Triumphs of Humanity

Flight - A Memory For All Time!

2009-01-27T12:27:00.000-08:00

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)

2009-01-10T03:25:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-01-06T13:36:00.000-08:00

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

My Life - Testament

2008-12-24T07:15:00.001-08:00

TESTAMENT
By Ricky J. Fico

In my life I had witnessed so much, and at times, perhaps not enough. Sometimes what I witnessed compelled me to stand taller than I would otherwise; other times, unfortunately, I had but no choice than to take refuge in some god-forsaken trench, cowering to the whims of my world. Perhaps then I was too weak to fight back. Drugs and alcohol could weaken one's resolve, this I know.

I had come many a mile in my journey, all for good reason of course.

In my life I had witnessed so much. Through discourse and gain, through triumph and tragedy, I had traveled. And learned. There were times when I laughed and times when I cried. Some could say I'm a true warrior, and perhaps the scars of battle etched within the inner sanctum of my being could reveal this simple truth. But, like any warrior, I fought to defend. Honor, dignity, integrity - they mean so much to me. As does compassion, understanding, forgiveness.

In my life I had shared what meager possessions I held. Selfishness, I could never subscribe to. . . no, it is much easier for me to give than take.

In my time I had been a martyr, sometimes out of necessity, other times by choice. At times I had sacrificed but knowingly. An old line from an old song echoes in my head: "Sacrifice, the future has its price and today is only yesterday's tomorrow."

Even when I was living in the park, cold and rained upon, I smiled back at the world. Deep down, I knew. My inner strength had compelled me, moved me and yes, there were times when I felt like giving in. But they were only momentary lapses of reason. I would gather myself and move on, today is only yesterday's tomorrow. Yes, I will fight my way through yet another storm.

In my life there had been so much to be grateful for; sometimes it is easier to remember what I do have versus what I don't. Quite possibly, that is why I had made it here. Simple philosophies, I assure you. I had read a few of the classical philosophers and their philosophies are beyond the realms of simplicity. For now, I will be my own philosopher. Much simpler.

I do not adhere much to the doctrines of any set religion. Spiritually, I'm at the helm. Politics, a way of the world, at times I must take a stand, but not one that I find to be incorrigible. I'm against a lot of what is taking place in the world, and a lot of what I witness saddens me, really it does. Again, a simple philosophy: "I cannot carry the world on my shoulders but on my shoulders it is my world that must carry me." I cannot worry as much as I once did what happens outside my window. I can only do what I can in my own small ways to change what I can; whether it be through the written word and/or through the powers of being. I had, in the past, witnessed what many may deem to have been miracles. A matter of perspective, perhaps. But there have been events in my own life that defy convention, perhaps could be viewed as mere coincidence. As a realist, I also must determine the odds though my idealism would provide me enough reason to judge otherwise.

Do not judge me as a victim of unforeseen circumstances, I'm a result of what these circumstances had provided me. I harbor no ill-feelings of what course my life had taken for I've been strengthened by it. Through my ordeals battling alcoholism and witnessing the dissolution of my family, I had found solace, perhaps a much keener understanding. I still wish, I still pray, I still want.

********

Again, a long night has led me back here - Today. The sun is shining brightly. I'm reminded of an old song: "The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older and one day closer to death." Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon. Yes, one day closer to death, one day further from birth. Ah, birth. . . I love that word. It means so much to me. I must admit, I'm not too fond of the word death though. Death could connote the end while birth signifies the beginning.

The beginning: I was born a poor white boy. So what? Who cares? It matters not to me if I was born a poor white boy nor would I mind if I was born a poor black boy . . . Opportunities exist, bottom line. Adversity, I love that word too. It provokes challenge. Ah, challenges. So many challenges in life, aren't there? Writing could be a challenge. Writing about your life as a poor white boy could be more of a challenge. So what? Who cares?

From an early age, I wondered about things. Most of us do, makes us human. I wondered about the world in which I had entered. With all its many colors and textures and its people. I learned early on that people are capable of many different things. Like building. And at the same time, destroying. But I was a curious poor white boy. And if I was born a poor black boy, I would've been just as curious, I know I would, I just know it. A blue boy, a white boy, a purple boy, a black boy - all human, I swear. Same with the white girl, black girl, also human. Interesting concept, these humans are;

From an early age I sought answers. Didn't you? When I was young I had more questions than answers. And today, well, I don't have all the answers, never will. Not if I'm human. In which I am. My mother, she gave birth to me like any other human mother would. Yes, she held me in her womb for nine months. I'm classified as a mammal. But humans are not the only mammals in this world. There are others, I swear. I've been to the zoo you must know. At an early age I saw Sinbad the Gorilla and Leo the lion. Behind bars, made me cry. "Why Momma? Why are those animals in jail?" No easy answer for a four year old. At four years old, I had questions. Sometimes answers never came though. As I got older, some of my earlier questions were answered and some of them, still made me cry. I'm an emotional being, most humans are. I swear they are. Some humans, they may have a lesser conscience though. Some, I guess are behind bars now. Maybe it's better that way, I don't know.

Within Temptation - Memories!

The Bookcase

2008-12-23T02:08:00.000-08:00

"Books. I love books, all kinds of books. Books on astronomy, I’m traveling through space without a care in the world. Books on Hawaii, I’m sitting under a palm tree, watching the tides roll in. Books on fish, I’m a guppy in a pond full of sharks. No, I’m a dolphin at Sea World, entertaining the children, jumping through hoops and being fed mackerel"
From my Memoir, "Moods Over A September Moon"

THE BOOKCASE
a memoir
By: Ricky J. Fico

Mom, I’m really hungry,” Wendy says, the growls from her mid-section providing testament to the hunger that pervades her eight-year old little body.

Mother, who’d spent the last five or ten minutes fumbling through cupboards, pushing aside plates, glasses and cups in a futile attempt at finding something, anything to feed a child, looks tearfully at Wendy and says, “I’m sorry but all I find is a bottle of mustard.”

“Can’t we just go to the store?” Wendy says. “Can’t we go over to the Fresh Stop and get some peanut butter, cookies, stuff like that?”

“I wish we could Wendy, but I don’t have any money.”

Wendy sits down, her legs dangling above the bare, scraped up linoleum. I watch her thin fingers, tapping nervously upon the old table. Minutes pass, the growls grow louder. I wish there was something I could do.

A storm cloud of disenchantment hovers about their faces, spirits wandering helplessly through the fog. Mother and young daughter, fragile both, oh, how I wish there was something, anything I could do. But there just isn’t.

And so, I retreat, go back to the bedroom where I’ll exchange my reality for a dose of fantasy. I take from the bookcase shelf Huckleberry Finn. After a while I realize it’s of no use. I just cannot join Huckleberry on his adventures, not when my baby sister’s in the kitchen, starving to death. I close the book and slip it between The Grapes of Wrath and The Great Gatsby.

On my way back toward the kitchen I hear Wendy saying to Mother, “What about those coupon things?”

“What coupon things, Wendy?”

“Those coupon things you get from the gumberman.”

“You must mean the government,” Mother says.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

“And if you mean the food stamps, I had searched my purse three times and they’re just not there.”

I enter the kitchen. Mother acknowledges me this time and asks, “Had you seen my food stamps?”

“No, but maybe Chet did. I saw him go through your purse this morning and he told me that he was just looking for a cigarette. Maybe he knows.”

Mother’s face reddens. She scrambles over to the rotary on the wall. “You’re sure, Ricky?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“That bastard,” Mother says. She shakes her head and then dials the number. I know this number, it’s been dialed a million times before— two half turns on the rotary, followed by a quarter, then a three-quarter, followed by two one-quarters and ending with an eighth.

A few long moments pass, then an answer. “Hello George, this is Janet,” Mother says. “Is Chet there?” It’s loud at the Dew Drop, so loud that Mother pulls the receiver off her ear. You could hear the blare of the jukebox, the clashing of mugs, the loud voices of fathers and grandfathers, jokes and war stories. And then, George asks: “Is Chet here?” A few more seconds tick away. A voice, that of Chet answers. “Tell her I’m not here.” In which George does and now Mother is crazy with anger, she slams the phone down so hard it cracks another piece off the handset. Mother screams at the top of her lungs, “That bastard! That lousy bastard,” and runs off into her room.

Wendy jumps off the chair, her mood now darker than her hunger would allow. Seeing Mother in such a startling fit of anger is unsettling. Who knows what Mother’s capable of when she’s in such a dire state. Wendy falls onto the floor, her face plied in the clefts of linoleum. She’s crying now, uncontrollably. I fall onto my knees and beg for some mercy, any kind of mercy and try to think of a way to cheer Wendy up. But I fail, once again. She tells me to leave her alone. But I won’t give up so easily, no I mustn’t. For goodness sake, she’s my baby sister. “Wendy,” I say, “can I tell you another Big Bear story?” No, she doesn’t want to hear it. “How about the time up in Wisconsin when—”

“Ricky, leave me alone!”

I return to the bedroom. I lay upon the bed, my thoughts askew. Hearing Wendy’s pangs of hunger echo through the house and Mother’s diatribes against her boyfriend seeping out into the neighborhood, my emotions begin to play havoc with my thoughts. I, too, want to cry but I’d been learning lately not to. Maybe it’s easier that way, I don’t know.

Time creeps into a new hour, the sun higher in its trajectory. I want to sleep but I can’t. I want this day to end but it won’t. So, it’s a book. Maybe, just maybe a few words from a good book will dispel from me my worries, my concerns. I grab from the bookshelf The Tale of Two Cities. A breeze sets in through the half-open window, and with it, the happy voices of the children outside, strangers all, and play on me much too hard. I hear the laughter and the frolic and the strength of the neighborhood kids, fed and well positioned for a typical Saturday in my atypical world. I take the book to the bed and open it: It was the best of times; it was the worst of times and before I could get any further Lenny comes rushing in and throws a bag down on the floor. He’s in a confrontational mood, he’s saying under his breath, “Is reading all Ricky knows how to do?” I try to ignore him but each second of my silence prompts him to say it louder.

“No, that’s not all I know how to do,” I say. I set the book down and look up at him. Scabrous and hulking, who is this impostor? Surely couldn’t be my brother! Not the brother I used to know, seemingly now, a long time ago. Just to be sure I ask, “Lenny, is that you?” He bustles over to my bookcase.

“You’re a real geek,” he blares.

“What did you call me, Lenny?”

“I called you a geek. Whatcha gonna do about it?”

“Ignore it,” I say. But he won’t have that, no, he must impose his wrath on me, and before I can do anything about it, he flips my bookcase onto its side. I jump out of the bed. I charge toward him but this morning he’s got more strength. He pushes me back onto the bed.

“Books, books, books, that’s all you seem to care about,” he bellows, confident as a bullfighter who just downed his foe.

“That’s not true, Lenny, but behind your fancy clothes and fancy jewelry you may really be somebody someday but without my books I’m a nobody.”

“Then you’re a nobody!” He takes the bookcase and throws it across the room, my prized collection dispersing in every direction. I watch helplessly as the bookcase crashes into the wall, splintering apart in a million pieces. I jump out of the bed again, this time in an attempt to salvage what’s left of my collection. Injured is my Moby Dick. Maimed is Charlotte’s Web, its pages daggered with splinters of my good intentions. I want to cry, my precious books had lost their home. I stare at Lenny hard.

“What’s wrong with you, Lenny?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he yells back. “At least I’m not a nobody like you.” And then, just then, Mother charges into the room, almost falling to her demise as she trips over a couple of the books, dispensing gin upon the torn carpet.

“What the hell’s going on in here?” she hollers. “What’s with this mess on the floor?”

I know better not to tell her the truth. She wouldn’t believe me. I just know she wouldn’t. Her Lenny’s too perfect. And I’m starting to remind her too much of my father, the man who she’d come to hate. Maybe I can’t blame her. I know it’s been awfully hard on her since Father had disappeared into the night and now hundreds of nights later, he had not returned and by the looks of things, he may never return.

“Mother,” I say convincingly, “it was an accident!” But she doesn’t care either way. She takes a gulp of her gin and stares at me like I am some type of criminal or something, suspected of vandalism.

“Clean this mess up,” she demands. “And if you don’t I will. And I’ll throw all this junk in the garbage. Do you hear me, Ricky?”

“Yes, Mother.” Mother turns toward Lenny and he’s smirking and smiling and all of a sudden happy as a clown at the circus. He rolls up his sleeve and reveals to Mother his new watch, all shiny and pretty. A proud owner is he and I wonder how much he had paid for it. But it’ll be kept a secret I’m sure, just like all of his other secrets, buried deep in his burgeoning wardrobe.

“Do you like my new watch?” he says to Mother.

“It’s beautiful, Lenny.”

Lenny takes the bag off the floor and removes a new shirt, an expensive looking getup. He shows it off and Mother tells him how proud she is of him. Says, “My Lenny’s going to be the best dressed kid in the neighborhood.” Lenny then shows off his new shoes, fancy and leathery. Followed by a pair of dress-up pants. Mother’s nodding in delight, her Lenny’s a big man now, though only sixteen, he’s now hanging with the big boys. Those guys drive around in their fancy cars through the rundown neighborhoods selling their wares and Lenny’s been tagging along, I just know he has. Mother interrupts his fashion show.

“Lenny, can you lend me a few bucks for food?”

“I wish I could, Mother, but I just spent all I had shopping.” Mother seems to understand, hugs him and assures him it’s no big deal, and then turns to me. “Ricky, clean this mess up!” I nod and then watch her as she staggers out of the room. I look at Lenny and he’s shaking his head at me like I’m some type of lower life form. Just because my clothes are tattered and not new and fancy like his doesn’t make me a bum, does it? Just because I like to get good grades at the school and learn about the world doesn’t make me a geek, does it? And look at him, my big-shot brother, selfish and selling the pot and stuff to kids like me. Oh, how I wish I were his father, I’d try to straighten him out I swear I would. But there’s nothing I could do.

“Well, I gotta run!” he says. On his way out he tramples over Dickens, Steinbeck and Tolstoy. He kicks aside Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Faulkner. He steps on Jefferson, Lincoln, Paine and Franklin.

After he’s gone, I return to the bed, too tired, too hungry and too upset to do much of anything but stare at my beloved books scattered about the room. Oh, how I used to think they were all so pretty. But now, they’re not so pretty anymore. Maybe they’d look prettier somewhere else. Not only that but maybe, just maybe I could do something really good, make Mother proud, help out and give Wendy some hope too. Thoughts run quickly now through my brain. And then . . .. Downstairs, in the basement, there are empty boxes. I remember seeing them piled to the ceiling, probably saved for emergencies. This is an emergency. I run down the stairs, into the basement, secure my plan.

*****

The old wagon on the back porch, rusted red and crooked and missing a wheel but perhaps good enough for a boy with good intention to tug down the city streets hauling his precious cargo. It takes the most of me to load the two big boxes into the wagon and even more of me to pull it down the stairs, every once in a while getting snagged on a piece of broken board or ignorant nail. Clip-clop, clomp and clonk, I am headed for disaster but thankfully, miraculously I make it down to the solid ground, where I stop to catch my breath and listen to the sparrows and the squirrels, all in good cheer, frolicking about the yard, which is groomed and neat and harvested of rhubarb.

Mister Jones, the good landlord, will bake his rhubarb pies and maybe, if in good temperament, come down and offer us a slice or two. The last time he tried that Chet scared him off with his drunken talk and swaggering bravado. Mister Jones had kept himself scarce the last month or so, making it a point to do his work in the yard before the sun rose, a safe enough time he figured to do it without bother. How I could hear him though, talking to himself and his dead wife while pulling a rake or pushing a mower. And every once in a while he’d act his own cheerleader, prodding himself along: “I won’t give up, I won’t give up, I won’t give up.”

I’d peek out the window and watch his silhouette of seventy-five-year old bone and sheer determination and in some ways; he’d be my only inspiration. There were times when I would offer to help but Mister Jones would have none of that. He was perhaps too proud, too stubborn of a man; besides, his yard was the only real thing he had left. Can’t deny a man that and if Chet ever again tries to steal another piece of rhubarb or pull apart another vine of tomato I swear I’ll do something. It’s just not right. It’s bad enough we’ve got a few of the neighborhood kids coming through the yard some nights, trampling on Mister Jones’s proud accomplishments. Thank God he’s not a violent man or a truly angry man like that old Mister Buck who lives on the corner. Stay clear of Mister Buck’s yard unless you wouldn’t mind a bullet or two in the butt. Not me, though. That old football I accidentally tossed in there could stay there for all of eternity, rather that than taking the chance of getting shot.

*****

The sun is slipping behind the clouds now. I pull the wagon alongside the house, below Mother’s bedroom window. She doesn’t hear me. I suspect she’s passed out. I hope so. Wendy, too, may be sleeping. I hope so. It’s easier fighting hunger while asleep, this I know. The hard part is getting to sleep though. It seems your body’s being yanked in a thousand different directions while your head is pounding to a drunken drummer or perhaps an overly zealous bugle boy. Sometimes it’s like a jackhammer and that’s the worst. Then it’s impossible to fall asleep and so what choice do you have but to lay there, stripped of peace and quiet, something a lot of other people take for granted I suppose.

The wagon falls off the sidewalk, now jammed in a clump of mud. I wish, oh how I wish I had more strength. But I don’t. I start kicking at the clump, trying to dislodge the stubborn axle. I kick and I curse and that’s not something I ordinarily do. I hate it, really do. There’s too much cursing nowadays. Chet, especially when he’s drunk—F that, F-this, F-you, F-you Janet, F-you Lenny, and God forbid he says that to Wendy, I’ll knock him out, oh I swear I would. I almost did last week. Woke up to Wendy crying and screaming and yelling at him to leave Mother alone. Thank God I woke up. I run out into the living room and there he is, got Mother in a headlock. And calling her names, bad names.

“Chet,” I say, “let go of my mom.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy and let him think what he wants; I don’t care, just let go of my mom. “She started it,” he says. And then he flips her onto the couch. She’s drunk, they’re both drunk and now she begins laughing and he joins her and they both tell Wendy and me to go back to bed. And what am I supposed to think—false alarm? What if the next time it’s more serious, how would I know? Should I just stay in my bed and listen to Wendy cry and scream?

“Come on, Wendy,” I say. She takes my hand and I lead her away from the craziness. I put her back into the bed, tuck her in, and tell her Big Bear stories until she falls asleep.

I’m back on the road now . . . and the wheel-less axle is scraping along the pavement, sparks flying and the little kids across the way are enjoying the show, laughing and cheering and having a good old time watching their neighbor boy pulling a stupid wagon past them. I must be one spectacle but I don’t care, not now. Someday I’ll drive past them in a station wagon car, maybe like the one Father used to drive.

The breeze is picking up now and it’s too bad because I’m pulling into it, making it harder on me. If only I could hitch up a team or something, like the pioneer people. That’ll be pretty neat. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time. Be a real settling kind of man, and build a little house in the prairie. And take a wife, oh Leah. I miss her. I wonder how she’s doing. I wonder if she’s still helping her momma at the restaurant, serving food to the hungry farmers—big juicy cheeseburgers with french fries and soda pops. Oh, I got to stop for a minute and rest. I pull the wagon in front of the old boarded up house. The wind is knocking on the rusted shutters: whoosh—clunk, whoosh—clunk, whoosh—clunk. I sit down upon the bottom step, knowing that the steps behind me leading up to the old house once transported a family, a real family. They’re gone now. I had heard the story. All killed during a camping trip, two kids and their parents—a mad man with a hunting rifle. I can’t sit here any longer, I’m sad and I want to cry. No, I must go on. I get up and brush myself off. I must look somewhat businesslike when I go into Claire’s. Claire and me, we can do business and then I can go over to the Fresh Stop, heck, maybe even the Jewel Food Store.

I pull and tug and then try to push but the wagon is becoming more stubborn, a prolonged journey. I hope Wendy’s okay, hope she doesn’t wake up until I get home. I wonder how Trish is doing. I hope she’s having fun in California. I hope she has lots to eat and I hope Bryce is treating her good. I miss my big sister, really I do.

There are a group of bigger kids ahead of me, and they got those football jackets on. Maybe they’re the jocks Lenny used to make fun of. As I get closer, I want so much to go to the other side of the street. But then it may look like I’m trying to avoid them or something. Don’t want to appear unfriendly or worse yet, afraid.

They’re kicking a can and laughing. As I struggle up the street they begin teasing each other and play fighting. My heart’s beating faster and I want to stop and rest but I can’t. Claire’s will close for lunch and then I’d have to wait another hour for her to reopen.

The big kids see me now, I hear them talking about me. “Who is the weirdo with the long hair coming toward us pulling a junky wagon?”

”Jonathan, is that your brother?”

I want to turn around but I can’t, I must go on.

“Hey, I wonder if he has any money on him.”

“I doubt it. He looks like a bum.”

I feel as though I’m riding into a storm, the sky’s darkening and the winds are blowing fiercely now. I think of Mister Jones. “I won’t give up! I won’t give up” I’m whispering to the wind and the dead spirits, maybe to the courageous soldiers who had died in the war, fighting for our freedom. “I won’t give up, no I won’t give up.” The wind picks up more, blowing dust and dirt into my eyes. I close them and blindly tug my wagon toward the end zone. Before me a hefty tackle awaits. The voices merge into one, a cacophony of wind and spite and scraping axle. I swerve but it’s too late, I’m tripped up and fall to the ground. I open my eyes, look up. Two hundred pounds of sophomore staring down at me. “Whatcha got in the wagon?”

I can’t speak. I’m deaf. I sign that I’m deaf and I can’t hear what he’s saying and can’t read lips too good.

All of a sudden he acts as if he’s feeling sorry for me. He extends his hand. Beyond it I could see his simple eyes, blue and expressive and his forehead is furrowing in forgiveness. “I’m sorry, didn’t know you were deaf.” He turns to his defensive linemen. “He’s okay.” And then lifts me up off the ground. I dust myself off, sign them a thank you and continue on, hoping that I make it to Claire’s on time.

Finally I turn onto Austin Boulevard, a main street with buses and carloads of family—little kids with happy faces and Mommas and Papas and the occasional family dog, barking out the car window at the strange boy with the loud, rambunctious wagon.

Down the way I see it, the sign--the big beautiful sign: Claire’s Used Books –We Buy and We Sell. I gather strength, wave back at the passing kids; let them know that I may look stupid pulling an old crooked wagon but I’m on a mission. And let Lenny say what he wants about me, he’s just in a bad way nowadays, too much pressure and maybe jealous too. And I don’t know why. Sure, I may be a lot better than him in the school and get really good grades, my A’s to his F’s, but that doesn’t make me any more special. And look at his art, his amazing drawings and sketches, something I could never do. I’m lucky if I could draw a stick figure. I just wished he would do more drawings and stuff and not quit school but I guess he’s too busy now, acting like a big shot with the fancy clothes and going out with the bigger people and making business deals on the streets and sometimes the schoolyards, mostly the high schools and the junior colleges. And if that weren’t enough, he likes to get high with the pipe and sometimes pop a few pills that make him real stupid, no wonder he’d only manage F’s at the school. Oh, if only I were his father, I'd straighten him out, I swear I would. But I am not.

The sign is getting bigger, my resolve stronger. I pull the wagon as if it’s nothing. I can almost see Wendy’s face. She’ll brighten up and be the happiest little girl in the entire world. Maybe I’ll take her out to the matinee, maybe a double feature and after that, go get some ice cream, maybe a malted and maybe, we’ll have our chance to be children again.

I get to Claire’s in time before she puts the sign on the door, Out to Lunch. I know I may soon be doing the impossible, selling my entire collection of books, good books but salvation sometimes comes at a price. Maybe someday I’ll have my own library and kids that will never go hungry and, and, and…

Claire comes to the door and opens it up, eying up curiously the wagon. She could smell a good book and with the leather-covered Moby Dick and the mint-leaved Grapes of Wrath she knows I’m about to uncover a bounty.

Deliverance

2008-12-22T02:32:00.000-08:00

"Compassion needn't cost anything more than the price one pays for learning how to give unconditionally." Ricky J. Fico

(In the true spirit of Christmas I give to you my true-life story, as published in the book, "Doing Good For Goodness Sake." It is from when I was living in Las Vegas and working as a Pizza Delivery Driver for Papa John's - a fun and often rewarding job in more ways than one."

If a man be gracious and courteous to strangers,
it shows that he is a citizen of the world,
and that his heart is no island cut off from other lands,
but a continent that joins to them.
~Francis Bacon~

Living the life of a pizza deliveryman, I'd often find reason to rejoice. More than the occasional $5 or $10 tip were the smiles of the children waiting at the door, and every once in a while, the unexpected.

I had just pulled into the busy parking lot after a string of deliveries. As I neared the pizza parlor I saw two people running toward me. A man and a woman, Asian looking, carrying big shopping bags emblazoned with the logo from one of the clothing stores that helped to anchor the strip mall. I turned into my parking space, a few rows back from the pizza parlor. I put the car in park and looked up. There they were, smiling, looking relieved.

All of a sudden, the back door of my car opened. I turned around. The couple had jumped into the backseat of my car. At first, I was confused as to why they would jump into a pizza delivery car; after all, it was evident from the sign on the top of the car that read "PIZZA" in large bold letters. Then, it made sense. They couldn't read English; they saw the car-topper and thought I was a taxi. That had to be it.

I got out of the car. They looked bewildered and followed. I pointed to the pizza parlor. They realized their mistake. Obviously embarrassed, they laughed nervously and walked briskly away. I went back into the store, thinking little of it.

A few minutes later, I stepped outside and noticed the same couple, across from me, looking like they were waiting for something. The woman walked away and a few seconds later she returned. I heard the phone ringing and took the call. A pickup. "Pie on screen," I told my coworker.

I went to the front window and looked out. Again, the woman walked away, the man shaking his head. A minute passed, the woman returned, now shaking her head. That's it, I must find out what's going on.

"I'll be right back," I told my co-worker.

Before I approached, the woman had walked away again. The man looked exasperated. I looked toward the Starbucks. The public phones, I thought. That's where the woman went. She returned.

"No taxi come," she said tearfully in what was obviously the few words that she knew in English.

I noticed a card in her hand. "Can I see?" I asked.

She handed it to me. It was from North Las Vegas Cab, miles and miles from where we were.

I had my cell phone and called the number. Busy signal. Tried again. Busy signal. I looked up at the couple; they looked exhausted, defeated.

"What country are you from?" I asked.

"Japan," the woman answered.

"Where are you staying?"

She looked at me, confused. "No understand."

"Hotel?"

She nodded sheepishly. She opened her purse, pulled out another card.

"Ah, the Mandalay Bay . . . nice hotel," I replied. "How long have you been in Las Vegas?"

"Three day," the woman said, smiling. "First time, America."

I wish that I could take them to their hotel, I thought. But it was too far and I'm sure my boss wouldn't go for it. I was the only delivery guy. What I needed to do was to call another taxi service, one closer. There was a phone book in the pizza store. I motioned for the couple to follow me.

"Rest your legs," I said pointing to the chairs in the waiting area. They smiled and sat, relieved. They were exhausted and maybe hungry too.

I went around the counter and pulled out the phone book. I found the right number and dialed. "Where to?" said the dispatcher.

"Mandalay Bay."

"About twenty minutes," was the reply.

I related this to the woman who, in turn, relayed it in her Japanese to her husband. He nodded a sigh of relief.

I went around the counter back to the pick-up area. "Are you hungry?" I asked them, pointing up toward the big pizza sign.

"Yes, yes, yes," the woman answered.

"Would you like a pizza?"

The woman looked at the man, said something in Japanese. He smiled a very big smile.

"Yes, yes . . . cheese, cheese," the woman answered.

I put together a large cheese pizza, and slipped it into the oven.

"Six minutes," I said to the couple.

And then I asked them if they were thirsty.

"Yes, cola," the woman replied.

I pulled two 20-ounce bottles from the cooler, a few napkins, and two paper plates and handed them to my new friends. The woman rose, bowed slightly, and opened her purse. She pulled out a wad of American dollars of various denominations.

"No, no," I said. "On me."

She insisted. Again, I refused. "Please, pizza's on me. No charge."

She smiled, sat down.

When the pizza was ready, I sliced and boxed it before handing it to the Japanese couple.

The man drew a camera from his pocket. He took a picture of the pizza box and then had his wife pose with the two plates. Then, he gestured for me to stand with his wife, and he took another picture.

The man opened the box, and with the hot steam rising, he took a deep breath and exhaled with a smile.

"Good, good, good," the woman said. And then she set her plate down and opened her purse. She pulled out a little notebook, rose and handed it to me.

"You write address."

I wrote it down and then a few minutes later, the cab arrived and the driver came in.

"Somebody call a cab?"

"Yes, please take my friends visiting from Japan to the Mandalay. They're tired. You know, they came over here to do some serious shopping."

He smiled.

Two weeks later, I received a package. Inside was a beautiful Japanese card inscribed with: "We had heard about American hospitality but it was not until we met you that we had experienced it." Beneath the card was a beautiful tin containing an assortment of Japanese crackers. Three weeks before Christmas, it was a wonderful gift.

By: Ricky J. Fico

Doing Good

Help a Traveler or Tourist

· At or near popular tourist destinations, if you see someone reading a map, offer your assistance.

· Look out for confused travelers on the subway, train, or bus. Ask if they need help.

· Offer to carry heavy luggage, especially getting on and off transportation.

· Help people who might need exact change for trains and buses.

· If a traveler is stranded and needs to place a phone call, offer to do it for them on your cell phone.

· If you know their language, assist in interpretation.

· Volunteer to take a photo for a group so that everyone may be included.

· Make recommendations to help tourists find favorite local restaurants, beaches, hikes, grocery stores, pharmacies, or accommodations.

· Be a tourist's guide for the day, and show them around your town.

· When someone you know is traveling, leave a kind note in their luggage.

· Buy a small souvenir for a tourist to take home with them.

Excerpted from Doing Good for Goodness' Sake: Heartwarming Stories and Inspiring Ideas to Help You Help Others by Steve Zikman (Inner Ocean Publishing). No portion of this material may be used, copied, transmitted, distributed or sent electronically, or by any other means, either in whole or in part, without the express written permission of the author. All rights reserved, Steve Zikman, 2004

The Mind

2008-12-20T04:15:00.000-08:00

"A Greedy Mind is to Learn, Yet not Teach
&
A Lazy Mind is to Yearn, Yet not Reach."

This morning, unlike most mornings, I’m at a loss for words. I’m staring at the blank screen, hypnotized by the blinking cursor. It is wearying heavy upon my eyelids. I’m falling . . . falling . . . falling. Now, I’m asleep

Ah, a dream! Thank you, my dear God for such a vivid dream. And, the actors you had chosen to star in this dream — perfect. Simply, perfect!

Mother, dressed in white. Beautiful is she, her hair curling down the sides of her sculptured face. Father, with his Herculean physique, standing tall atop the pedestal. Marbled and chiseled, he plays the pivotal role.

Brother, my dear brother, giggling under the apple tree. He is tempted but he resists. I am grateful. I must watch him with a careful eye. Brother has a bigger appetite than most.

My older sister, the nursemaid to the world, wrapped in fine linen, cradling the infant, rocking the elderly. Smiling is she, I’m so proud.

My younger sister, drifting across the river, upon the raft of ancient log. A freer spirit is she, but knows not the current. At any moment it could shift. I am concerned. Big brothers must always be concerned about their little sisters.

Suddenly, I’m thrown backwards and there’s nothing I can do. I’m caught in the eye of the hurricane. I’m taken back to a different time, a different place.

So young is she, my little sister. So fragile is she, her seven year old little body unshielded from the burgeoning storm. I feel so bad for Wendy, her world too, spinning recklessly through the cosmos. I wish I could do something, anything to bring back some balance, some certainty. But I can’t, my body weakened from hunger, my heart berated and scorned. I feel powerless now.

Mother, she is blind. Her world is in darkness now. A dark alley she travels, drawn to the neon of yet another beer sign in the distance. Drawn is she to the clash of beer mugs and the occasional drop of coin in the jukebox. Her world no longer includes her children, the two older ones and then me and further down the line, Wendy. We are orphans now, left to fend for ourselves. My twelve years is topped by Lenny’s fifteen; Trish’s sixteen. Lenny and Trish, old and wise, know which road to take. Their road, though, is filled with potholes. I fear for them. Drugs, all kinds of drugs they now depend on to help them along.

Wendy and me, we hold onto each other, hoping that the storm would move far away from us. The thunder, it is so loud, so very loud and Wendy’s trembling, she’s so frightened. Her Cindy Doll is no longer comfort to her, it lays crumpled on the dusty floor.

Suddenly, I’m awakened. I look around and realize how grateful I am. The cursor upon the screen is still blinking, the keyboard below awaiting my fingers. Aha, that’s it! “Caught in the eye of the hurricane I thought that I was targeted to die. Instead, I was saved by it, and targeted to live.” Perfect. Simply, perfect!

Mother, she’s been through a lot in her life, that’s for sure. And not only that, but she’s finally taken advantage of what she’s been through to give back; perhaps to make up for her neglect and abandonment when I was still a boy. Today, she does what she can to help others, especially my nephew, the first one in our family who’s going to graduate college. Mother’s so proud of him. And so am I. I was supposed to be the first to graduate college but I stumbled upon a few detours, which sometimes happens in life I suppose.

Today, Mother doesn’t have much, a small apartment in the suburbs where she likes to watch the geese outside by the pond. Since Mother’s up in her age she doesn’t have too much to do nowadays, but maybe wait for one of her children to stop by and visit. But that’s not too often though. I wish I could but I live two thousand miles away now. And little Wendy, she’s usually too busy. And Trish, she does visit as often as she could but she’s busy working in the hospital and taking care of the sick and the elderly. Lenny, I hear he's busy too - with a new life and stuff.

Me, I live in Las Vegas now, perhaps to do what my father was supposed to do, so many years ago. Yeah, as a boy, we were going to move to Las Vegas because Las Vegas provided opportunity for a man like my father. But my father had other ideas I guess. Booze, women and who knows what else caused his plans to fall through though.

A few of my plans fell through too. Like killing myself. Yeah, I know, I shouldn’t talk like that but sometimes it’s more important to reveal the truth than try to hide from it.

I was planning to kill myself in Kauai, Hawaii on my birthday. I’d been to Kauai once before and I felt it was my “Heaven on Earth.” So, it would be a perfect place to kill myself. I had booked a flight to leave Chicago and arrive Kauai, September 12, 1992—the day before my final birthday. But something happened. I believe it was God Himself who stopped me from going through with my plans. On September 11, 1992, the day before my flight a massive hurricane hit Kauai head on. Of course, now all the airports would definitely be closed, no commercial flights going in nor going out.

It took me a while to realize what had really happened. Beyond the haze of scotch and the shock I realized that I was probably better off alive.

Although Hurricane Iniki left much destruction in her wake she did stop me from doing what I was intending to do—prepare for my own wake. And after clearing my eyes I became grateful, so grateful that on the night of September 11, 1992 I did something that my father was never able to do. I got sober. And being sober provides you with such a profound appreciation for life. So much that I did go back to Kauai, six months after the hurricane. But I went sober. I knew that what was harbored along her majestic shores was not my end but my beginning.

And today? I’m sitting here looking out the window and wondering, wondering about this: “To better see where you’re going it’s better to see where you’ve been.” I believe it was my father who once told me this; I’m not too sure. Maybe it’s something that I thought up on my own, I’m not sure, but whatever the case, it seems to make perfect sense.

Ricky J. Fico

Note: Since this writing I had returned to Chicago to take care of my ailing mother. It hasn't been easy but then again, sometimes the challenges we are faced with provides us the greater opportunity to learn better what it means to be human.