Flight - A Memory For All Time!

The third week of October, 2001 I'm at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport waiting for my departure to Las Vegas. I had just concluded a five day visit home. I arrived at the airport two hours early as requested. As I'm going through security I notice two black-bearded men wearing turbans. Immediately, my imagination takes over. I see two members of Al-Qaida or the Taliban who are up to no good.

After going clean through the metal-detectors I walk through the terminal toward my gate. Behind me, the two black-bearded men with turbans. I feel uneasy. I just hope they aren't going to be on the same flight as me. I arrive at my gate and sit down, watching the two Al-Qaida members pass, apparently on their way to another gate, thank goodness. I still have well over an hour before departure. My mind transitions itself from horrible thoughts of September 11 to pleasant, innocuous thoughts of my family. And how it was so good to see them again. Through pleasant memory and heart-warming reverie, I sit before the big jet that would soon whisk me safely to my adopted home of Las Vegas.

The pre-boarding announcement is made just as I'm envisioning myself as a small child, tucked securely in my bed as Mother sings to me a nursery rhyme. I watch the wheel-chair bound passengers board, then the first-class passengers. A bit later, us -- the coach section. Just as I stand, I almost fell right back down. They're back! Oh no, Al-Qaida. . . on the same plane as me. What should I do? Should I turn back? Skip this flight? I don't want to make a scene but images of September 11 are pounding a heavy hammer against my skull. . .

But wait, if that little boy and girl who are smiling aren't afraid, then neither am I. Right? . . . Right! I board and go dizzy down the aisle to my seat. . . . I take a deep breath, then fasten my seat belt . . . And then, I look up. . . They're here, looking right at me . . .I take another deep breath and then turn toward the window. I feel something bumping me in the back. I slightly turn my head. My peripheral vision ensnares a black beard . . . a turban . . . Oh no, Al-Qaida sitting right behind me . . . I'm doomed. My neck will be the first, the first to be slashed. . . They'll reach up over the back of my seat with their box knives and cut. . ...cccccuuutttt my thro. . .my throat....

We're up in the air, above Nebraska or something. I had calmed down, take a magazine from the flight attendant and immerse myself in it. . . . And then, fumbling behind me . . . and whispering . . . Oh no, this is it . . . they're getting ready . . .

A bit of turbulence . . . perhaps a good thing. . . a diversion to their plan. But then, more fumbling, fumbling for their knives. I'm a goner . . . I brace myself, close my eyes and think of my family again, - my niece in her beautiful wedding gown, the happy faces as she walks down the aisle.

The fumbling has stopped. A few hundred miles later, calm skies. A big sigh of relief.

Time passes . . . Below, mountains . . . too late to turn back and ram this jet into the Sears Tower. . . maybe we're safe . . . But, again . . . whispering, fumbling, feet under my seat scrambling. . . maybe they have a different target in mind. . . Again, I brace myself, close my eyes, relive my life... After a long spell, I reopen my eyes. I'm still alive. I look out the window.

Below, brown desert-looking land. My ears pop. We must be descending . . . And then, the "Fasten your seat belt" sign lights. And, the pilot speaks. "We're approximately fifteen minutes out of Las Vegas. Please stay in your seats . . . .

My ears pop again, we're dropping. Somebody in front of me has hit the "summon flight attendant" button. Oh, it's the old woman with the shawl in row six. The flight attendant goes to her, bends down and cups her ear to hear what the old woman wants. I see her shake her head, a negative. The flight attendant leaves row six and is walking down the aisle toward me. She is saying something but I can't hear what it is. . . She's getting closer . . .closer. And then, "Does anybody speak Spanish? There's a woman on board who speaks only Spanish and she needs help."

Right then, one of the men behind me, the Al-Qaida guy with the black beard and turban rises, saying, "I speak Spanish." The flight attendant says, "Follow me." The man slips into the aisle and follows the flight attendant to the front. We're dropping, my ears are popping. I look around at my fellow passengers. Most of them seem calm, composed. If a black-bearded man wearing a black turban walking toward the cockpit behind a flight attendant during final approach doesn't scare them a month after September 11, then what the hell am I doing? Jumping to conclusions, that's what I 'm doing.

The plane lands safely, everybody's happy. Rolling toward the tarmac, outside my window the Statue of Liberty looming large next to the Pyramid with the Sphinx guarding its entrance. . . The New York, New York and The Luxor, yes I'm home, thank goodness. . . .

As I deplane I thanked the two men behind me, the two men with the black beards and black turbans. I simply said, "THANK YOU!"

Maternity Leaves (A Dedication)

Thanksgiving Day - for me, a day of mixed emotions - a day to be grateful and a day to regret. Like many of us I am most grateful for the many blessings bestowed upon me - far too many to adequately list or categorize.

Firstly, I am thankful for life - the starting point for all that follows. I am grateful for that fateful day - September 11, 1992- when I was given back my life. A new beginning. How can one possibly deny such a magnificent offering?

As many know, the Thanksgiving Day of my tenth year is the day that my father walked out, never to look back. A pivotal point in my life, there's never been any doubt. Thus, the reason for my mixed emotions and bitter-sweet memories.

On Thanksgiving Day, I look out the window. Beyond the patio, oh, about 25 yards begins the lake. Before it, spread 25 feet apart, two small trees. At the base of these trees - small pumpkins, flowers of all color and vibrancy, plaques, mementos, pictures, balloons. . . All this, carefully, lovingly placed by a mother, a mother who lost her son there. After three days and three nights of search, this 16 year-old boy, who I had never known, who had so much promise, was brought in from the lake to this very place - between the two small trees. I am crying now.

It's been well over two years now. Nobody seems to know the real story. There was a party -a teenager party-at the house right across the lake. I see the house. I wonder about the house. I wonder more about the occupants of that house - the same occupants who allowed alcohol in their house that night. Nobody knows the story - all they had said that the last anybody seen of Jonathan Petit he was staggering away from the house toward the lake. I want to cry now.

Every day, for well over two years now, this dedicated mother, along with her dedicated and beautiful golden retriever come here to this lake, this very lake and pays respect to a son, a loving son who had so much promise, a bright future. Not more than a hundred feet from my window I watch this amazing woman dig up dirt, plant more flowers, arrange carefully the many mementos, the balloons, the little plaques. Many a day I want to cry, some days I do. Someday I will approach her, talk to her, thank her.

Being a rather large lake I must ask myself this: Why is it at this point, less than a hundred feet from my window, where a mother had lost her son? Perhaps a reminder. I want to cry now, turn back the hands. I ask myself. . .

What if, on the day of September 11, 1992 Hurricane Iniki never touched down upon Kauai - the very place where I was to walk into the mighty Pacific without looking back. What if? My mother, too, would most likely join Yvonne Petit and her beautiful golden retriever and mourn the loss of a son - a son who had so much promise, a bright future. What if?

On this day, I thank my many blessings. I am most grateful I have life - the perfect beginning. I wish I could share this with Jonathan Petit - this boy I had never known.

Thanksgiving- a day to be thankful and a day to regret.

I awoke to the wake of dawn
Amidst the Lake
heron duck, geese
and trails of fawn
My first cup, a quick release
-a morning yawn

Before the tree – a mother
on her knees
Praying for the son
who now is gone

Jonathan, too, a brother
touch football upon the lawn
Comforting one another
learning right from wrong
Every day at the wake of dawn
I hear the pulse of a mother
- a heart enrapt in song

By: Ricky J. Fico

Moody Blues - Watching and Waiting

A Romp In The Night!

Romper Room
a memoir
by Ricky J. Fico

The sun sank its reddened face under the billowy blanket of its western bed and now it was night. Outside my window, guided by street lamp, I saw desolate shadows dancing across the floorboards of our wind-swept porch. With its barren steps creaking, I sat and thought about candle-lit cakes and ribbon-laced packages and family-filled rooms. I thought about what could have been. And what once was. But that was a long time ago; a time when reality played to a different set of rules. Now, my reality had no rules; life as I once knew it had become a free-for-all.

Night marched on. All was quiet, not a sound in the house. Across the darkened room, lay Pinky, ensconced in her feline slumber. She had given up.

In the other corner of the room, the worn grandfather clock, harboring no regrets of its own, marched on. My eyes became transfixed to its pendulous taunt and I felt as though I was being hypnotized. I fell into a daze. I was carried back to a different time, a different place.

Balloons of red and green and white filled the cavernous hall. Toward the back of the hall stood a tall, imposing figure. Draping his body a long robe. I moved closer. I began to recognize the face. With his brooding brow and whitened beard and weathered cheeks I could tell he had aged but aged well. I moved closer. “Ricky . . .

Suddenly, the telephone. I jumped up, as did Pinky. I ran over to the end table and picked up the handset. “Hello.”

It was a wrong number.

I looked down at Pinky; she was purring against my leg. “Well, in a few more hours my birthday will be over,” I said.

“Meow, meow.”

Well, I’m going to call a few of the neighborhood taverns again, I thought. Might as well, what do I have to lose?

After dialing enough numbers to provide callous to my fingers I decided that it be best if I just go out and see if I could find Mother; maybe Lenny and Trish too.

I threw on my old shoes and jacket. Outside I glanced up at the sky. The September moon with its jovial face stared down at me.

Down the city streets I went, eying up the neon that dangled in my path. Surveying the shingles I focused on the one marked The Dew Drop Inn, one of Mother’s favorite hangouts.

With its revolving door churning out penniless, dream-shattered, plastered wall-hanging hacks and the occasional happy go-lucky nine-to-fiver, the Dew Drop spun its tales with flair. Sparked by loneliness, half-time hankerings and get-away-from-it-all attitude, the Dew was in a sizzle.

I reached the door. I stood under the neon, nervously peering in at the hazy crowd. Around the notched oak I searched for the face of Mother. But in her place sat an impostor. I gathered courage and slipped in, unnoticed, through the door.

Crawling through the throng of wobbly wayfarers and steely-eyed, beer guzzling braggarts I felt like a snake slithering down the pike. Trailing me was a stein-clutching mongoose, sputtering ale and bad language:

“Hey, this isn’t the fucking Romper Room. Are you the shoeshine boy or some kind of fucking gypsy boy? There ain’t going to be no fucking shoe-shining here, you skinny-assed punk. You better beat it before George sees ya. Can’t you fucking read or what? See that sign? It says no fucking gypsies or shoeshine boys soliciting my guests. Signed by the management. And George is the fucking management, kid. He owns this joint. He’ll throw you out on your skinny ass if he sees ya in here. So, I’m doing you a favor, just beat it.”

I slowly turned around. It felt as though my heart was about to burst out of my rib cage. Standing before me was a giant creature with cruel eyes and square jaw, clenching a bruised fist. Devilish tattoos lined the log-like limbs that protruded from his knotted bole.

“Please, mister,” I pleaded, “I’m not a shoeshine boy and I’m not some kind of gypsy. I’m here to see my mother. You see, today’s my birthday and…”

“And what? Like I said, kid, this isn’t the fucking Romper Room. Besides, I don’t like fucking kids hanging around me. I hate kids. I come to this fucking joint to get away from the whiny-ass brats. Don’t you get it, kid? Now hit the road before I whip your skinny ass.”

Suddenly, and thank God, a gentle-faced patron interceded and threw a bear hug around the big oaf. And then he smiled. “Don’t worry about The Hawk here,” he said. The Hawk is a bit drunk and besides, he wouldn’t hurt a flea. He likes to scare people, that’s all.”

I felt my heart pounding to a lesser beat, a relief, thank goodness. I got my courage back.

“Well, I was getting a little worried about your buddy here,” I said. I thought that I would have to put him in his place if you know what I mean.”

“You what?” The Hawk spat, tipping his stein and dispensing beer down his midriff. “What did you say, punk?”

The gentle faced, impeccably dressed patron threw an arm around the hawk-man.

“Yeah, listen to the kid,” he said. “Cool out! Hey, let me buy you a drink.”

“Well, alright, Skip.”

Skip and The Hawk spun around and galloped toward the bar. As I watched them fade into the smoky recess I bargained for the door. A quick change of plans led me back out onto the city streets.

Also see "The Bookcase - a memoir"


Within Temptation - Mother Earth