Bobby Moses

I dreamt of Bobby Moses. His sparkling brown eyes smiled at me and I instantly exclaimed, “Bobby Moses!” I hadn’t seen Bobby Moses since I was in high school.

The summer after my brother Michael moved to Woodbridge State School, later named Woodbridge Developmental Center, I was 17 and couldn’t find a full-time summer job, just a part-time janitorial position at a local restaurant and bakery, Geiger’s. My mom, always a source of creative ideas, suggested I volunteer at Woodbridge. I liked to swim and got an assignment to help at the on-site swimming pool.

Early in the morning I’d clean toilets and vacuum the dining rooms, then I’d spend the afternoon with the Woodbridge residents at the pool.

Bobby Moses was a large young man, probably about twenty. He had a mischevious grin and a gregarious nature. His favorite activity was belly-flopping into the pool and splashing everyone who wasn’t paying attention to him. He had a long, ugly scar across his abdomen. I never asked him, but the head lifeguard said it was a gunshot wound. It was hard to imagine Bobby being in a brawl, he was so easy-going and sweet-tempered, but we had no details, just the fact of the scar. I loved calling his name. There is something wonderfully stirring about that name.

As I reminisce, I hear our snow-plower’s pickup truck rumble up the long drive and around the center tree. It looks like fun, swinging around the circle, slamming into the snowbanks he is creating. Hard to imagine the hot New Jersey sun beating down and the aroma of chlorine on my skin. And Bobby Moses.