Joe, Danny and Bruce - and a pledge to live

Danny = a 14-year-old boy, his father’s carer

Joe = a terminally ill 60-year-old man

Bruce = an 18-month-old Mastiff (dog), Danny’s dog

When you work in the “people business,” as public relations largely is, selecting just one category of people you get involved with, help or work with is not what will make you very good at what you do; you will only be able to relate to just one social archetype.

Listening to people and understanding where they come from in terms of their behaviours, habits, perspectives on life and on what is really important to them keeps you grounded and makes your knowledge and advice relevant.

The story of Danny, Bruce and Joe is one that shook me to the core and reminded me once more why I chose “the people business” over any other career path. When there is not much you can help with or offer, what you say and how you say it can change someone’s life or, at least, make it better.

I spent five long days in Newcastle, England last week. I was there for work, and I stayed in a hotel on the outskirts of the city. For reasons related to the ongoing safety and security of Danny, Joe, and Bruce (their real names), I cannot tell you what hotel that was, just that it was part of a well-known hotel chain, largely used by business travellers and tourists alike.

I didn’t know much about Newcastle, its night life, gang wars and drug or social inequality issues. But now, I do.

I arrived in Newcastle last Wednesday evening and, after dinner, I went outside to have a cigarette (yes, I am a smoker). The hotel I stayed in was also dog friendly, so there were some residents taking their dogs out for what was their last “business” of the day. Among them, there was a 60-something year old man, short and very thin (I initially thought he was a small boy, he was so thin and frail), walking a large Mastiff dog who could have easily toppled him over.

The hotel’s smoking shelter had a bench right by the entrance and, as a dog lover, I cooed over this big lump of a dog (I am not afraid of big dogs). Later I learned that the dog’s name was Bruce, that he was 18 months old and, to my delight, the only thing he was really interested in were belly and hip rubs – he didn’t bark, growl, or utter a single noise all the time I was there.

I thought Joe (the elderly man) didn’t quite look like the usual hotel resident but, being tired and expecting to face a very long day ahead of me on Thursday, didn’t give it too much of a thought. After stroking Bruce several more times, I said goodnight to Joe and went up to my room. As I did that, his eyes lit up and one of the most heartfelt toothless smiles I have ever seen lit up his face.

Thursday evening came along and, as I got to the hotel, a group of Irish tourists were outside in the smoking area, speaking with Joe, Bruce (of course), and a young boy – I found out on Friday that the young boy was Joe’s son, and his name was Danny.

I stopped to have a cigarette, at quite some distance from this group, wondering what an elderly man with a dog and a young boy is doing in that hotel – I thought he was truck driver or similar, having a rest stop before going onto the other leg of his journey, although the hotel itself wasn’t quite the usual “truck stop”. Didn’t think twice about it, didn’t care much about it either, I said “good night” and went up to my room.

Friday was a very long day for me, and I got back to the hotel around 10 pm. I had already bought a takeaway coffee from Starbucks on my way back and sat down on the bench outside the hotel to enjoy my coffee and my cigarette. I didn’t want to see anyone, nor speak with anyone.

As I was deep in my thoughts, Joe and Bruce came out of the hotel. Now that was something that really got me very curious and, while I was giving Bruce the “expected” belly and hip massage, I asked Joe whether he was on holiday or whether he was travelling for business.

What follows is one of the most surreal dialogues I’ve had in my life and you will understand, if you got so far through this article, why I felt compelled to share this story with you. I’ll convey it as a dialogue, to make it easier to follow:

“Will you be here for several days more?” I asked Joe.

“Hopefully we’ll be out of here by next Friday.”

“Why “hopefully”?”

“The police brought us here for our safety, and they are hoping to find us a new place by next Friday.”

“Who is “us” and what happened?”

“Oh, me, my son Danny, and this is Bruce” he said, smiling crookedly and pointing down to one of the most laid-back dogs I’ve ever given belly rubs to. “We were all badly beaten by the drug dealers on our street, they destroyed my house and that of my neighbour’s, and because I am also terminally ill and my son is my carer, the police put us in here for our safety.”

As you may imagine, not in a million years was I expecting this answer or this devastating story.

“Why were you all beaten? What happened? And why are you terminally ill?”

“I used to live about two miles away from here. Actually, from my hotel window I can see my house. One night, two gangs started fighting on our street – boys I used to know since they were babies – and my neighbour and I called the police. And because we called the police on them, they thought they should teach us a lesson. They hit me on the head with a pipe, and broke two of my ribs – I was in hospital for two nights, they broke my son’s arm – and he is only 14, and they also beaten Bruce with fence posts. He is lucky to be alive, and now he is very nervous when he hears motorcycles approaching. We are lucky to be alive. But we can no longer go back to the house, we only left with the clothes on our back, Danny can no longer go back to school or meet his friends, and we are here until they can find us another place to live.”

Then he showed me the actual pictures of how they were beaten and I don't think I'll ever forget those images.

“And what about your health? What’s wrong?”

“I am terminally ill. I have emphysema and asbestosis because I used to work in construction and, around here and especially 30 or 40 years ago, no one knew much or cared about asbestos. And my son is my carer.”

I don’t know how I managed to fight back my tears that night. I told him, of course, that I was very sorry for what he was going through and that, if he needed anything, I would be more than happy to help. I just couldn’t believe that, in 2024 in Newcastle, England, such things could happen, and the perpetrators had been released on bail because “the prison” is full.

A man lost everything he had, a young boy was prisoner in a hotel room together with his ill father and his dog, and neither of them – as I learnt on Saturday – were resentful of the police or angry at the terrible situation they were in.

I didn’t meet Danny, Joe’s son, until Saturday evening when I came back to the hotel. A tall young boy, way too mature for his age, totally in love with Bruce and at peace with his situation. That evening, two of the bikers residing in the hotel were helping Danny fix his bicycle (I didn’t know he had one).

I took my usual position on the bench, enjoying my coffee and my cigarette, when Joe appeared from what looked like a walk with Bruce. He was visibly shaken up.

“What’s wrong, Joe? What happened?”

“Danny wanted to go for ride on his bike this afternoon, and he didn’t go home – he just wanted to go and see some of his friends, when a van cut him off. The door of the van opened but Danny, thank God, swerved, and cycled away. I think they wanted to kidnap him and tell me that they have him so I can withdraw my statement to the police. I told Danny he’s not leaving the hotel again.”

I found it all surreal. Completely surreal when I compared what they were going through with my “corporate” dilemmas.

“Do you have enough food here, Joe? Clothes? Food for Bruce?”

“Because they kept the clothes I had on in the hospital as evidence, I managed to go to Asda and get myself this trainers and a couple of T-shirts. Danny has clothes his friends got him, and Bruce is leaving the dream – after breakfast, the nice lady in the kitchen keeps all the leftovers for him. So much so that I’m sure he’s put on a couple of pounds since we’ve been here,” he said with the widest toothless smile possible.

“I hope the police are going to relocate you in a place far away from here, or as far from your previous place as possible.”

“They would have done so by now, and we would have been in sheltered housing, but they won’t allow us there with the dog. So, we would need to lose Bruce, and I cannot do that because he is Danny’s dog. He saved all his pocket and Christmas money for over two years, and he himself paid for Bruce. It’s his dog, and they adore each other.”

I could see that for myself …

“So now we need to wait for a Housing Association to allow the three of us in. I don’t know how long I’m going to be around for, as there is no cure for my rapidly evolving condition, and Bruce is the only thing Danny will have left.”

I was in tears by then. But I saw Danny go inside the hotel, holding onto his arm – still with the cast on – and I thought I should talk to him.

“Hi, Danny. I’m Ella. How are you feeling about all this?”

“I’m ok.”

“So, what do you want to do when you grow up?” I asked him jokingly.

“I don’t know. I want to be a race car driver. Or motorcycles. I want to make money. You only live once, don’t you?”

There was a lot, a lot of bitterness, resentment, pain, fear and anguish under that bravado answer of a young boy who should have been in school, going to the cinema with his friends or his girlfriend (which he could no longer see), not confined to a hotel for the safety of his life.

Meanwhile, Joe heard Danny’s answers to my question and was vocal about Danny needing to study, to do something with his life, to get an education as a path to make more money and all the usual parental reactions.

I asked Joe to give me five minutes alone with Danny. I told Danny my life story, my background, the violent adversities I also had to overcome, and I could tell that we had built a connection, as in I was someone who understood his bitterness and conviction to “only live once,” not just someone who used social platitudes.

Five minutes later, Danny was looking up to me admiringly – exactly where I wanted to have him – and he asked me: “so what do you do as a job?”

I told him I worked in public relations. “What’s that?”

“It’s the art and science of understanding people, and of speaking with them in a way they can relate to. Pretty much like I’ve been doing with you for the last five minutes. And legacy, Danny, is not about killing yourself in a car or motorcycle accident because you only live once, doing something with your life is all about touching the lives of others. Do you understand?”

“I do. So do you think I should join the cadets?”

“I really think you should. You will get a lot of adventures, see the world, make a lot of money, be respected, and be looked up to and really do something with your life.”

“Hmm…”

By that time, Joe was back with Bruce, catching the last of my words.

“See, Danny? See? What did I tell you? That’s what you should be doing! Education! Training!”

“Joe, with all due respect, you need to speak with Danny in a language that he is willing to listen … talk to him in his words, not in yours …”

“You’re right. I’ll do that.”

Sunday came. I made sure I took some time off that day to go to Primark and bought some clothes for Joe, including a pair of trainers.

I went back to the hotel, to find Danny sitting in the reception area. I said hello to him and asked him to give the bag to his father. He thanked me, and I went up to my room. Went downstairs about 30 minutes later and found Joe waiting for me on the bench outside, with Bruce by his feet.

He said nothing, he only stood up and hugged me with all the strength his frail body could muster. He had tears running down his cheeks, and so did I. The emotions were simply overwhelming for both of us. He said:

“I don’t know how I could possibly thank you for what you did for me. Danny enrolled with the cadets this morning. I can leave in peace now. And I told him that, if he wants, we can give Bruce to you because you will take great are of him, I know that. But he said that he will never give Bruce up.”

“Nothing to thank me for, Joe. I just spoke with him. I’ll leave for home early tomorrow morning and, please, promise me something: just live, and leave it all behind. For as long as you have left, just live.”

At this point, I turned my back to him and started walking away towards my car. I was in bits, like I have never been before, and I have seen plenty of tragedy and despair in my life. Joe shouted at me “I’ll make sure Danny is up early in the morning to say goodbye to you.” I waved, didn’t look back, and drove to my dinner meeting.

Monday morning, 6:30 am, all packed, I went downstairs to the reception to check out. Standing there were Joe and Bruce, waiting for me. He said nothing, waiting for me to finish checking out.

I turned to head towards the car park, he approached, looked at me – I couldn’t speak because I was afraid I’d cry; he shook my hand, I gave Bruce a final hip rub, and I only said: “Just live, Joe.”

I went to the car, got in, and as I was pulling out of the car park, Joe and Bruce were standing there, watching me pull away. That is an image I shall never forget.

Never be too busy or too important to talk to people who are different from you, poorer than you, less important than you. You never know how they touch your life, and how you can touch theirs. I can only hope Joe, Danny and Bruce can start over … and live.