The Redemption of Bobby Love

by Bobby Love

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” a young sister asked me after a stop in Virginia.

  “I don’t mind,” I said, turning my body toward the window, hoping the woman would get the hint that I didn’t want to talk. But she didn’t. As soon as she sat down she started talking, telling me all about her no-good boyfriend who had lured her down to Virginia. I wanted to ignore her, but listening to her actually helped pass the time.

  “So, what’s your name?” she asked me at one point.

  “My name?” I repeated.

  “Yeah, I’m telling you my whole life story, I figured I should at least know your name,” she said, smiling.

  “Oh, okay,” I said, trying to seem calm as I racked my brain for a name to use. “My name is Bobby. Bobby Love.”

  Bobby Love was the name of my friend Ulysses’s son who had passed away.

  “Well, Bobby Love, thank you for listening to me,” she said.

  “No problem,” I said.

  And she kept talking. And I kept listening all the way to Philadelphia, where she got off. Before she left, she smiled at me. “Thank you, Bobby Love,” she said. “I feel a lot better now than I did when I got on this bus.”

  I did too, because now I had my new name.

  Two hours later, the bus pulled into the lower level of the Port Authority Bus Terminal in midtown Manhattan. It was close to midnight, but there was still a throng of people waiting to greet the folks coming off our bus. I scanned the crowd looking for cops but didn’t see anyone who looked suspicious, so I stepped off the bus, pulled in a deep breath of the foul New York air, and smiled as I said aloud, “Thank you, God, Bobby Love has arrived!”

  * * *

  After six years in prison, the first thing I wanted to do when I set foot in New York was get high and get laid. I headed straight for Times Square. In 1977, Times Square was a one-stop shop for sex, drugs, and rock and roll. I wanted them all.

  The walk from the Port Authority Bus Terminal to Times Square was a short one, and when I got to 42nd Street, I felt like a kid in a candy store. Even though it was well after midnight, the lights of Times Square were bright. Peep shows, strip clubs, and XXX movie theaters beckoned people in with cheap prices and illicit promises. And it was all out in the open.

  On a street corner I bought five dollars’ worth of Panama Red marijuana, rolled me a joint, and enjoyed that high after so many years without. “I’m out here, baby,” I announced to no one and everyone passing by. Feeling good, I ducked into one of the adult movie theaters to use the restroom, but when I was about to leave, a woman came in and asked if I’d like to try her services. Ten minutes and five dollars later, I left the restroom feeling like a new man.

  Now that I was satisfied, I just started walking the streets of Manhattan. I walked and roamed until the sun came up. Every so often I looked up to the sky in awe and said aloud, “I’m going to live in this city!” Once the city started to come alive, I bought myself a hot dog, smoked another joint, and decided I had to find someplace to sleep.

  I’d heard about the Bowery on the Lower East Side. I knew it was an entire area where homeless people could go and get a place to sleep and maybe a free meal. So I made my way down to that part of Manhattan. But when I got there, I was shocked. There were so many homeless people all over the streets. I couldn’t believe that so many people could be this down on their luck in a city like New York. Coming from Greensboro, I thought New York was the type of place where anyone could find a job and a place to live if they hustled. The level of poverty and despair I was seeing was depressing, but all I wanted to do at that point was find a place to fall asleep and forget everything.

  Seeing that everyone else was doing it, I collapsed on a bench and drifted off. I couldn’t sleep deeply out in the open like that, but I got enough of a nap to keep from collapsing. Once it started to get dark again, I figured I’d try to find a hotel. I had seen signs for hotels in Times Square that you could stay in for less than ten dollars a night. Even though my cash was tight, I decided to spend the money for a bed in a room with a door. I made my way back to midtown and found a hotel between 41st and 42nd Streets where I rented a room for eight dollars. That eight dollars got me a bed, but there was no heat and no place to shower. I tried to get my money back, thinking I’d find another place, but the owner refused. So I shivered my way through the night under a thin, dirty white sheet.

  The next day, after my breakfast of a hot dog and a soda, I counted my cash and realized I had to find a job or I’d be down in the Bowery with the rest of the homeless people. With winter approaching, I couldn’t imagine being out on the streets. The day was chilly, but the sun was shining brightly. I started heading away from Times Square, paying attention to every store and restaurant I passed, hoping to see a “Help Wanted” sign. Before I had gone more than three blocks, however, I passed by a Social Security office. I stopped walking, turned around, and strolled inside like I belonged there. I wanted to see if I could apply for a Social Security card with my new name. Of all the things I could’ve done less than two days after escaping from prison, showing my face to try to get a Social Security card with a fake name ranks as one of the riskiest. But I knew if it worked, I’d be able to get a real job and not just some hustle. I decided to take the chance, before I could chicken out.

  When I walked into the building, I saw an older Black woman standing behind the counter, but nobody else was in there. I walked right up to the window and said, “Hello, I’d like to put in an application to get a Social Security card.”

  She looked at me for a minute. “How old are you?” she asked.

  “I’m twenty-seven,” I said.

  “You’ve never had a job?” she asked, looking me over.

  I didn’t hesitate. “No, ma’am,” I said.

  “So you never had a Social Security card?” she said. “How did you live? Where are you from?”

  “I’m from Washington, DC,” I lied. “And I still lived with my parents back there in DC and I just didn’t have to work.”

  She looked at me like she was trying to decide if I was telling the truth.

  “But now I have to work,” I said, trying to sound earnest. “I have to find me a job. And I need a Social Security card. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “Hold on.”

  Then she handed me a pen and an application. I walked over to the counter in the middle of the room and filled it out, using the last address I’d had when I lived in DC. I figured when the card got there, I’d have to call Ulysses and ask him to send it to me somehow or I’d have to go down there to get it myself. I signed my name Bobby Love for the very first time.

  “Oh, so you’re still living in Washington, DC, Mr. Love?” the lady asked me when she looked at my application. “You want the card sent there?

  “Yeah,” I said. “Because I don’t have an address here in New York yet, but I plan to get one.”

  She looked at me again, her eyes narrowed.

  “Okay, Mr. Love,” she said, looking down at my application. “Wait here.” Then she went back to her desk. I started pacing around a bit and thinking how I would get the card from DC. Ulysses might not even live at that address anymore. I probably should have sent it to Raymond’s house, but I didn’t want Raymond mixed up with anything I was doing. Plus, I figured the cops were probably watching all of my siblings closely and I didn’t want to tip them off.

  “Mr. Love!” I turned around when I realized the lady was calling me. I wasn’t used to my new name.

  “Sorry,” I said as I hustled back over to the window.

  “Here,” she said, and she pushed a brand-new Social Security card for Bobby Love across the counter to me. I was shocked.

  I looked up at the woman and she was smiling a knowing smile.

  “Thank you,” I said, slightly in awe.

  “Hey, we all need a little extra help sometimes,” she said. And then she called out, “Next in line!”

  Between the man
giving me thirty dollars at the bus station and the lady at the Social Security office giving me a card on the spot, I felt like God was showing me that I was on the right path. By the same token, I told myself that if I got caught and sent back to prison, then that would be God’s way of showing me that He didn’t approve of what I was doing. This was when I really began to see that there was a greater power playing a part in my life and I had to pay attention.

  I didn’t get to use my Social Security card right away. For a few days I kept going back and forth to the Bowery and hitting the streets, trying to find a restaurant job. I stopped sleeping in those fleabag hotels because none of them had heat and I had discovered that sleeping on the subway trains was a lot warmer. And it was free.

  About a week after arriving in the city, I was back on the Bowery early in the morning and noticed these blue flyers all around advertising jobs at a hotel in upstate New York. The flyers listed the name of one of the shelters in the area as the point of contact for more information.

  I found that shelter and asked the man at the front desk about the jobs at the hotel.

  “They’re looking for dishwashers, housekeepers, maintenance workers, things like that,” he told me.

  “I could do a dishwashing gig,” I said.

  “Do you have any experience?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, not daring to mention it was at a prison.

  The man looked me up and down and made a decision. “I’ll put you on the list. What’s your name?”

  “Bobby Love,” I said.

  “All right, Mr. Love,” he said. “They’re sending a bus to pick you guys up from here tonight at eight p.m. We’ll provide you with a meal to take with you, but you better be here at eight or the bus leaves without you.”

  “I’ll be here, man,” I said. And I was. I was the first cat on that bus. I had eleven dollars left in my pocket.

  There were about fifteen other guys on the bus with me. With traffic, we didn’t arrive at the hotel until almost 10:30 p.m. Even so, the hotel manager made us sit through orientation that same night. They gave us our work schedules and showed us the boardinghouse where we’d be staying with the other staff, far away from the fancy hotel guests.

  When they showed me my room, I was so happy to see a clean bed. I took my first shower since escaping, and right before I fell asleep, I thanked God for keeping watch over me.

  The next morning I was put to work washing dishes. From my prison experience, I knew my way around an industrial kitchen, so nobody had any complaints about the new guy. I worked for three days straight and then I had four days off. When I wasn’t working, I would get some snacks, watch television, and sleep. I went into the small town once or twice to buy myself a pair of jeans, underwear, and toiletries, but for the most part I stayed at the hotel. It felt like a good hideaway, and I didn’t think anyone from the North Carolina prison system would be looking for me up there. I made sure to follow all the rules and never gave anyone cause to pay extra attention to me. I soon got into a steady routine, and working there gave me the confidence that I could work and live on the outside just fine. The only problem was, I was making far too little money to survive. Since they’d put me on the schedule to work just three days a week and they took room and board out of my check, I was only earning thirty-three dollars every two weeks. I made up my mind to stay through Christmas and then go back down to Manhattan.

  I was back in New York City by the new year, 1978. I resumed my wandering around the city, sleeping on the trains and looking for another job.

  One day I decided to venture down into the Financial District on Fulton Street. Right away I saw a bunch of employment agencies and I got really excited. The one with the biggest sign said, “Martinez Employment Agency.” I walked right in.

  “I don’t have any more jobs today,” a man called out before I even said anything.

  “Really, man?” I said walking over to his desk. “You don’t have anything?”

  The man looked up. His nameplate said George Martinez. “What can you do?” he asked me.

  “I can do anything in a kitchen. Bus tables, cook, wash dishes,” I said, listing off all the skills I’d acquired in prison.

  Mr. Martinez pulled out a clipboard and attached a few papers and then he handed me the clipboard. “Well, fill these out, then. Give me your name and everything like that. And you have to be here at eight o’clock in the morning. If I’m going to send you somewhere to bus tables for the day, you have to be here that early because the shift runs from ten a.m. to three p.m. for the lunch hour. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then,” he said.

  The next day I was standing in front of Mr. Martinez at 8:00 a.m. with a clean white shirt and dark jeans. I remembered what my mama always said about looking presentable.

  Mr. Martinez sent me to a restaurant right there in the Financial District called Guarino’s. The hostess was an older white woman named Ana. She looked me over and told me what the job entailed. I had to bus the tables for the waiters, but only after the waiters gave me the signal. “We get a lot of people from the trading floor coming in so we have to be quick with no mistakes. Am I making myself clear?” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  Guarino’s was a busy restaurant. They served burgers and steaks, plus some typical Italian dishes. Men in their buttoned-up suits started coming in at 11:00 a.m. and didn’t stop until 2:00 p.m. At three o’clock I was done and I was sweating. I hadn’t stopped moving the entire time. I’d barely had a moment to breathe, but I liked the quick pace because it made the time go by faster. Before I left, I asked Ana if I could return the next day to work again.

  She gave me an encouraging smile. “You certainly did a good job today, Mr. Love. I’ll call Mr. Martinez and tell him we want you back so you can come straight here.”

  “Thank you, Ana,” I said. “I appreciate that. And I’ll be here right on time tomorrow at nine a.m.”

  She smiled back at me. “Okay, we’ll see you then.”

  Working at Guarino’s, I’d earn twenty dollars a day, but they would take out $2.50 for Mr. Martinez. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was a start, and it was an honest dollar. Ana would arrange for the chef to make me a cheeseburger when I was done working, and she liked to chat with me while I was eating. We made small talk, but I never revealed too much about myself, especially the fact that I was homeless.

  At night I would sleep in the subway station up at 181st Street in Manhattan because it was so warm in that station. Of course, the trains would wake me up as they roared through, but other than that, it was preferable to trying to find a safe place on the streets, especially during the winter.

  I didn’t want Ana to know my situation, but I did ask if I could work full-time for the restaurant. She denied my request because, she said, the restaurant didn’t make enough money to hire full-time busboys.

  “That’s why we always get help from Martinez,” Ana explained. “Otherwise, you know I’d try to help you out,” she said.

  That meant I would have to find another job making more money because living in the subways was not my idea of making it in the city.

  The way I finally found a place to live is a funny story. Mr. Martinez sent me to another restaurant for an evening busboy position. While I was there, I met this cat who invited me back to his place in Staten Island to smoke a joint and play cards. His name was Floyd. Since I didn’t need to rush back to my corner at the Washington Heights subway station, I took him up on his offer. It turned out, Floyd lived in a rooming house on Staten Island. It was nothing fancy, but I had no cause to judge. I even asked Floyd if he thought there were other rooms available once he told me he only paid twenty-five dollars a week for rent. With my salary at Guarino’s I could afford that.

  “Naw, this place is full,” Floyd said, “but I’ll ask my landlady next time I see her.”

  “Thanks, man,” I sai
d. “I appreciate that.”

  “Where you staying now?” Floyd asked.

  I shrugged. “You know, here and there.”

  Later that night after we finished playing cards, Floyd told me he was going to go stay with his girlfriend for a few days.

  “Why don’t you stay here while you look for a place?” he said.

  “Really, man?” I said.

  “Yeah, no reason the place should be empty while you’re looking,” Floyd said, handing me the keys. “I’ll be back on Tuesday.” And he left.

  Floyd didn’t come back on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or Thursday. I was still staying in his room when someone knocked on the door on Friday morning.

  It was the landlady. “Who are you?” she said when I opened the door.

  “My name is Bobby,” I said.

  “Where’s Floyd? He owes me his rent money,” she said with a sour look on her face.

  “He said he was staying with his girlfriend,” I told the lady.

  “Well, who told you you could stay here?” the woman demanded.

  I didn’t know what to say. So I just stood there.

  “Who is going to pay the rent?” she asked, her voice getting shrill. “Somebody owes me twenty-five dollars.”

  I went and got my wallet and pulled out twenty-five dollars from my savings. I handed it to her.

  “So, you’re going to stay here?” she said.

  “Yeah, if I can,” I said.

  She sniffed. “As long as I get my twenty-five dollars every Friday.”

  “Not a problem,” I said, smiling.

  And that’s how I got my first apartment in New York. I never saw Floyd again.

  The weather turned warm as spring turned into summer and I was still working at Guarino’s. I had proven myself to be a dependable worker, always showing up on time and never missing a single day of work.

  One day after my shift was done and I was eating my burger, Ana came over to talk.

  “You know the Guarino brothers supply food for the cafeteria at the Hertz corporate headquarters in midtown,” she said.