I wrote this memoir when I stumbled upon information that one of my friends died in the towers on 9/11. Although I was stunned by this discovery, it lead me to a deeper understanding of what happened to the innocence that was lost by all of us on that day. I felt a strong connection to the time spent with my friend, and I feel even more connected to that innocent time now having brought back the memories in such detail. I think he would be pleased that I am able to tell his story, even if it is just my perspective on his short but so meaningful time here. What a cruel but relevant reminder of life's precious gift.
The summer of my 39th year (2004)brought great reflection and yearning. While reflecting, I felt some guilt about all of the years I let so many friends slip away. On the night of my June birthday I sat up late in our bed with my husband sleeping next to me and my lap top atop my comforter, as I often do, quietly keying in the names of some of my old friends, leafing through my past to try to discover their present. As I began to have some luck locating long lost friends from college and beyond I excitedly began to dig deeper into my past, eagerly and with great anticipation I continued to work backwards from age 39. Hours later, I found myself at fifteen, when the search shifted to something most unexpected.
I lived in rural New Jersey during my 15th and 16th year. During that brief encounter I met some wonderful people who I consider great friends, as they affected profoundly the way in which I later would view the world, and how I would always seek friendships like these throughout my life. I had never forgotten the impact they all had on me, but my thoughts went to that remarkable experience less and less as the years passed by. On this milestone birthday night I was determined to find them, and although some of the more unusual names were easy to track, the common names led me to too many leads, but I relentlessly forged on.
I began thinking about driving around in my friend’s white Buick Skylark listening to the lyrics of Phil Collins and Genesis, which led me to type in the name Robert Wayne Hobson III. Known to his friends as Wayne, he was the kind of guy you would want to have as your brother. He was a handsome kid with wavy dark hair which he parted down the middle that he constantly tried to keep in check with the comb he kept in his back pocket. He always wore oxford cloth button down shirts in winter, layered with a turtle neck, and a blue down vest which held his Marlboro Lights that he smoked fiendishly. In summer, Wayne always wore short sleeved polo shirts. His only jeans were faded, tight, and holey Levi's. He had grey-blue eyes that sparkled when he looked at you. He always smiled when he spoke, and you never knew what was going to come out of his mouth. His wit was so sharp and his humor so wicked, you hoped he would not direct it at you, but even when he did it was always forgiveable and funny. Even the parents were fair game, and because he was so charming he could say what ever he wanted to whom ever he wanted, and everyone loved him for his verbose honesty. He would cut right through your facades, and raise them right to the surface every chance he got. Some of my friends hated this about him, and avoided his ill mannered immature fun poking, but because he was so indifferent in his quick banter he got away with things no one else could. On any one else this would have been a character flaw, but in Wayne it was what made him ever presently honest, sincere, and brave. There was not a person in our stable who didn’t wish that they were just a little bit more like Wayne; We were all drawn to him.
Wayne was seventeen years old, and his parents were divorced. He worshipped his father, lived with his mother. Wayne loved horses and riding but never had the opportunity to ride and show the way he would have liked to. His father was a prominent doctor who had the means to give him the object of his adoration but I think that he felt it was unnecessary, indulgent, and silly. He could not see the value in the sport nor did he care to try. Coming from the polar opposite family who could not see the value in not making sure that I was able to follow my passion for riding horses and competing, I found it hard to understand, and felt Wayne’s pain deeply.
Wayne’s resentment for the lack of understanding of his love for the sport of riding horses became an absolute rebellion. He would follow us to the shows, and stand on the side lines, waiting patiently for the occasional catch ride. Wayne watched and cheered for the rest of us, and when I would see the expression on his face as we walked the courses with out him, I was constantly reminded of what a privilege it was to have parents that were involved in my life, parents who encouraged my every move and appreciated my passion for riding horses and competing for the betterment of myself. Each time I glanced in his direction and noticed him leaning on the arena fence with his arms crossed and his foot resting on the bottom board looking in at us dreamingly, he became a reminder of just how lucky we all were to be at these prestigious venues, walking these beautifully designed courses with our trainer, anticipating the moment in the ring that we well deserved, the opportunity to show our hard work and sometimes, when the moment arrived, get that great reward with the gratification of having the one great round Wayne only dreamed of getting a shot at accomplishing. Sadly for Wayne, he was the poster child for riders who for one reason or another were unable to realize their own equestrian dreams, and even those who did not appreciate what was handed to them would look into those blue eyes and see the ignorance in their ways, and shamefully look away from his image on the sidelines.
But the thing that most resonated for me was Wayne's resilience. He would not allow anything to stop him from participating with us in any way that he could. Wayne would instead work for us at the shows as a groom, and he would stand at the in gate with our trainer and wipe our boots to perfection, run a quick soft brush over our horses’ coats, and carefully polish their hooves all the while listening to us repeat our course plan to our trainer. “Good luck Rhonda.” he would say in earnest, smiling as I entered the ring. He wanted to be with the horses, and he wanted to be with all of us, and we loved his charismatic infectious personality, his constant pranking and foul jokes, and his tell it like it is style. He was the most admirable character among us, and no amount of national awards, qualifying rounds, and blue ribbons that we all accomplished could make any of us hold a candle to the kind of character that Wayne had. There wasn’t a junior competitor among us that didn’t know this in our very core, and we were engrossed by him. He really taught us something by sticking it out in that way, there was no way he was going to stay away from the horses that he loved, and the people who were his friends. He would be there with us in any way that he could be, and we all felt a deep affection for his passion.
As the years of my life passed I often wondered what had happened to Wayne. I was a bit reluctant to press the Go button on my computer as I had often worried about him, and hoped that he had made it in life okay. Had Wayne found happiness? I wondered. My worry had been in vain though, and the life that he lived was nothing less than the American Dream, his American Dream.
As I read on I learned that Wayne had grown to be an amazing man. The proud son of a military Doctor, he loved the Pearl Harbor story, and memorized all of the details of the movie “Tora, Tora, Tora”. He had opened his own bar/restaurant in Hoboken New Jersey, an old steel town which had now become the place to be for young New Yorkers. He called the bar “Hobson’s Choice” a play on words that embodied his unique sense of humor, taken from a book of the same name whose theme was that you really have no choice. Wayne’s mother helped him run the place while he worked by day at what his friends called “the town mill”. Wayne worked with a fun loving, strident, foul mouthed group of young traders much like himself, and had helped a couple of the younger up and comers get jobs working at his prestigious investment firm. He was a leader amongst the locals in the small town in which he played such a large part in changing. Wayne and his cohorts virtually rebuilt that town, with Hobson’s Choice at its' fresh and hopeful center, overlooking the grandeur of New York City.
When I pressed the GO button my eyes were blinded by the number of links that popped up. As I read on, in a moment of shocked sadness, and hopeful desperation that the links found were those of a different Robert Wayne Hobson III. With a heavy pounding heart, I found a picture of the Ryan O’Neal look alike, and once again looked into those same sparkling blue eyes, his personality still shining through the screen before me, knowing that I had surely found the Wayne that I once knew.
One web site left a place for me to write a memorial passage which today still reads:
From: Rhonda Hoskins-Arza
Date: 07/01/2004
Message: Wayne-When I thought to search for you I never expected to find myself here. You were a bright light at our stable when we were kids together so long ago. I will never forget your humor, your smile, your very foul language for a 17 year old, and how you made me (all of us) feel. We lost touch so many years ago, and I always wondered where you ended up. Now I know. May your bright light shine upon the world, while the memory of your laughter reminds us of the joys, and innocence of growing up in America. God Bless your family and all of your dear friends, I know that you have been deeply missed. Some day we will find each other again, and have a laugh. Love, Rhonda
That momentous night for me was three years after Wayne’s fateful day that we all watched from the desperation of our televisions. We who looked on will never forget where we stood while we witnessed them all perish in their own quiet desperation. Wayne worked on the 110th floor of the World Trade Center for Cantor Fitzgerald, and on September 11, 2001, he never returned home to his wife, his mother, or his bar in his town. I wondered if any of my New Jersey friends were trapped in the towers that day, but I hadn't placed Wayne there. Wayne Hobson lived the American Dream, and so much of that dream died with him on that day, as the rest of us just watched, mesmerized, and horrified, while so many lives were snuffed out, and many of our own dreams of the brightness of our futures changed interminably.
Wayne Hobson though, left us at the top of his game, and for a brief moment, I envied not only his life, but oddly, I privately envied his death too. His life remained motionless in the bright lights and beautiful world in a bubble we called “Fortress America” and it was still safely protected by that fortress somehow. Protected from the knowing, and the responsibility, and the ache, from the loss of our virtue, that was once a small town in New Jersey where there lived a 17 year old boy in love with horses, who grew to be the man who collected cars, and enjoyed the people who visited the bar that he built out of a dream. A boy who was resentful that his parents missed the moment to watch him ride, who grew up to be the man, who had learned forgiveness, and later embraced his mother as his friend and partner. A mother who still carries hope for the Hoboken youth who lost so many of their high spirited friends and loved ones that day, by keeping Wayne’s bar open, protecting the bar stool where he held court and watched football with his friends. “Hobson’s Choice”, also known as “Wayne’s” to the locals, remains a thriving restaurant and pub even still today.
When I think about how he lived and how he died, it was classic Wayne. Like a fire burning bright with prevailing and infinite energy and spirit, he lived every day as if it were his last, and when it was his last day, there were no uncertainties, no misgivings, just tears from those who would miss him, and laughter that we still remembered, so much of the particulars of the outrageous things that he had said and done. He was here and gone in a moment, as we all are, really. We miss him, but he was never really ours. What he did in his short instant here, who Wayne Hobson was for us, was a treasured dazzling beacon reminding us that we should all live the best days of our lives every day, and that life is indeed our one great ride. Wayne was here in his short time to teach us this, and he would have wanted us to reflect on his life in this way. I know that I always will.
I lived in rural New Jersey during my 15th and 16th year. During that brief encounter I met some wonderful people who I consider great friends, as they affected profoundly the way in which I later would view the world, and how I would always seek friendships like these throughout my life. I had never forgotten the impact they all had on me, but my thoughts went to that remarkable experience less and less as the years passed by. On this milestone birthday night I was determined to find them, and although some of the more unusual names were easy to track, the common names led me to too many leads, but I relentlessly forged on.
I began thinking about driving around in my friend’s white Buick Skylark listening to the lyrics of Phil Collins and Genesis, which led me to type in the name Robert Wayne Hobson III. Known to his friends as Wayne, he was the kind of guy you would want to have as your brother. He was a handsome kid with wavy dark hair which he parted down the middle that he constantly tried to keep in check with the comb he kept in his back pocket. He always wore oxford cloth button down shirts in winter, layered with a turtle neck, and a blue down vest which held his Marlboro Lights that he smoked fiendishly. In summer, Wayne always wore short sleeved polo shirts. His only jeans were faded, tight, and holey Levi's. He had grey-blue eyes that sparkled when he looked at you. He always smiled when he spoke, and you never knew what was going to come out of his mouth. His wit was so sharp and his humor so wicked, you hoped he would not direct it at you, but even when he did it was always forgiveable and funny. Even the parents were fair game, and because he was so charming he could say what ever he wanted to whom ever he wanted, and everyone loved him for his verbose honesty. He would cut right through your facades, and raise them right to the surface every chance he got. Some of my friends hated this about him, and avoided his ill mannered immature fun poking, but because he was so indifferent in his quick banter he got away with things no one else could. On any one else this would have been a character flaw, but in Wayne it was what made him ever presently honest, sincere, and brave. There was not a person in our stable who didn’t wish that they were just a little bit more like Wayne; We were all drawn to him.
Wayne was seventeen years old, and his parents were divorced. He worshipped his father, lived with his mother. Wayne loved horses and riding but never had the opportunity to ride and show the way he would have liked to. His father was a prominent doctor who had the means to give him the object of his adoration but I think that he felt it was unnecessary, indulgent, and silly. He could not see the value in the sport nor did he care to try. Coming from the polar opposite family who could not see the value in not making sure that I was able to follow my passion for riding horses and competing, I found it hard to understand, and felt Wayne’s pain deeply.
Wayne’s resentment for the lack of understanding of his love for the sport of riding horses became an absolute rebellion. He would follow us to the shows, and stand on the side lines, waiting patiently for the occasional catch ride. Wayne watched and cheered for the rest of us, and when I would see the expression on his face as we walked the courses with out him, I was constantly reminded of what a privilege it was to have parents that were involved in my life, parents who encouraged my every move and appreciated my passion for riding horses and competing for the betterment of myself. Each time I glanced in his direction and noticed him leaning on the arena fence with his arms crossed and his foot resting on the bottom board looking in at us dreamingly, he became a reminder of just how lucky we all were to be at these prestigious venues, walking these beautifully designed courses with our trainer, anticipating the moment in the ring that we well deserved, the opportunity to show our hard work and sometimes, when the moment arrived, get that great reward with the gratification of having the one great round Wayne only dreamed of getting a shot at accomplishing. Sadly for Wayne, he was the poster child for riders who for one reason or another were unable to realize their own equestrian dreams, and even those who did not appreciate what was handed to them would look into those blue eyes and see the ignorance in their ways, and shamefully look away from his image on the sidelines.
But the thing that most resonated for me was Wayne's resilience. He would not allow anything to stop him from participating with us in any way that he could. Wayne would instead work for us at the shows as a groom, and he would stand at the in gate with our trainer and wipe our boots to perfection, run a quick soft brush over our horses’ coats, and carefully polish their hooves all the while listening to us repeat our course plan to our trainer. “Good luck Rhonda.” he would say in earnest, smiling as I entered the ring. He wanted to be with the horses, and he wanted to be with all of us, and we loved his charismatic infectious personality, his constant pranking and foul jokes, and his tell it like it is style. He was the most admirable character among us, and no amount of national awards, qualifying rounds, and blue ribbons that we all accomplished could make any of us hold a candle to the kind of character that Wayne had. There wasn’t a junior competitor among us that didn’t know this in our very core, and we were engrossed by him. He really taught us something by sticking it out in that way, there was no way he was going to stay away from the horses that he loved, and the people who were his friends. He would be there with us in any way that he could be, and we all felt a deep affection for his passion.
As the years of my life passed I often wondered what had happened to Wayne. I was a bit reluctant to press the Go button on my computer as I had often worried about him, and hoped that he had made it in life okay. Had Wayne found happiness? I wondered. My worry had been in vain though, and the life that he lived was nothing less than the American Dream, his American Dream.
As I read on I learned that Wayne had grown to be an amazing man. The proud son of a military Doctor, he loved the Pearl Harbor story, and memorized all of the details of the movie “Tora, Tora, Tora”. He had opened his own bar/restaurant in Hoboken New Jersey, an old steel town which had now become the place to be for young New Yorkers. He called the bar “Hobson’s Choice” a play on words that embodied his unique sense of humor, taken from a book of the same name whose theme was that you really have no choice. Wayne’s mother helped him run the place while he worked by day at what his friends called “the town mill”. Wayne worked with a fun loving, strident, foul mouthed group of young traders much like himself, and had helped a couple of the younger up and comers get jobs working at his prestigious investment firm. He was a leader amongst the locals in the small town in which he played such a large part in changing. Wayne and his cohorts virtually rebuilt that town, with Hobson’s Choice at its' fresh and hopeful center, overlooking the grandeur of New York City.
When I pressed the GO button my eyes were blinded by the number of links that popped up. As I read on, in a moment of shocked sadness, and hopeful desperation that the links found were those of a different Robert Wayne Hobson III. With a heavy pounding heart, I found a picture of the Ryan O’Neal look alike, and once again looked into those same sparkling blue eyes, his personality still shining through the screen before me, knowing that I had surely found the Wayne that I once knew.
One web site left a place for me to write a memorial passage which today still reads:
From: Rhonda Hoskins-Arza
Date: 07/01/2004
Message: Wayne-When I thought to search for you I never expected to find myself here. You were a bright light at our stable when we were kids together so long ago. I will never forget your humor, your smile, your very foul language for a 17 year old, and how you made me (all of us) feel. We lost touch so many years ago, and I always wondered where you ended up. Now I know. May your bright light shine upon the world, while the memory of your laughter reminds us of the joys, and innocence of growing up in America. God Bless your family and all of your dear friends, I know that you have been deeply missed. Some day we will find each other again, and have a laugh. Love, Rhonda
That momentous night for me was three years after Wayne’s fateful day that we all watched from the desperation of our televisions. We who looked on will never forget where we stood while we witnessed them all perish in their own quiet desperation. Wayne worked on the 110th floor of the World Trade Center for Cantor Fitzgerald, and on September 11, 2001, he never returned home to his wife, his mother, or his bar in his town. I wondered if any of my New Jersey friends were trapped in the towers that day, but I hadn't placed Wayne there. Wayne Hobson lived the American Dream, and so much of that dream died with him on that day, as the rest of us just watched, mesmerized, and horrified, while so many lives were snuffed out, and many of our own dreams of the brightness of our futures changed interminably.
Wayne Hobson though, left us at the top of his game, and for a brief moment, I envied not only his life, but oddly, I privately envied his death too. His life remained motionless in the bright lights and beautiful world in a bubble we called “Fortress America” and it was still safely protected by that fortress somehow. Protected from the knowing, and the responsibility, and the ache, from the loss of our virtue, that was once a small town in New Jersey where there lived a 17 year old boy in love with horses, who grew to be the man who collected cars, and enjoyed the people who visited the bar that he built out of a dream. A boy who was resentful that his parents missed the moment to watch him ride, who grew up to be the man, who had learned forgiveness, and later embraced his mother as his friend and partner. A mother who still carries hope for the Hoboken youth who lost so many of their high spirited friends and loved ones that day, by keeping Wayne’s bar open, protecting the bar stool where he held court and watched football with his friends. “Hobson’s Choice”, also known as “Wayne’s” to the locals, remains a thriving restaurant and pub even still today.
When I think about how he lived and how he died, it was classic Wayne. Like a fire burning bright with prevailing and infinite energy and spirit, he lived every day as if it were his last, and when it was his last day, there were no uncertainties, no misgivings, just tears from those who would miss him, and laughter that we still remembered, so much of the particulars of the outrageous things that he had said and done. He was here and gone in a moment, as we all are, really. We miss him, but he was never really ours. What he did in his short instant here, who Wayne Hobson was for us, was a treasured dazzling beacon reminding us that we should all live the best days of our lives every day, and that life is indeed our one great ride. Wayne was here in his short time to teach us this, and he would have wanted us to reflect on his life in this way. I know that I always will.
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