kids wanna fight a kid like me. And every kid in our town will be at the pool today.
I am weak. Yesterday, a thin, buck-toothed boy punched me on the head outside of Lucy’s bodega. He wasn’t from our neighborhood. I had never seen him before. I was drinking a purple juice, sitting on the stoop. I didn’t see him coming.
He punched me, and at first, I thought something hard had landed on my head, like a rock from a window. But there he was. Flaco as fuck, but aggressive. Pounding his arms downward, like a tiny King Hippo, bouncing in place and saying “yeah, yeah, yeah.” He had a friend with him. A shorter boy, less skinny, who bit his lip and held his chin tilted at the sky, like the football players do in the yearbook.
I should’ve hit him back. I should’ve pushed his scrawny ass to the floor and sat on him. At least told him off. But I didn’t. I rubbed my head and said “ow.” My ghetto juice barrel spilling at my feet.
When Abuela is safely away, Papi comes out of his room. He tells me to ignore my grandmother. “She racist,” he explains, “but she old, and old people is racist.”
Papi doesn’t work because he’s on disability. A truck tire exploded on his right leg. He doesn’t walk much, either. I can’t remember a time when I saw him outside our apartment. He goes from his chair in the front room to his chair in the kitchen. When the weather’s hot, like today, he drinks less coffee, more Budweiser.
Papi tells me to go to the pool. “If anybody fucking fucks with you, you fucking kill their icehole.” Papi likes some English words better than others. I don’t argue. I’ll go to the pool, but I won’t swim, and I will not kill any iceholes. Papi knows this. But even he doesn’t realize the length I will go to avoid trouble. In our town, too many kids wanna fight a kid like me. And every kid in our town will be at the pool today.
"For me, the Manhattan skyline is a shitty oil painting hanging in my living room. Too familiar to be beautiful. The skyscraper horizon holds our town in—trapping us—like the curve of a glass jar."
Besides, I could never take my shirt off in front of every girl from school. So, for me, going “to the pool” means sitting “near the pool.” It means scratching like a leper in the high grass on the Palisades hills. The pool is carved into the cliffs over the Hudson River. It dangles in front of New York City like dice on a rearview. So I can perch on the graffiti rocks. Buy a Malta Goya from Lucy and carve my way across the jagged rocks to a spot where the grass is so high it tickles my chin. There I’ll sit in my own sweat. But at least there I can think. And I can avoid trouble, but still I can tell Papi I spent the day “at the pool” without being a liar.
All around are once-in-a-life-time views of the Manhattan skyline: the Empire State, The World Trade. Once-in-a-lifetime, unless, of course your lifetime is spent in Hudson County. For me, the Manhattan skyline is a shitty oil painting hanging in my living room. Too familiar to be beautiful. The skyscraper horizon holds our town in—trapping us—like the curve of a glass jar.
Today, as I settle in on the hill, Javi the pool man is locking his shed. I missed the morning fun of watching Javi fight off gopher-sized, hissing river rats as he opens the pool. Quickly, a spray of kids bob, shoulder to shoulder, filling the pool. They glisten brown and strong as the tenement buildings they come from.
Cuban mothers swirl the perimeter, yelling and swearing to God through saliva-stained cigarettes. They guard and chide their precious, chubby sons. Reyes pequeños, who whine and snack on picnic table thrones. They mock their inferior, nappy-haired sisters and tip-toe around on the pool tiles, their boy boobs jiggling along.
In one corner, Puerto Rican viejos huddle—wordless, shirtless. They sit on aluminum chairs that don’t fold. They wear polyester pants. Black-socked toes peek out of chancletas. They pass the time toying with golden Blessed Mother medallions around their necks. They run the emblems, like oversized guitar picks, through tufts of grey chest hair. They squint hard through the sun, staring at their children in the pool, but not “watching” them. That’s what mothers are for.
The Mexicans have their own corner. Their food smells best. They are also the only Latinos in town who don’t drink Budweiser because their own beer doesn’t suck.
The rest is Latin potpourri. Colombians and Ecuadorians and the Dominicans and the Haitians and the Chileans, all equally hated and hateful of their minority status even among us. When my family hates on these people, I remind them that gringos think we’re all the same. All brown. All suspected and despised. My family laughs me off and rolls their eyes. “Nah, even Americanos hate the Dominicans more.”
I’m not so sure. When I went to the state science fair, I made a few white friends. They called me “dirty Mexican.” They said “for fun.”
“I’m Cuban,” I told them, hurt for a different reason than they knew.
“Same thing,” they said.
When my eyes glazed, they said, “We’re fucking around. You know that, right?”
“Of course,” I said. All smiles.
When I told Abuela, she needed to sit on the bed. “Aye, hijo, Mexican? Das cray-see!” She clutched for the Blessed Mother. In Spanish she asked if I wore the pants “with the stains.”
I told her I didn’t. “I wore the good pants.”
She wrung her hands and asked in Spanish, “What do we have in common with them? Nothing!”
“To them? Everything,” I thought. But there was so much disbelief in Abuela’s eyes. I watched TV instead of arguing.
All around are once-in-a-life-time views of the Manhattan skyline: the Empire State, The World Trade. Once-in-a-lifetime, unless, of course your lifetime is spent in Hudson County. For me, the Manhattan skyline is a shitty oil painting hanging in my living room. Too familiar to be beautiful. The skyscraper horizon holds our town in—trapping us—like the curve of a glass jar.
Today, as I settle in on the hill, Javi the pool man is locking his shed. I missed the morning fun of watching Javi fight off gopher-sized, hissing river rats as he opens the pool. Quickly, a spray of kids bob, shoulder to shoulder, filling the pool. They glisten brown and strong as the tenement buildings they come from.
Cuban mothers swirl the perimeter, yelling and swearing to God through saliva-stained cigarettes. They guard and chide their precious, chubby sons. Reyes pequeños, who whine and snack on picnic table thrones. They mock their inferior, nappy-haired sisters and tip-toe around on the pool tiles, their boy boobs jiggling along.
In one corner, Puerto Rican viejos huddle—wordless, shirtless. They sit on aluminum chairs that don’t fold. They wear polyester pants. Black-socked toes peek out of chancletas. They pass the time toying with golden Blessed Mother medallions around their necks. They run the emblems, like oversized guitar picks, through tufts of grey chest hair. They squint hard through the sun, staring at their children in the pool, but not “watching” them. That’s what mothers are for.
The Mexicans have their own corner. Their food smells best. They are also the only Latinos in town who don’t drink Budweiser because their own beer doesn’t suck.
The rest is Latin potpourri. Colombians and Ecuadorians and the Dominicans and the Haitians and the Chileans, all equally hated and hateful of their minority status even among us. When my family hates on these people, I remind them that gringos think we’re all the same. All brown. All suspected and despised. My family laughs me off and rolls their eyes. “Nah, even Americanos hate the Dominicans more.”
I’m not so sure. When I went to the state science fair, I made a few white friends. They called me “dirty Mexican.” They said “for fun.”
“I’m Cuban,” I told them, hurt for a different reason than they knew.
“Same thing,” they said.
When my eyes glazed, they said, “We’re fucking around. You know that, right?”
“Of course,” I said. All smiles.
When I told Abuela, she needed to sit on the bed. “Aye, hijo, Mexican? Das cray-see!” She clutched for the Blessed Mother. In Spanish she asked if I wore the pants “with the stains.”
I told her I didn’t. “I wore the good pants.”
She wrung her hands and asked in Spanish, “What do we have in common with them? Nothing!”
“To them? Everything,” I thought. But there was so much disbelief in Abuela’s eyes. I watched TV instead of arguing.
~
Marisol, an Ecuadorian from Union Avenue, bounces me back to focus. She wrestles a polka-dotted swimmie up her baby sister’s arm. Her bikini is tan and pink with frill on the bands. Maybe her moms bought it on Bergenline, or maybe her pops drove her down the hill to the strip mall in Secaucus. Got it at Mandee or Fashion Bug. It cost him his parking spot when he got back to town. He wakes at 5 a.m. now, to get his car out of the municipal lot before ticketing. All so baby girl can shine at the pool.
For me, his effort is worth it. I reach between my legs and settle my stare. I imagine the bikini top in my hands. I see it sitting on the side of a bed or the top of a laundry pile. I want to smell it. Hold the inside cup part to my nostrils and take in whatever is there.
“Yeah. Aye. Jew. Foul gut?”
I swipe my hand away from my shorts and jump up. Two boys crackle through the dry, summer brush. It’s them. The puncher from the bodega and his friend.
Fuck. I think of Papi and his useless advice. I think of their iceholes.
“Yeah. Foul gut. You a foul gut?”
I look around, the mountain gets steeper three steps from me, diving over the face of the pool and the patio below. It’s a long way down. Much worse than even an ass beating if they are inclined.
“Foul gut,” he says like someone calling for a lost kitten.
There is no place to go but past them.
“What?” I try to buy time.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Si.”
“Me what?”
“You fucking foul gut?”
I know what he means from the jump. I hear the insult. The threat. But I can buy time by straining to understand. They are both so close now, I can smell Andy Capp Hot Fries on their breath.
Instinct makes me look down. At my feet, the grass grows up the hillside, leaning away from the river winds, as if lighting a runway for my escape. But I’m too slow to get away from these two. I confer this truth with my fake-ass Jordans.
“Chupa, foul gut.” Puncher slaps his little buddy on the shoulder, trying to rally approval.
If I don’t talk, I’m dead meat. “Yo, man. I ain’t no faggot ok.”
The duo laughs.
“Leave me alone, ok?”
But the little one who grabs my elbow as I try to walk pass. “Nah, nah, nah. Bruh. No way. You’re not going nowheres. You’re not gonna come be a homo creeper and get away with it. How about I make you eat this dirt right here?”
I’m taken aback for a moment, less by the grab, and more by his impeccable English. It’s better than mine. Not a smidge of accent. As he twists my arm around my back, I look in his eyes. He’s a gringo. Has a wet, soft white boy stare. The doughiness around the cheeks. He was born here.
“You Americaaaugh...” I want to point out that he’s a gringo, but before I can say “American,” he twists my arm up my back. The pain winds down my arm to my temples.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Puncher is excited, and I’m on my knees.
America uses my pinned arm to push my upper body toward the rocky ground. The two of them blur into a single shadow.
“Espere. Espere. Them Jordans?” Puncher asks America.
There’s a pause, I can’t see them. I see rocks and weeds, inches from my teeth. I can smell sweet grit from the earth.
“Nah man, they’re fake, man,” America decides with a shift in weight off my forearms. He’s looking. Wants to be sure.
“Fuck they are.” I push the logo side of my Pro-Joggs against the hard ground. “They’re Jordans,
bruh.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Take them shits from foul gut,” Puncher can’t hide the squeal in his voice.
“I’ll give ‘em to you.”
For me, his effort is worth it. I reach between my legs and settle my stare. I imagine the bikini top in my hands. I see it sitting on the side of a bed or the top of a laundry pile. I want to smell it. Hold the inside cup part to my nostrils and take in whatever is there.
“Yeah. Aye. Jew. Foul gut?”
I swipe my hand away from my shorts and jump up. Two boys crackle through the dry, summer brush. It’s them. The puncher from the bodega and his friend.
Fuck. I think of Papi and his useless advice. I think of their iceholes.
“Yeah. Foul gut. You a foul gut?”
I look around, the mountain gets steeper three steps from me, diving over the face of the pool and the patio below. It’s a long way down. Much worse than even an ass beating if they are inclined.
“Foul gut,” he says like someone calling for a lost kitten.
There is no place to go but past them.
“What?” I try to buy time.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Si.”
“Me what?”
“You fucking foul gut?”
I know what he means from the jump. I hear the insult. The threat. But I can buy time by straining to understand. They are both so close now, I can smell Andy Capp Hot Fries on their breath.
Instinct makes me look down. At my feet, the grass grows up the hillside, leaning away from the river winds, as if lighting a runway for my escape. But I’m too slow to get away from these two. I confer this truth with my fake-ass Jordans.
“Chupa, foul gut.” Puncher slaps his little buddy on the shoulder, trying to rally approval.
If I don’t talk, I’m dead meat. “Yo, man. I ain’t no faggot ok.”
The duo laughs.
“Leave me alone, ok?”
But the little one who grabs my elbow as I try to walk pass. “Nah, nah, nah. Bruh. No way. You’re not going nowheres. You’re not gonna come be a homo creeper and get away with it. How about I make you eat this dirt right here?”
I’m taken aback for a moment, less by the grab, and more by his impeccable English. It’s better than mine. Not a smidge of accent. As he twists my arm around my back, I look in his eyes. He’s a gringo. Has a wet, soft white boy stare. The doughiness around the cheeks. He was born here.
“You Americaaaugh...” I want to point out that he’s a gringo, but before I can say “American,” he twists my arm up my back. The pain winds down my arm to my temples.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Puncher is excited, and I’m on my knees.
America uses my pinned arm to push my upper body toward the rocky ground. The two of them blur into a single shadow.
“Espere. Espere. Them Jordans?” Puncher asks America.
There’s a pause, I can’t see them. I see rocks and weeds, inches from my teeth. I can smell sweet grit from the earth.
“Nah man, they’re fake, man,” America decides with a shift in weight off my forearms. He’s looking. Wants to be sure.
“Fuck they are.” I push the logo side of my Pro-Joggs against the hard ground. “They’re Jordans,
bruh.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Take them shits from foul gut,” Puncher can’t hide the squeal in his voice.
“I’ll give ‘em to you.”
~
"I hold an index finger to the Pro-Jogg logo and take a step toward Puncher, who heaves like a cartoon villain, all shoulders and teeth. I steady my face into fake confidence."
“No, man. This faggot doesn’t have Jordans, man. Chill, ok?” America doesn’t sound as sure as he’d like.
“Ok. Whatever,” their hesitance raises my hope. They don’t believe me, but the prize might be too great. If a man tells you he has a million dollars in a suitcase, even if he’s full of shit, you don’t go home until he opens the suitcase.
“Let’s see them shits.” America is less sure.
They let go, and I roll onto my ass. I get to one knee and undo the laces of my Pro-Joggs. I hunch enough to cast my own shadow over the sneakers.
The duo huddles closer to one another and strains to see beneath me.
“Wait till you see, you stupid refugee.” America turns his aggression to Puncher. “Those ain’t Jordans.”
“They are,” I say and rise to both feet. “Look.” I hold an index finger to the Pro-Jogg logo and take a step toward Puncher, who heaves like a cartoon villain, all shoulders and teeth. I steady my face into fake confidence. Puncher squints hard against the sun, his eyes searching where my index finger points below the black, splayed logo paydirt. Under my finger is not mid-flight Michael Jordan. But it’s a series of swoops designed to mimic the real thing. It’s enough. Thank you, Kinney Shoes. It’s enough.
America knows. He calls Puncher a “dumbass” one more time and folds his arms. Puncher leans his face into my sneakered hand, though. Hoping beyond hope to be right.
Below us, from the pool, a mambo plays from a boom box. The tempo pulses in my sore temples, and I think of Papi and “fucking an icehole.”
Shocking even myself, I let the Pro-Joggs drop from my hand, catching a single shoelace between my thumb and pointer finger. With both eyes closed, I let the fake-ass Jordans fly into the air.
“Ok. Whatever,” their hesitance raises my hope. They don’t believe me, but the prize might be too great. If a man tells you he has a million dollars in a suitcase, even if he’s full of shit, you don’t go home until he opens the suitcase.
“Let’s see them shits.” America is less sure.
They let go, and I roll onto my ass. I get to one knee and undo the laces of my Pro-Joggs. I hunch enough to cast my own shadow over the sneakers.
The duo huddles closer to one another and strains to see beneath me.
“Wait till you see, you stupid refugee.” America turns his aggression to Puncher. “Those ain’t Jordans.”
“They are,” I say and rise to both feet. “Look.” I hold an index finger to the Pro-Jogg logo and take a step toward Puncher, who heaves like a cartoon villain, all shoulders and teeth. I steady my face into fake confidence. Puncher squints hard against the sun, his eyes searching where my index finger points below the black, splayed logo paydirt. Under my finger is not mid-flight Michael Jordan. But it’s a series of swoops designed to mimic the real thing. It’s enough. Thank you, Kinney Shoes. It’s enough.
America knows. He calls Puncher a “dumbass” one more time and folds his arms. Puncher leans his face into my sneakered hand, though. Hoping beyond hope to be right.
Below us, from the pool, a mambo plays from a boom box. The tempo pulses in my sore temples, and I think of Papi and “fucking an icehole.”
Shocking even myself, I let the Pro-Joggs drop from my hand, catching a single shoelace between my thumb and pointer finger. With both eyes closed, I let the fake-ass Jordans fly into the air.
~
Ten years later, the Hudson Pool is gone.
In its place, a private pool adjacent to brand new, luxury condominiums. New people, non-neighborhood types who buy food from a brand new concession stand. Grilled chicken on Caesar salad instead of cut mangos from pocketbook napkins. Wraps instead of empanadas. No more salsa/merengue. No more dark boys, with thin arms and concave torsos. No more illegal workers in overalls opening Coke bottles with their teeth.
Instead, a “members only” sign and white people with high-rise addresses. They step on our streets only to catch a midtown bus. They are New York Giants, New Jersey Devils, Wall Street wolves and other magical creatures. They are not from Hudson. They are not of this pool.
In its place, a private pool adjacent to brand new, luxury condominiums. New people, non-neighborhood types who buy food from a brand new concession stand. Grilled chicken on Caesar salad instead of cut mangos from pocketbook napkins. Wraps instead of empanadas. No more salsa/merengue. No more dark boys, with thin arms and concave torsos. No more illegal workers in overalls opening Coke bottles with their teeth.
Instead, a “members only” sign and white people with high-rise addresses. They step on our streets only to catch a midtown bus. They are New York Giants, New Jersey Devils, Wall Street wolves and other magical creatures. They are not from Hudson. They are not of this pool.
~
On that day, though, my $20 Kinney Shoes Pro-Joggs glide through the thick, urban summer. They rise and catch Puncher under his chin. I open my eyes long enough to see his head snap back, spittle forming and disappearing from his lips.
I clench my eyes tight once again, and let the Pro-Joggs flail. They spin like nunchucks around my own head. I poke with the sneaker, letting them dart into the space around me. I imagine myself a spinning death wheel. Inside my darkness, though, I feel a pop against my eye. The force is enough to make me stumble back. I regroup and flail again. Keep my eyes clenched and let the sneaker fly once more around my head.
Pop. Pop. Pop. They were on me. Had to be. Smacks to my cheek and another quick one to the side of my head. I make one more wild rotation with the sneakers, hoping to hit them both across the face at one time—like in the Three Stooges. Hope to nail them once before they hit me again.
But as I swing, I take blunt force to the bridge of my nose. It’s enough to make me stop moving. My eyes well and open expecting to catch a glimpse of the beating.
I focus through the tears and blur of my exhausted movements.
Neither boy is anywhere near me. Both stand a few feet away, their mouths open, staring. Their arms at their sides.
My nose throbs, I rub it as they stare.
“You were hitting yourself with your sneakers, bruh,” America says, like he’s reading the six o’clock news.
I turn and run. I never look back. I never see either boy again, but I must’ve dropped my one Pro-Jogg at some point, because I am almost home before I realize one socked foot has been hitting pavement.
That night, Abuela lectures Papi and me, and herself about shoe-stealing Dominicans. About the real threat they pose to our way of life. Like urban sprawl or price gouging. She cries and wails, pressing ice cubes to my black eyes. She points and gestures, imploring us in Spanish to bide her words. “Ness tine,” she wails. “Ness tine, jew lessen to me!”
“Abuela, it was American kids,” I sob for drama.
I can hear her gasp.
“American kids stole my shoes.”
She clutches her chest and retires to her telephone.
It will take Abuela months to reconcile this news. The new danger of American kids. The one remaining Kinney Pro-Jogg sits on the television, our version of a mantle, like a precious family heirloom. Like a real “Hair Yordan.” Testament to Abuela’s vision and vigilance and glory, even if her facts were off.
I clench my eyes tight once again, and let the Pro-Joggs flail. They spin like nunchucks around my own head. I poke with the sneaker, letting them dart into the space around me. I imagine myself a spinning death wheel. Inside my darkness, though, I feel a pop against my eye. The force is enough to make me stumble back. I regroup and flail again. Keep my eyes clenched and let the sneaker fly once more around my head.
Pop. Pop. Pop. They were on me. Had to be. Smacks to my cheek and another quick one to the side of my head. I make one more wild rotation with the sneakers, hoping to hit them both across the face at one time—like in the Three Stooges. Hope to nail them once before they hit me again.
But as I swing, I take blunt force to the bridge of my nose. It’s enough to make me stop moving. My eyes well and open expecting to catch a glimpse of the beating.
I focus through the tears and blur of my exhausted movements.
Neither boy is anywhere near me. Both stand a few feet away, their mouths open, staring. Their arms at their sides.
My nose throbs, I rub it as they stare.
“You were hitting yourself with your sneakers, bruh,” America says, like he’s reading the six o’clock news.
I turn and run. I never look back. I never see either boy again, but I must’ve dropped my one Pro-Jogg at some point, because I am almost home before I realize one socked foot has been hitting pavement.
That night, Abuela lectures Papi and me, and herself about shoe-stealing Dominicans. About the real threat they pose to our way of life. Like urban sprawl or price gouging. She cries and wails, pressing ice cubes to my black eyes. She points and gestures, imploring us in Spanish to bide her words. “Ness tine,” she wails. “Ness tine, jew lessen to me!”
“Abuela, it was American kids,” I sob for drama.
I can hear her gasp.
“American kids stole my shoes.”
She clutches her chest and retires to her telephone.
It will take Abuela months to reconcile this news. The new danger of American kids. The one remaining Kinney Pro-Jogg sits on the television, our version of a mantle, like a precious family heirloom. Like a real “Hair Yordan.” Testament to Abuela’s vision and vigilance and glory, even if her facts were off.
Joe Coastal's water bottle stickers are mostly ice cream shops. His writing has most recently appeared in Watershed Review, Barrelhouse, and Quirk Books. The first chapter of his YA novel can be found in the current issue of Painted Bride Quarterly, and his poetry was included in More Challenges for the Delusional by Diode Editions. Joe teaches writing at Stockton University and lives with his children.
