I remember being in 2nd grade and my step-father, Joe, came home with a motorcycle to my mother’s dismay. We were living in “Point” (as in Point Pleasant, NJ) down the street from my great-grandmother in a newly built duplex house. Joe came home with this mechanical embodiment of testosterone and took my brother for a spin around the block and then me afterwards. We raced down the road past my great-grandmother’s house and came back as I held on for dear life. A short ride, indeed, but he punched it enough that I yelped and was thankful to be deposited back on the ground, all body parts in tact. That would be the first and last time I rode on that motorcycle, thankfully I thought at the time.

Scaring the life out of me like that made him laugh. Something within him enjoyed delivering me to the edge of my comfort zone, as though there was a glitch in the life matrix and he could see beyond that moment in time to another dimension, knowing everything would be OK. It’s in those moments, I think, where he felt the full thrust of life. Joe enjoyed living on the brink, sometimes beyond the point of no return.

Around the same time, I remember going to the Benihana Grand Prix (or at least that’s what we called it even when it turned into the Walsh Grand Prix and other names) pre-show and race in Point Beach, NJ. It was an era of Op shorts, Hawaiian shirts, and black flip flops with rainbow soles which was reflected in the design of many of the powerboats of that time.

The pre-show was where all the boats and owners were lined up in a parking lot on display before race day. Despite the crowds, he loved every moment of it. He took great enjoyment in knowing all the specs of each boat and what they could do. And eventually watching the boats skip and fly across the water was what he lived for. He loved it so much that he and his business partner, Mark, made model powerboats that they’d take down to the lake at Ocean County Park and compete.

 

Joe always talked about having a boat some day even though he couldn’t afford one of his own. And when I was old enough to be on my own, I always said that if I were to come into a lot of money, I’d buy him that boat. To that end, it was customary for me to play the lottery when the prize was an astronomical amount with the thought in mind that my first purchase upon winning would be that boat for Joe. Sometimes I’d play using his birthdate or some combination thereof: 7, 9, 19, 50. I never did win anything substantial, certainly not enough to buy a boat, but I intended to deliver on that promise someday.

Several years ago, my step-father realized a life-long dream and bought a Camaro. He spent a lot of money supercharging it with all kinds of equipment and gadgets to make it go even faster than before. Joe had a need for speed. The faster, the better. And I think his work as a contractor afforded him lots of opportunities to discover stretches of local roads he could punch it up on, when he had the chance to drive it. Nothing thrilled him more that pulling up to a light next to some other young hotshot guy driving his own hotrod, only to drop it in gear fractions of a second after the light changed, leaving the other guy in the dust.

But the real reason he had this car was so he could bring it to the track and test it for all its worth. I remember how excited he was to bring it to Atco Speedway in New Egypt, NJ for the first time. He didn’t win this heat, but he enjoyed telling the story of how the car felt when he hit the gas pedal. There’s something to be said for that moment when you’re in a stationary position and suddenly thrust into what feels like oblivion, a feeling which Joe was so enamored with.

Two summers ago, I once again went to the point of no return and back with Joe when he took me for a spin in the Camaro. I should have taken it as a sign that this was a true hotrod when I had to be harnessed into the passenger seat. 

On a very straight and unoccupied stretch of the Bridge Avenue Extension in Point, he dropped it into gear and we took off so fast I couldn’t comprehend. Shear terror took over as the speedometer increased quite rapidly and excessively. At the last check, we had hit 120 mph. I’m sure there were expletives being spouted from my mouth at the time, but what I remember the most was when he slowed down he was laughing and asking if I was alright. That was Joe: ‘Ask forgiveness, not permission.’ Or better yet, ‘Work hard, but play even harder.’

No one, and I mean no one was more generous with his time than Joe. Need someone to get up on a roof in a rainstorm because it’s leaking? Ask Joe. Want to know what’s the best kind of insulation to buy to fill your crawl space? Ask Joe. Can’t figure out how to hook up a slop sink in your basement? Ask Joe. From the most trivial of tasks to the most time-consuming, Joe would find a way to help out anyone who asked. And it’s a true testament to the kind of person Joe was that nearly every single picture I have of him he’s smiling, no matter the circumstances. He had a great sense of humor, a passion for life, and above all else, a big heart.

Yesterday was exactly one month without Joe in my life. It’ll never be the same. To say I’m devastated is an understatement. 58 years old is too young. Who ever knew 29 years old could be a half life? At 33, I struggle with that concept, that, along with the notion that he’ll never get the chance to walk me down the aisle. I was looking forward to that more than I can express with the written word.

While he lay there on that hospital gurney, I spoke to him. I’m not a religious person, but if he could have heard me, he would have heard me say that I was picturing him on that boat, floating out to sea and everything was peaceful and calm and that I missed him and loved him. I’m hoping to someday deliver him that boat while scattering his ashes along the Jersey Shore, hopefully while going fast.

As a true techie would have it, Larry, my fiance, and I made two CD’s for close family members. One CD had , the other had all the music we piped through the speakers. Some of the best memories I have of Joe are of him blaring songs from, “Born to Run” by Bruce Springsteen and “The Stranger” by Billy Joel on the stereo on long car rides or in the family room. 

He never would have wanted to go out with sappy elevator or church music. He was ‘too cool for school,” so we made a line-up of some songs and artists we know he liked:

• I Will Not Be Broken / Bonnie Raitt
• I’m On Fire / Bruce Springsteen
• Ramblin’ Man / The Allman Brothers Band
• It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere / Alan Jackson & Jimmy Buffett
• Gypsy / Fleetwood Mac 
• Have You Ever Seen The Rain / Creedence Clearwater 
• Margaritaville / Jimmy Buffett 
• Small Town / John Mellencamp 
• One Step Up / Bruce Springsteen 
• Carolina In My Mind / James Taylor 
• Sugar-Sugar (In My Life) / John Fogerty
• Valentine / Nils Lofgren
• Dreams / Fleetwood Mac 
• Just The Way You Are / Billy Joel
• The Weight / The Band
• Lonely Ol’ Night / John Mellencamp
• I Don’t Want to Go Home / Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes
• Groovin’ / The Young Rascals
• Dancing in the Dark / Bruce Springsteen
• Fire And Rain / James Taylor 

There’s something about Billy Joel’s, “Only the Good Die Young” that puts a dagger through my heart, and yet when I hear that song I can’t help but think how true it is. 

Joe, I miss you and love you.

Comments are open on this post, but I’d like to be frank and upfront by saying that religious messages, while only meant in the sincerest of ways, make me uncomfortable. I just ask that if you leave a comment, please respect my wishes.

Tags: Joseph G. "Chip" Quinn