Alcohol & Addiction in Action: The Life and Death of Joe Rowley
Alcohol & Addiction in Action: the Life and Death of Joe Rowley
The Life And Death Of Joe Rowley.
The funny thing is, I didn’t know Joe that well.
He was only an acquaintance really, a drinking acquaintance, not a close friend of mine by any stretch of the imagination. A ship that passed in the drink and drug soaked long dark night of my soul. So why was it that when I heard of his death, six thousand miles away, and more than a sober year or two after our last contact, that I was moved to tears? I cannot find a full explanation yet, it remains a teasing and tantalizing will o’ the wisp, dancing on the peripheral fringes of my consciousness. Perhaps in writing this and recounting the facts of the matter, I will be able to find some resolution, as I still get teary, some thirty years later, when I think of Joe, and the manner of his end.
I had moved from London, our English capital city, to Brighton, a small seaside holiday town about sixty miles South, with it’s more provincial ambience. Also, as a holiday resort, it possessed a subclass that derived much of it’s income from the periodic influx of tourists. These people ranged from those who provided legitimate services, such as board and lodging, a well known genera including such sub-species as seaside landladies and hotel workers, to the more exploitative, such as bargirls, and the downright predatory, such as pick-pockets and pimps. Graham Green in his novel Brighton Rock, gives his grim, gray, grainy portrait of these under classes, with their admixture of petty criminality, that populate this underside of Brighton society; and the sordid parabolas of fungal doom that constitute the nightblooming of their lives. Probably not so different from many towns whose income is in some large part derived from similar sources.
Joe, earning his living as a beach photographer, was mid-range in his grubby occupation. A bit exploitative of the visitors, with his persistent persuasive importunings, as he prevailed upon tourists to purchase his services, hawked on the promenade and lower beachfront, without going as far as to actually insert his hand into their pocket. Myself, drinking within bar patios on the lower beachfront level, had plenty of opportunity to observe Joe ply his trade. Manipulating vacationers with what I now realize was an underlying, but ever present, driving desperation. Joe would be a clown for people, mock himself, present himself in any way he thought would ingratiate. He uttered his smoothly flowing conman patter, it poured out of his mouth without seeming effort, as he at times literally capered in front of a prospect whose path he had blocked. Joe had the gift of the gab. For me, this was observed mainly during the daytime, on sunny public holidays or weekends, which attracted me to the vicinity of his beat. Lucrative times for Joe, but he was probably similarly engaged most other days too, unless it was raining, or too cold and windy, or all three, on that coast of frequent hurtling squalls. God knows how he got by in some of the savage months of Winter.
Now and again Joe would take a break, and join the company for a beer, camera slung around his neck, like some disreputable reporter from the holiday beachhead, before resuming his endeavors. Conversing and joking around, always active and animated, bouncy with a cheerful ready wit, nut-brown from the regular exposure to the sun that he absorbed as the condition of his line of work, he was an entertaining companion. Perhaps a bit of a rough diamond, with his short crew cut hair lending an oafish look to his short and stocky build, part soldier, part gangster thug. Though he hardly stood out in this seafront assembly of drinkers, daylight ladies of the evening, hustlers, midday drunken tourists, misfits and ne’er do wells of every stripe. You understand, the usual potpourri of riff raff to be found in such places. For all his chunky masculinity, I never saw Joe with a woman. It’s not that he gave any indication that he was gay. He just seemed more at ease and more often at home in the company of men. Though in all conscience, he was seemingly as relaxed when my then wife was present drinking with me, passing the time of day with her in amiable chit chat and superficial banter. Joe gave no indication of superior education or culture either. His language was commonplace, salty and vulgar on occasion as it might be. He never infringed on a topic of any meaning, all was pitched on a mundane everyday level. Only the quickness of his sharp wit at times revealed there might be more intelligence to Joe than was normally allowed to be visible. Of course, even in those quarters, as elsewhere, rapid wit and skills at repartee gain their owner respect, so Joe probable felt it safe to show them.
One late sunny Sunday morning, Joe entered the seafront bar I happened to be patronizing. After buying his first drink, he began pitching me his service. Making me a “mark”, a