Just an Average American Joe Vs. the World

By Neil J. Welks and Robert N. D’Ambola

Joe was just your average, ordinary guy. He always knew that he was one lucky individual to having had beat the odds of being born in the greatest country on the planet. Out of the more than 30 million births, in the year of Joe, only 4 million were fortunate to have been born in America and, thank God, half of them were girls. Joe came to learn that he lived in the home of the free because of the brave that came before him, like his hard-charging Marine Corps Dad. He greatly appreciated that the Constitution of the United States afforded him certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. He fully understood that this happiness was not a guarantee but he was welcome to pursue it. Joe grew up with an All-American work ethic that promised: if you rolled up your sleeves and worked hard, there was nothing you could not accomplish. The Constitution is one of the all-time greatest documents of all time but it did not make any promises that there would be no obstacles or pain along the road for your pursuit of that dream of happiness. Joe knew first hand what blood, sweat, and tears meant. He never looked for a participation trophy and realized, at a young age, that he was not entitled to anything he didn’t work for. He was willing to go full bore towards his goals and meet obstacles head on, which never were in short supply. He never went out looking for trouble but it always managed to find him. This is the story of an average American Joe verses the world as he encountered extraordinary experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669870883

Book preview

Just an Average

American Joe

vs. The World

Neil J. Welks &

Robert N. D’Ambola

Copyright © 2023 by Neil J. Welks & Robert N. D’Ambola.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 05/09/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

852058

CONTENTS

Dedication

Forward

Disclaimer

1 JOE

2 The Bear

3 Junior Mechanic

4 First Taste

5 The Fork

6 Follow the Yellow Brick Road

7 Location, Location, Location

8 Fly the Friendly Skies

9 Kicking the Habit

10 Go Fish

11 A New Beginning

12 Getting to the Finish Line is Half the Fun

13 The Missing Links

14 The Tree from Which the Apple Fell

15 The Toughest One of the Clan

16 Pay Me Now or Pay Me Later

17 The Offer I Had to Refuse

18 The Need for Speed

19 Pretty Workman

20 Keep Rolling

21 No One Puts Baby in the Corner

22 The Big Boy Book of Bad Things

23 Payment is Due

24 The Liberty Birds

25 Armifuckingdilly

26 The Local Gardener

27 Edison’s Nightmare

28 Pranks

29 I’m in Good Shape for the Shape I’m In

30 Dog Daze

Dedication

If the outrageous things you are about to read in this book were actually true and actually happened, then I would be obligated to dedicate this book to my wife, but the word would is a gross understatement. I am dedicating this book to my wife because honestly, that would be the least I could do, after what I may (or may not) have put her through. My wife is truly the best person I have ever known. She has stood shoulder to shoulder with me in the good times and in too many bad times. She has never blinked. She has always been my rock. I am the luckiest man alive to have her as my wife and as my best friend. We both have sacrificed too many hours apart to build the life that we now have together. I would not have changed a thing.

Now here comes the part where I thank everyone for helping to make this book possible. At the top of the list is Robert D’Ambola. Rob and I have been friends for over sixty years. I have been telling him my tales for decades, and he kept saying that I should write this shit down (WTSD) because no one would believe that this much fucked-up crap could possibly happen to one person. He finally convinced me to do it.

There is, of course, my family who somehow managed to tolerate me for all these many years. My wife and I have gathered numerous close friends who we are so fortunate to have in our lives. They are a great group of people who have remained friends even after I tortured them with my practical jokes. We sure have had a great time with you guys.

I would be remiss if I left out the editors of this gibberish, Mary and Cindy. You guys made this rambling nonsense coherent and actually appear plausible. I almost believe this shit actually happened.

Last, but not least, I would like to thank my parents, two very tough individuals. I learned plenty of life’s lessons from them, inherited some good traits and probably more bad traits than should normally be allowed to be passed down a generation. The best thing I got from them was their love of animals, specifically dogs. I grew up with Great Danes and never lost my love for that breed.

This is a story about an average American Joe who worked hard and tried harder to follow the rules even when they went against him; about a guy who fought for every inch of his place in the world. If I could afford to buy the rights to the song MY Way, written by Paul Anka and made famous by Frank Sinatra, I would have printed it here as my very own personal theme song. Since I couldn’t afford it, it is up to you to hum it I your head.

Forward

There have been many famous and infamous couples throughout history. There were tales of Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid who robbed banks. Not to be out done, there was that adorable twosome, Bonnie and Clyde, who had the equivalent occupation. It didn’t end well for either pair. There have been famous royal duos such as, Queen Elizabeth II and her husband, not King but a Duke, Prince Philip. There have been numerous singing duos, Sonny and Cher, The Carpenters, The Judds, Simon and Garfunkel, and Martin and Lewis. It didn’t end well for them either. There have been famous acting duos, Shrek and Donkey, Wayne and Garth, Abbott and Costello, Thelma and Louise (forget I mentioned Thelma and Louise).

I have been half of a couple for close to half a century that was neither famous nor infamous. It was, however, interesting as hell. I was so close to my partner you might say I was the flip side of a two-sided coin. Sometimes the world would flip us in the air for sport to see how we would land. Often we would hit the hard surface and continue to spin, defying all laws of physics, and refuse to fall on our side, so no official call could be made as to heads or tails. That is how we survived. We defied all odds and kept on spinning. The Eagles summed it up best in their song, Love Will Keep Us Alive.

My partner and I were made for each other. We checked. No one else would have signed up for this crazy life. I was the calmer of the two but that didn’t stop me from acting as the willing accomplice and significant sidekick participant to his insane antics. I may have even tweaked his dastardly plots on an occasion so that they had better flow which added more to the production value.

They say that Ginger Rogers could do everything that Fred Astaire could do, only she did it backwards while wearing high heels. You bet your ass I could keep up with my partner, but I left the heavy lifting to Joe. He was truly a master at his craft, being a Class A Ball Buster. He was also an expert at his work and a perfectionist. That in itself was a recipe for disaster. He believed that a dirty deed worth doing was worth doing well. Simply put, he did it well. Not only did Joe make more friends than any normal person should be allowed to have, he remained friends with them even after he tortured them with his pranks.

Make no mistake. This is a love story. It is about the love of Country. The love of family. The love of friends. The love of a craft and the pride in one’s own skills. And, of course, the love of man’s best friend. If this had been a true story (boy could I tell you stories), but I will let Joe handle that one.

M

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all names, characters, businesses, places, events, locations, pets and incidents are either the product of the authors’ disturbed imaginations or used in a fictitious manner to sell a ton of books and allow these two morons to retire in a manner they sorely deserve. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, mostly dead, not feeling peachy, or, actual events (which there were none), is purely coincidental—yes that’s it—coincidental. Let’s go with that one. We have tried to recreate events, locations and conversations from our memories even though this is a work of pure fiction and these supposed events and/or conversations could never have taken place at locations that never existed. In order to maintain the anonymity of these non-persons, in some instances, we have changed the names of individuals and places that have never existed, we may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence that also never existed. This book is not intended as a substitute for the medical advice of physicians. Why the Fuck would you assume that? This is a book about a guy named Joe. Why do you always think everything is about you? Get over yourself already! The reader, that means you, should regularly consult a physician in matters relating to (his/her/their/other) health and particularly with respect to any symptoms that may require diagnosis or medical attention. That is just common sense. The information in this book is meant to supplement, not replace, proper (name your sport and golf is not really a sport) training, because this book has nothing to do with exercise or sports. Apparently you bought the wrong book! If you hurry maybe you can get your money back if you held on to the receipt. Otherwise, use it as a Secret Santa gift to unload it on some other unsuspecting soul. Like any sport involving speed, equipment, balance and environmental factors, EVERYTHING poses some inherent risk. That is called life. For God’s sake it is dangerous to breathe in some cities. The authors advise readers to take full responsibility for their own safety and know their limits. Before practicing the skills described in this book (which there are no skills in this book), be sure that your equipment is well maintained, and do not take risks beyond your level of experience, aptitude, training, and comfort level. Hint: look in the mirror. Are we clear yet? Do not try any of this shit at home because you are on your own Bucko! Enjoy the read and tell your friends to buy their own copy of this book. You know damn well that if you lend this copy to your so-called friend, you will never see this book again. You can try writing your name in it but they will only rip that page out. We are also not responsible if you skipped the damn disclaimer because you are too busy and want to get right into the story. Your loss. These stories are for entertainment purposes only. The authors have made a half-hearted attempt to ensure that all this information is correct and fact checked, even though these events never occurred and all characters never walked upon this earth. Everyone associated with this book, including the person that kindly bagged it for you at the checkout counter, does not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party (Democratic, Republican, or Surprise) for any loss, damage, or disruption of their digestive system, caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from brain farts or senility.

Begin.

1

JOE

The term Ordinary Joe is used primarily in North America to refer to a completely average person, typically - an average American. Joe also became a term for U.S. soldiers. During WWII, G.I. was added to the Average American Joe moniker, which was short for Government Issued. People all around the world would call out to our brave soldiers, Hey Joe. Joe became a term of endearment such as buddy or pal. It denoted a friend you can trust and upon whom you can depend. Joe is your all-around good guy. Never confuse his compassion for weakness. And never ever fuck with him!

2

The Bear

My life is summed up nicely by professional drag race champion driver, Roger Penske¹, when in 1964 he stated, In drag racing, there is a saying ‘Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you’. This means you win a few close ones and you lose a few close ones. (To be clear, I never met Roger Penske, I was ten years old at the time of his revelation) This line was resurrected and made famous in 1998 in the cult classic, The Big Lebowski. The character in this movie played by the actor Sam Elliot, The Stranger, elicits his words of wisdom to The Dude in his signature gravelly southern drawl that crawled out from underneath his equally famous bushy moustache, Sometimes you eat the bar (bear), and sometimes, well, he eats you. This is of course a metaphor for how life is unpredictable.

Hello. My name is Joseph Walker, but everyone just calls me Joe. Thanks for stopping by. I had a Forrest Gump moment and thought it was time to tell my story. I will save you the inconvenience of sitting on an uncomfortable park bench while waiting for a bus to hear my tales. I was never famous but was certainly well known in certain specialty circles. I was not, nor did I ever become a celebrity in any of our current medias. I cannot act or dance and certainly cannot sing. Hell, people would tell me to knock it off if they heard me humming. Most people would just call me your Average Joe².

I have always considered myself just an Average Joe. At times it looked like the entire world was playing shirts, and I was the only one on skins in the freezing cold. Many times the odds were stacked against me and the game was rigged so that the house always won no matter what hand I held. I would double down and the dealer would flash a sly smile as he scooped all my colored chips away. I was able to persevere through bad and even badder times and maintained a positive attitude with the backing of my family, my wife, and an entire heap of crazy-ass friends. It is hard to believe there were quite a few of my friends who are crazier than me.

I have eaten a few bears in my lifetime but there were many times when I was the appetizer, main course, and dessert. I have run into the entire gamut of assholes, idiots, dummies, and morons. I also recognized that at times I belonged in at least one or more of those categories, including that of Son of a Bitch and major ball buster. From a very young age my parents instilled in me a very strong work ethic, and I took advantage of that inner motivation and made the most of it.

I remember one day I had come home after a high school soccer game. I was totally pissed off and depressed that my coach sat me out the entire game. I relayed how unfair the coach had been to me. The coach was an asshole. My father left the room and returned with a pad. He told me he had written down all the things I was entitled to on that pad. He threw it on the table in front of me. The pad was blank. He said, Others can do better than you but it’s your own fault if you don’t work harder than others. Point taken and learned. I worked harder after that and started playing more. I guess the coach wasn’t an asshole, he was the coach and he was coaching.

Some people today would point at me and say I was privileged because I was able to provide for my family and enjoyed some of the perks that went along with good old, roll up your sleeves, spit in your hands, hard work. To those people I say, Fuck yea I was privileged! I was born in the greatest country in the world to two wonderful loving but tough-ass, caring parents, who remained together until death did they part. I had a great childhood growing up in a genuine community neighborhood, where everyone watched out for everyone else. You couldn’t get away with anything if you tried (and boy did I try).

The one and only thing I did get away with was being a part of an international theft ring. Okay it was within my small town. This happened totally by accident. Being goofy kids, we did goofy things. One goofy pastime involved climbing up things. This included, but was not limited to, our house exterior, telephone poles, and the old four-legged street corner mailbox. One agile individual discovered he could get to the top of, and sit on, the street sign seven feet off the ground. While perched atop his newest conquest, he realized that he could remove the double faced street sign name, which he promptly did.

It was not long before our collectively disturbed kid brains came up with a plan to remove selected signs. We only existed to impress the young ladies, so we provided Mary with a gift of her own Mary St. sign. Rose received Rose St. and so on. We expanded our collection like big game hunters looking for the ultimate prize. We never sold any. It took an article in the local paper that described our magnanimous efforts as street sign theft. The paper alerted the community that over $1200 worth of signage had already been stolen. We had no idea we were stealing. That is how dumb we were. We immediately saw the light and amended our ways and headed to the righteous path. No, we didn’t return the signs. That would have been more stupid than taking them in the first place. Besides, you cannot ask a pretty little lady to return a gift. The crime spree ended as abruptly as it had started and our parents, along with the entire population of the town, chipped in by means of their local property taxes, to pay for new signs. That was just swell of them.

I escaped a life of crime and was able to pursue my dreams because I busted my ass for every bit of it and most of the people I knew did too. I deserve where I am in life and am not willing to give it up or trade places with someone who doesn’t give a shit. No silver spoons were placed in my mouth, and no participation trophies were presented to me for just showing up to the game of life.

I was never able to cash in on my special privilege card. I never received free college, free food, free housing, or any other benefits. I always paid my share of taxes (to pay for street signs that stupid kids stole) while others chose not to work. I never considered myself a victim although I have been victimized on more than one occasion. I shake my head at the latest generation that wants to start a revolution. They sit in their (name your high-end coffee) shops on their name brand lap tops ordering shit they don’t need that they expect to be delivered to their front door the next day. They wear their designer sunglasses while drinking their over-priced drinks and complain how unfair the world is. They have the world by the balls and don’t realize the gift that has been given to them. What kind of special moron pays thousands of dollars for a gym membership and then brings a book to read during a free weight workout? They also need to have their freaking annoying glowing phone on while at a movie. I want to shake them and tell them to wake the fuck up.

They have clean fresh water every time they turn on the tap while two billion people lack access to safe drinking water. Nearly half of the world’s population lack decent sanitation in their homes. The whiners have a roof over their heads with at least one working toilet in their own home and plenty of food for several people, yet they want to start a revolution, about what I have no idea. The cold hard truth is they cannot even start a freaking blender to make their own vitamin drink. Mike Row from the TV series Dirty Jobs summed it up nicely when he said³, We’re churning out a generation of poorly educated people with no skills, no ambition, no guidance and no realistic expectations of what it means to go to work.

I also made it a point to treat everyone fair and equal, even the group I just mentioned that annoyed me to no end. I always understood that no one was better than me, while at the same time realizing that I was no better than anyone else. My parents both originated from New York State. My mother was Irish Catholic and my father was a Hungarian Jew. Two very different people from very harsh and distinct heritages. We had both a Christmas Tree and a Menorah set up in our house every December. The stockings were always hung by the chimney with care, one with my name and one with my brother’s names embroidered. This made perfect sense to me. This mesh of two ancient religions only increased my understanding and respect for all others. This made me the all-American mutt, like most of my fellow countrymen. I was proud to carry that moniker.

One of my greatest weaknesses was that I was too empathetic to others and believed in giving second chances and sometimes thirds. This often came back and bit me in the ass like a hungry Pit Bull, but that did not deter me or change the way I interacted with others. I was taught to be strong and fight for what I believed in and protect the ones I loved. Did this lead me to going a bit overboard? Hell yes! But I stood up for my principles and would also do anything to protect my family. So besides being a white privileged male, I am also a patriotic, flag waving, blue jean wearing, redneck. I find it hysterical that white people call people racist for being white. That is one of the most racist things you can say. The haters can call me whatever makes them happy. I am proud to wear my patriotic badge. My parents earned it, and I never had any intention of surrendering it.

My father owned a seafood restaurant after World War II and had to make daily trips to the Fulton Fish Market in the Bronx to purchase fresh seafood. It was also here that my Dad met the love of his life, my mother. My maternal Grandfather owned and operated several wholesale fish market stands at that same location. New York’s Market was the country’s largest seafood distribution center. Since years before the start of World War II, it was entirely run by the Mafia along with all dock operations, including the workers themselves who unloaded all the ships. Not one fish would be allowed to move in or out of this area without the Mob’s approval. This was Organized Crime on a grand fish scale. See what I did there?

My Grandfather was obligated to make the standard weekly donation to The Boys to ensure he received his own share of the fresh catch of the day. If he refused or made trouble, he fully understood that he would no longer be selling fish, but sleeping with them. My Grandfather would only sell to hotels and restaurants. My father owned one of those select restaurants allowed to make purchases. This was my Dad’s greatest fish story with a very odd twist. It turned out that Mafia Don and Boss of all Bosses, Lucky Luciano, was inadvertently responsible for my parents getting together. My dad would always say, I once caught a bride this big holding out his arms to represent his wife. That joke always made my mother laugh. My Dad had made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

My Dad made the natural career transition from restaurant owner to Union Iron Worker because that seemed like the logical move. What is closer to cutting up fish than walking on beams hundreds of feet in the air? He took me to work a couple of times to a Manhattan high-rise and allowed me to ride up to the 35th floor on an I-beam and go for a walk with him on the girders. It was exhilarating. It was not your typical – take your kid to work day! The entire Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) would have a collective heart attack if someone did that today. My Dad later worked at Newark Airport during its expansion and then went on to build bridges on the New Jersey Turnpike. This was one tough ass guy who was not afraid of hard and dangerous work, or just about anything or anybody. Everyone is born with an internal fight or flight response which helps them survive in dangerous situations. My dad lacked this condition. He had a fight or fight harder response. The more danger that existed, the faster he would run towards it. More about my dad later.

After being a stay-at-home mom like most women of that post-war era, my mom entered the field of accounting and moved up the corporate ladder and became a comptroller for a large manufacturing company. She was a petite little thing who could have replaced June on the TV series Leave it to Beaver. Little did anyone know that she was as tough as nails beneath that sweet exterior. My older brother and I somehow found out about her secret past. She never made a big deal about it, but it turned out that she flew planes during WWII for the Civil Air Patrol (CAP).

This group started as the Civil Air Reserve dating back to 1936 when there appeared to be an impending war and America required a strong national defense. The group changed its name to the Civil Air Patrol and had renewed interest in 1941 with the onset of WWII. In 1942, German U-Boats began attacking merchant ships off the eastern coast of the United States. CAP responded by establishing coastal flights to deter enemy action. My mother flew out of her base in Long Island covering territory extending to New England.

From March 1942 through August 1943, armed CAP aircraft at twenty-one coastal patrol bases extending from Maine to the Mexican border patrolled the waters off the Atlantic and Gulf coasts. Their success in thwarting submarine attacks and safeguarding shipping lanes led President Franklin D. Roosevelt to issue Executive Order 9339 on April 29, 1943,⁴ transferring CAP from the Office of Civilian Defense to the Department of War.⁵

After the war, my mom competed in the Women’s Air Derby, later changed to the Powder Puff Derby after famous humorist Will Rogers wrote about it in his column. This was the first women-only air race in the United States. To qualify, pilots had to have at least 100 hours of solo flight, which included a minimum 25 hours of cross-country flying. They took off from Santa Monica, California and ended in Cleveland, Ohio. Stops included San Bernardino, Yuma, Phoenix, Douglas, Pecos, Midland, Abilene, Fort Worth, St. Louis, and Cincinnati. At each stop, the pilots often overnighted for refueling, repairs, media attention and dinner banquets.

Amelia Earhart competed in at least one Powder Puff before she disappeared in 1937 along with her navigator, Fred Noona,⁶ while trying to be the first to circumnavigate the world. Rumor had it that my mom won this race one year, but we have never confirmed it. Winner or not, she was one tough broad. My parents were two great role models to have watching over me and my brother. I never met another mom that was a war time pilot. She could kick any Bear’s ass.

3

Junior Mechanic

I always enjoyed mechanical things and was ecstatic when my 17th birthday approached. This meant real driving. I had already been working on my favorite toy for some time. My older brother, Chuck, had his own car but could not have it on campus while he was away at college. He owned one bad ass, dark blue, 1968 Ford Mustang. It was a two-door coupe with a larger 302 V-8 engine. Most models only had an engine size of 289 cubic inches. The four-on-the-floor stick shift made it the monster that roared on the roads. I loved tearing the engine apart and building it again, of course with a few sweet extras added.

I dropped a four barrel carburetor on the engine just for fun. This magical piece of equipment was responsible for mixing just the right amount of fuel and air that fed the engine and gave it life. Carburetors went out of style in the late 1980’s with the invention of fuel injection. The best part was when you punched the gas pedal down you could hear the carburetor open up and suck in as much air as it could, like a spaceship hitting its propulsion rockets for a boost to exit the earth’s gravitational pull. In the 1960’s it was all about miles per hour and not miles per gallon. In fact you could actually watch the needle on the gas gauge drop in real time. These cars ate gasoline for a snack, and we indulged them at every opportunity. Gas cost a whopping thirty- five cents a gallon at the time, and we could not shovel out our change fast enough.

I also had the opportunity to work on several of my buddies’ cars because we were young and dumb and were always breaking things or blowing shit up. We sometimes would spend an entire weekend under someone’s car. Safety googles? What were they for? We always managed to drop a flake