Every Step You Take

And So, The Story Begins

It was a surreal moment, I opened my eyes and I immediately recognized the ceiling above the bed I was in; it was the same hospital ward my brother Michael had been in a few years earlier. I reached out and touched the bed around me; the sheets were drawn tight against me. Then I touched my body; I had tubes stuck in my arms and a bandage around the top of my head. I was aware of all of this in an instant. In an instant, I knew I must be hurt, hurt enough to be laying in a bed at Fordham Hospital in the Bronx. I also knew it was Christmas Day, 1964.

I did not hear any sounds at first; but, as my mind cleared from the deep sleep I must have been in, I started to hear voices. Bernie Matos’ voice was the first sound that filtered into my head. I kept hearing him telling me not to take the bandage off my head. Well, that is exactly what I did. The bandage felt like a turban and I just yanked it off my head and threw it across the hospital ward in the direction of Bernie’s voice. So much for the bandage!

I was mad. I could not focus my eyes very well so I could not identify any faces, just voices. “Damn it Bernie, stop barking at me!”

“Joe, we were in an accident. Everybody was hurt a little bit but you’re the worst one off,” he said.

“Thanks for the news Bernie.”

My head just would not clear up and my eyes refused to focus. Then I caught an image of a dark figure that I immediately identified and I called out, “Father!” I was right; it was a priest.

He came closer to my bed, leaned forward, and said, “You need to rest my son. You’ve been in an accident and you’re in very bad shape. The doctors think you might not make it.” He hesitated a moment and then said, “Son, you’re going to die.”

The priest held my hand and then asked me if I would like him to hear my confession. I then made what I thought was my last confession as he administered the Sacrament for the Dead and Dying.

Eleven hours earlier, I had been at a party; the Alvarez sisters really knew how to throw a party. Their parties always had the right ingredients: slow, make-out music, and lots of booze. I remember dancing most of the evening with my girlfriend, Sonia Alicea (no relation then and definitely none now). The hot and sexy tunes of Smoky Robinson and the Miracles, the Platters, plus Little Anthony and the Imperials mixed very well with all the rum and cola I was drinking. We danced and drank for hours and then left the party. Seven of us headed for Bernie's neighborhood church where we planned to attend midnight mass. The last thing I remember of those previous eleven hours was getting into Bernie’s car and sitting in the back seat. Sonia was with me and my arms were around her.

Eleven hours ago, it was Christmas Eve. Eleven hours ago, I was a fifteen-year old kid trying to act as an adult, thinking I was cool. Eleven hours ago, my life was in my hands, my world held lots of promise, and the future was so bright I needed shades. Eleven hours ago, I was not dying.

I still remember making that last confession. I remember the priest and I remember what happened when he handed me a mirror I had begged him for; I needed to see my face. The last thing I saw just before I lapsed back into unconsciousness was the face of a once-good looking kid. The mirror's image was still covered with dried blood; it was scarred and stitched together at the cheek, ear, and forehead.

There was a very unnatural bald spot above the left side of my forehead. That spot is where the surgeons had to cut into my skull in order to stop the hemorrhage that threatened my life. I was a mess and I was dying.