Joe was a fascinating mix of saint and sinner, in his life. Aren't we all, right? I know essentially why he was a sinner. I won't reveal that, here. But I will describe an incident in which he tried without success to have my Dodge Aries station wagon stolen, years ago, at my home in Magnolia.
One day, I was at work in my little law office at home, pulling together evidence I would need for night court in the municipal court one town over from Magnolia. I heard a knock at the door. Waiting there was Joseph Ferrara, looking very "strung out" and seriously in need of a fix.
"Pete," he said, "I need $50 for groceries, right now, this minute."
I answered, "No, Joe. I know the look. You're in need of a 'hit.' The instant you get $50, you're going to make a call, get a ride to Gloucester City, and juice-up on drugs. I can even tell you what the $50's for. I know 'H' withdrawal when I see it. Come on, Joe, if you're this bad, you're almost maxed-out of your withdrawal. Let me call Police, and maybe they'll lock you up if you tell them that you've been using."
"Hey, Pete, let me come into your house," he said.
"Nope!" I responded. "You'll case my place, and I'll have to stay up a week just to keep from being burglarized."
"Come ON, Pete," he begged.
"No," I calmly insisted. "I'll buy you lunch which I will watch you eat, Joe, but we're walking to the restaurant. No vehicle for you, unless it's a paddy wagon. You're way too desperate to be a passenger in a motor vehicle."
"Hey, Pete," Joe responded, "That is a very good looking station wagon you have there."
"Hey, Joe, thanks!," I said, with feigned naivete, "I'm glad that you appreciate that!"
"I'M THREATENING TO STEAL YOUR CAR WHEN YOU'RE NOT LOOKING, YOU IDIOT!" Joe yelled demonically, annoyed at my feigned naivete.
I answered, "Come on, Joe. Cut the crap. Look at you. Listen to what you are saying to one of the few people on Earth who is able to shake your hand and call you 'friend.' Don't sell your last friendship to the Devil for a drug high, Joe. That's the express train to Hell. Shake my hand, call me 'friend,' and walk away, Joe."
Joe spat at me, voiced an obscenity, and left.
As soon as he was gone, I drove to American Battery and purchased The Club for the steering wheel of each of our cars ...
... and locked-up each of the cars, and distributed keys to family members, as they began arriving home from work, and then I left for court. I then spent the next 7 hours in night court on a protracted municipal-level trial, arriving home at about 1:15 a.m. on a hot Summer night. I stripped down to my Fruit-of-the-Looms downstairs, and watched television, planning to don my PJs when I went upstairs after I began to feel sleepy.
At 1:30 a.m. I saw the headlights of cars pulling up to the house shining through the curtains. I peeked out and saw a group of young men standing around my car, shining headlights into it. I listened carefully through the partially opened window and heard one guy screaming at the other guy that there just wasn't enough time to "get that thing off the steering wheel."
I jumped up and dashed to the main door of the house and jumped from the porch to the sidewalk, dressed only in my Fruit-of-the-looms, screaming something unearthly. The young men looked up, shocked, frozen in place.
I heard Joe Ferrara screaming like a madman from a car on stopped on Warwick Road, in front of my house, "STEAL THE CAR! GET THAT CAR!"
I yelled, "JOE FERRARA, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"
Then an idea jumped into my head: Thank him for "setting-up" the guys standing around my car, because police were on the way.
But it occurred to me that they would respond by murdering Joe, if I shouted that.
So, instead, I just turned to the young men, and yelled as loud as I could, "YOU GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, TOO!!! THE WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD KNOWS THAT FERRARA IS IN THAT CAR, NOW. LEAVE BEFORE SOMEONE CALLS POLICE!!!"
And they all left, and that was it.
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