My number is 13, it has always been thirteen. My birthday is September 13. Ah, that is the day that O.J. Simpson committed his "armed robbery" in Las Vegas. Coincidence? Not at all. You see, in a metaphysical way I've been connected to the O.J. Simpson case since day one:
Across the wire, the news broke that Scott Peterson was arrested for the murder of his wife and unborn child. So many similarities to the OJ case, that I will take this time to revisit 1994. Written here is one of the many letters that I wrote, sometime after OJ Simpson murdered his ex-wife, Nicole Brown and her friend, Ronald Goldman.
On the morning of June 12, 1994, I arrived at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport on a flight from San Diego, Ca. This concluded my twelve-day vacation spent in Southern California and Las Vegas, Nevada. While in Las Vegas, I watched the filming of a scene from a movie called Bodily Harm. This was at The Riviera. For some reason, one of the scenes being shot reminded me of an OJ Simpson Hertz commercial. This scene had one of the characters running through a corridor to the elevators.
Prior to taking my much-deserved vacation, I had taken a telecourse from a local community college. The subject was in Philosophy – “Ethics in America.” My course work included writing and submitting six papers on various topics concerning the ethical equations imposed on society. Little did I know at the time, that one paper in particular, in which I titled “To Defend Society” would turn out to be of such great significance. In that paper, I wrote of a hypothetical “high-profile murder case” and entered my philosophical assessment of such a case and its implications on society. I took a critical look at our current legal system and entered my passionate plea for reform, and with it, a safer environment in which we could live and prosper as a society.
On May 29, 1994 I submitted my final three papers and took my final exam. I would have to wait until after my return to Chicago to learn of my final grade.
On the night of my return on Sunday, June 12, 1994 something happened in Southern California that shook the nation, but this time it wasn’t of a seismic nature. What happened that night confounded the masses and sparked an inferno of controversy and speculation throughout the land.
The murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman has brought an unprecedented flurry of media attention and provided the citizenry with a panoramic view of perhaps, one of the most important murder cases in a century.
O.J. Simpson, the charismatic “sports legend” charged with the murders of his beautiful ex-wife? “How could that be?” reverberated the astonished voices from every corner of the world. “How could such a man of his stature, of his position in the limelight, a man with seemingly so much, a man who smiled at every camera, at every adoring fan be capable of such a gruesome act?” Oh, not only was an act of murder committed but also an ultimate act of defiance, I must say. Should we be fooled by this defiance?
Look behind the wall, I must say, and the picture exposed is not the same picture so carefully portrayed to the public eye for so many years. Look behind the mask, I must say, and open your eyes to the truth. What is the truth? “The truth always finds a way to reveal itself,” I must say. “One truth is more powerful than a thousand lies,” I must say with conviction. Look through the fog of a thousand lies and let the one truth be known, I must say.
“Look behind the facade of defiance,” I must say and see the face of arrogance. Look around and see how acts of obsession destroy lives,” I must say. “Do not be fooled by the gleaming mask of deception.”
What we must understand is what we see on the outside does not always reflect what is going on in the inside and that sometimes we are misled by the disguise so carefully portrayed to us.
“A smile could easily conceal a frown,” I must say, “and a frown could harbor so much anger. Misdirected anger could lead to murder.
O.J. Simpson, the sports hero, the spokesman, the actor behind bars, charged with the murders of his ex-wife and her friend! “But how could that be?” many of us ask in total disbelief. “How could a man so cool, so calm, so seemingly warm and cordial be indicted for murdering the mother of his own children?” we may ask.
“What do we see?” I must ask. “Do we see just a man who was made a national hero by his accomplishments on the football field. Isn’t he still hiding behind a mask, running? Are we blinded by his mask and cannot see his true identity? A man of arrogance suffering from low self-esteem? Does the wall of egotism projected on almost every screen across the nation blind us?
An innocent man does not contemplate suicide, I must say. An innocent family man who has two young children who had just lost their mother does not run away, I must say.
An innocent man who believes he’s being framed does not contemplate suicide, I must say. If an innocent man commits suicide then he would not be remembered for his great accomplishments but by his final act of guilt.
“Let the truth be told,” I must say.
“You cannot buy truth,” I must also say.
“Money sometimes distorts the truth,” I will also say.
Ands so, with the promise of money, many twisted tales surfaced, ultimately creating a three-ring circus where clowns, tight rope walkers, and a few well-dressed ring masters entertained a lot of folk but many of us, including me, were not amused at all. I guess, in essence, the paper I wrote for my philosophy course was just a thesis but later proven through the actual events that followed. I, again, was given a real lesson. But then again, all of us were.
Before, during and after the case, I was provided many signs, some would say that they were mere coincidences but after a while, a reasonable man would see that the probability of so many coincidences would be almost mathematically impossible.
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Previous: July 9, 1993:
SYNCHRONICITY
OF THE HIGHEST ORDER
July 9, 1993
Almost a year now of sobriety, life is good. Temporarily, I am living with Mom and Roger (her long-time boyfriend, although never married --he is like a stepfather to me and Wendy and grandfather to Wendy's two sons, Jason and Dustin). I have a small room upstairs, Wendy has one of her own while my nephews, Jason and Dustin share yet another. Downstairs, Roger had erected his makeshift sleeping quarters out of a portion of the dining room -- a futon and a television, he is happy. Mother, as custom, prefers the living room couch, never complains of a sleepless night and her loud snores attest to her uninterrupted slumber.
Since sobriety had entered my realm on the night of September 11, 1992 I had picked up on a long-time passion - travel. Now, with my new job I could afford renting a nice car and taking weekend road trips to places near enough my heart. Last weekend I went to Door County, Wisconsin -beautiful, just beautiful. It has been dubbed the "Cape Cod of the Midwest" and it didn't take me long to testify to this simple truth-picturesque at every turn, breath-taking with every glance.
Later, after dinner I am going to pick up my rent-a-car and leave tomorrow morning for a four-day drift into Michigan - Mackinac Island, the Michigan Dunes, possibly Sault Ste. Marie -- to see the locks and the big ships.
Roger, who loves to cook prepares a nice pot roast with carrots, potatoes and a side of asparagus-a hearty meal, indeed. Roger's a good man and although him and me had a few run-ins in the early going, both of our lives now minus the alcohol had helped to mend our ways. How could we both see eye-to-eye before when both of our views were hampered by the alcohol?
Sitting around the table, us six, a good enough reason to salute the occasion. I raise my glass of soda pop: "Here's to our health, wealth and well-being. Oh, and to my trip tomorrow to Michigan."
All of a sudden, Wendy pushes back her chair as if suddenly taken angry for some unknown reason. "What trip to Michigan?" she says, rather harshly.
"Me and Catherine are taking a road trip up to Mackinac Island. Enterprise is going to pick me up later to go get my rent-a-car. I'm thinking this time a Nissan Maxima. I look at Wendy; her face is red.
"Must be nice," she says, in a sarcastic tone.
"What are you saying, Wendy?" now detecting that it's jealousy. How many camping trips had she gone on before, I am thinking. She shouldn't be jealous; she should be happy for her big brother. But she has other ideas. Her mood worsens. She's bringing up all types of issues now - unrelated. All pointed at me. I could tell Dustin and Jason are becoming upset by their mother's outburst. They are silent, heads down.
Roger is shaking his head; Mother has taken up with Wendy's position and is glaring at me. What have I done wrong?
Wendy keeps throwing barbs at me, I try to convince her to stop it: "There's no need for this," I say. She won't listen; she's intent on pushing my buttons. My patience is wearing thin. Suddenly, I erupt out of my chair, and in doing so; you'd think a hurricane had suddenly ripped through the house. Wendy jumps up, throws back the screen door and runs out to the backyard. Both Dustin and Jason jump up - crying and seemingly afraid-afraid of what, though? I'm not going to hurt anybody. Now Mother starts screaming at me.
"See what you'd done," she says. "Can't you see, your sister's afraid of you?"
"Why, mom?"
She won't answer, she just stands there, shaking her head at me and looking at me as if I were a murderer or something.
I look out at Wendy and she's trembling and sobbing uncontrollably. I got to go out and calm her down. I am worried about her; she's still my baby sister for goodness sake.
I approach the screen door. Mother's screaming at me still, "Don't you dare go out there."
But I must. I am so worried about Wendy. What the hell has happened to her? I go out, Wendy sees me, pushes back, and won't let me get near her. I get as close as I can and say to her, "Wendy, I need to talk to you."
"Leave me alone. You're going to hurt me. Everybody hurts me. My kids' father had hurt me. Leave me alone, get away from me." She's all red, shaking so bad as if standing atop an arctic glacier. Mother's now at the screen door, screaming at me, now more vociferously: "Ricky, leave her alone. She is afraid of you."
I retreat, go back in the house. Both Dustin and Jason are crying. I want so much to console them too but Mother looks at me with that cruel, uncaring look - the same kind of look she used to give me while she was drunk and when I maybe reminded her too much of my father.
I say, "Mom, I am not violent. I wasn't going to hurt Wendy. I just wanted to talk to her, that's all."
Mother stares me down hard. "In your small mind, that is what you want to believe."
Hurt by her denouncement of me I gather myself and go upstairs. I know I am not the evil one. Maybe someday she'll believe it. I have a tender heart, always did. Deep down I am the same now as the day she gave birth to me. There's something different about me now, though. Unlike the past when I'd run and get drunk, this time I am going to simply walk away. Suddenly, as I'm packing my clothes, a warm sensation overcomes me and radiates electricity through every molecule of my being. I feel so tranquil, at peace now and besides the gentle beat of my heart I hear: "Ricky, you are very much loved. Don't ever forget it." You are the Good One, not the Evil One." Perhaps, the voices of my subconscious, perhaps the voices of angels. Whatever the case, I feel such a calmness about me, don't remember ever feeling this type of calm before. I finish packing my suitcase and quietly go down the stairs, then out the door. I will be OK this time.
Note:
1)The date of this episode is July 9, 1993 - nearly one year before O.J. Simpson murders his ex-wife Nicole and her friend, Ronald Goldman. Why does this date have significance? Well, I had found out that July 9 is O.J. Simpson's birthday
2) What triggers my sister's sudden outburst and hostility toward me? My mention of getting a rent-a-car. What was O.J. Simpson also famous for? His Hertz Rent-a-Car commercials. On the night of June 12, 1994 after the murders where did he go? To Chicago to have a meeting with Hertz. Oh, by the way - the hotel he was staying at was right down the street (4 miles) from where I was living--in River Grove.
3) O.J. Simpson has two sons - Justin and Jason. My younger sister's two sons are named Dustin and Jason.
Just the beginning of my direct connection with the O.J. Simpson case and today I have a greater understanding as to the reasons why I was drawn into it. At first I was scared, asking myself, "Why me?" I don't have all the answers to that question but I have learned to accept my role.
Ricky J. Fico
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
They Call Me Mr. Tibbs
OK, here's the deal . . . I'm not racist by any means. My grandmother, though, she was prejudiced against others who were of a different color. She was brought up in the south-- where a lot of these racist views were promulgated from one generation to the next. A lot of Southerners still want to blame the Civil War on the black race.
Although I loved my grandmother dearly, I could never understand her racist views. Sorry grandma, but racism is ignorance. And those who practice and preach racism are ignorant slaves to some predetermined notion that stands unqualified and unwarranted.
Let me tell you . . .. When I was about thirteen years of age, I'd met Sammy Davis Jr. This was at the Hyatt O'Hare. After he exited from the elevator he stopped to sign his autograph for me. I was thrilled. Also, he handed me the wine glass he was clutching. A souvenir, man was I excited. Later that night, I told my grandma the good news. "You'd never guess who I met today."
"Who?"
"Sammy Davis Jr. I got his autograph and he gave me his wine glass."
Ricky," she said, "Don't you ever drink out of that glass."
"Why not."
"Because a Negro drank from it."
I, to say the least, was dumbfounded. I could not believe my own grandmother had just made that impossible remark. It was ignorance in the most egregious form. If I didn't love my grandmother, I would have disowned her right then and there.
Racism, I will never understand it. I am a man who has the capability to understand and appreciate a lot of things, but not that. Neither my mind nor heart has the capability to appreciate this type of ignorance. I'm not wired for that type of hypocrisy.
One of my favorite movies when I was a kid was "Guess who's coming to Dinner." Another, "In the Heat of the Night." Yes, and one of my favorite actors is Sidney Portier.
You can call me Tibbs, Mister Tibbs. . . . .
Oh, and "To Sir With Love." You want to know how many times I cried as a kid watching that movie? At least six times. Yeah, I'm a sentimentalist . . . . .
And no, I won't stoop down and bash, denigrate, ostracize, ridicule just to get fucking ratings. I don't care if you don't read my work. I'm not a Howard Stern wannabe, no siree. And surely not another Jerry Falwell.
I wish my grandmother were still alive. I think she may share my views on Barack Obama. I think if we were given the chance to sit down uninterrupted and she would listen to some of my own philosophies and viewpoints she just might consider judging a person not by color but by character... the very message that Dr. Martin Luther King espoused in seeking the rights and freedoms for all people.
"Our world is full of many tragedies but the biggest tragedy is the one that is bred from ignorance." Ricky J. Fico
Although I loved my grandmother dearly, I could never understand her racist views. Sorry grandma, but racism is ignorance. And those who practice and preach racism are ignorant slaves to some predetermined notion that stands unqualified and unwarranted.
Let me tell you . . .. When I was about thirteen years of age, I'd met Sammy Davis Jr. This was at the Hyatt O'Hare. After he exited from the elevator he stopped to sign his autograph for me. I was thrilled. Also, he handed me the wine glass he was clutching. A souvenir, man was I excited. Later that night, I told my grandma the good news. "You'd never guess who I met today."
"Who?"
"Sammy Davis Jr. I got his autograph and he gave me his wine glass."
Ricky," she said, "Don't you ever drink out of that glass."
"Why not."
"Because a Negro drank from it."
I, to say the least, was dumbfounded. I could not believe my own grandmother had just made that impossible remark. It was ignorance in the most egregious form. If I didn't love my grandmother, I would have disowned her right then and there.
Racism, I will never understand it. I am a man who has the capability to understand and appreciate a lot of things, but not that. Neither my mind nor heart has the capability to appreciate this type of ignorance. I'm not wired for that type of hypocrisy.
One of my favorite movies when I was a kid was "Guess who's coming to Dinner." Another, "In the Heat of the Night." Yes, and one of my favorite actors is Sidney Portier.
You can call me Tibbs, Mister Tibbs. . . . .
Oh, and "To Sir With Love." You want to know how many times I cried as a kid watching that movie? At least six times. Yeah, I'm a sentimentalist . . . . .
And no, I won't stoop down and bash, denigrate, ostracize, ridicule just to get fucking ratings. I don't care if you don't read my work. I'm not a Howard Stern wannabe, no siree. And surely not another Jerry Falwell.
I wish my grandmother were still alive. I think she may share my views on Barack Obama. I think if we were given the chance to sit down uninterrupted and she would listen to some of my own philosophies and viewpoints she just might consider judging a person not by color but by character... the very message that Dr. Martin Luther King espoused in seeking the rights and freedoms for all people.
"Our world is full of many tragedies but the biggest tragedy is the one that is bred from ignorance." Ricky J. Fico
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Moods Over A September Moon: A Memoir
Another part of my history: My memoir- "Moods Over A September Moon"
Today is my tenth birthday. Dad told me a little while ago that he has a surprise for me, told me to get dressed, that we’re going out. “Just you and me,” he said. I begged him to tell me where we’d be going but he said it wouldn’t be a surprise then, “now would it?” Still, I wanted to know. I really don’t like surprises, to tell you the truth.
Too many surprises lately. Last week, Dad surprised us all when he’d lost his job. A few weeks before that, he lost another paycheck. Mom doesn’t like surprises either. She wasn’t too happy when Dad told her, how he lost his paycheck, “on a sure thing. Couldn’t have possibly lost.” I overheard him tell her this when I was passing their bedroom on my way to the kitchen. The kitchen is right next to their bedroom and as I was sitting there eating my cereal I could hear my mom crying. I hate when Mom cries. The last year or maybe, the last two, I’ve heard my mom cry a lot. Sometimes I’ll see her cry but that’s not very often though. Mom doesn’t like us kids seeing her cry. She does it in her bedroom with the door closed. She knows we won’t bother her when she’s in her bedroom with the door closed.
After getting dressed in my jean pants and tee shirt, Dad and me leave the apartment. On the way to the bus stop, once again I beg Dad to at least, give me a hint to where he’s taking me.
”Okay, okay,” he says. “We’ll be taking the elevated.”
“Do you mean the el train?”
“Yes, Ricky.” He pulls from his pants pocket a couple of C.T.A. (Chicago Transit Authority) tokens and then quickly switches them from one hand to the other, back and forth, back and forth and now my head’s getting dizzy. He finally stops, thank goodness, and holds out his fists. “Okay,” he says, “I bet you don’t know which hand they’re in.”
I point to his right fist and he unclenches it, revealing nothing. “All right, it’s in your left then.” I’m wrong again. Somehow, the two tokens had ended up in his ear, and I don’t know how, it just amazes me, seeing my dad pull out of his ears two bus tokens. The bus pulls up, we climb aboard, and again, I’m amazed. This time Dad pulls the tokens from his mouth and deposits them in the fare box. The bus driver looks at my dad like he’s crazy or something. We ride the bus to the el station; all the way I’m trying to guess on my birthday surprise. Each time, Dad assures me that I’m wrong. “No, we’re not going to the movies. No, not bowling.”
As we wait for our el train to come, Dad and me watch the pigeons. They’re waddling the platform pecking at bits of bread a big lady in a dark shawl is tossing. A couple of times the big lady throws the bread too far and they land next to the third rail of the track. Watching those pigeons swoop down to the tracks near the third rail is getting me very nervous. God forbid, they touch the third rail; they’d be “fried chicken.” I don’t know how many volts are running this track but Dad tells me enough to electrocute an elephant. I don’t think many elephants ride this line though. They’re usually on the circus train and I think those kinds of trains are run by steam engines, maybe diesel.
Beyond the blue spears of electric discharge, the Marina Towers, resembling two tall stacks of poker chips rise above the ground, giving me the chance to place another bet on my birthday surprise. This time I bet on a trip to the museum. I heard it’s downtown somewhere. But this bet doesn’t pay off either. Try again. Dinosaur bones, mummies and whatever else they have enslaved at The Field Museum would have to await my young and unwavering curiosity for another time.
As the el train whizzes along, I feel as though I’m flying. Through the window I see nothing but the city below. There’s nothing in between. No track, nothing. Veering to one side, my body pressed against the cool steel, I see the expanse of blue just beyond the line of gray edifice. It looks like the lake, the very big lake. The beach, that’s it, I bet we’re going to the beach.
“Dad, we’re going to beach, right?”
“No, Ricky.”
After negotiating another turn and then straightening out, in the distance, well beyond the breakers, boats, all kinds of boats begin to eclipse my view. I bet that’s it. I feel really good about this one. “Dad,” I say, “are you taking me on a boat?"
“Yes, Ricky,” Dad answers. “We’re going to take the two-hour scenic tour on Lake Michigan,” he says soberly. Now I’m getting excited, real excited, so excited that I nearly piss on the graffiti-laden seat. What a great surprise! Never been on a real boat before, only a small rowboat up in Wisconsin when I was either seven or eight or perhaps five.
“Dad,” I ask, “why did you decide to take me on a boat?” He looks up for a second, puts his index finger to his chin and begins to ruminate that his own father, my grandfather who I had never met, who died mysteriously well before I was born, took him on the same tour, but back then, “things were different, well, you know, the city wasn’t built as high as it is now, didn’t have a lot of these buildings we have now and no Ricky, no John Hancock building and no Playboy Bunny atop the building next to it either.”
As the train begins to sweep around the outer edge of The Loop, with buildings tossing shadows and shadows casting streaks across Father’s face, I’m kind of enjoying this ride aboard the elevated, although I’m starting to feel more anxious and excited about getting off this darn thing and getting on that boat. I feel a trickle down my leg. I’m kind of embarrassed so I look around at my fellow passengers, people of various age and color, most of them in light summer clothes, and realize they are all ensconced in business of their own and pay me no attention, none at all.
The train lunges into a tunnel and then snakes out into a clearing, where the mid-September sun penetrates and emblazons the crayoned swastikas and spray-painted gang insignia that are worn tightly and selfishly upon the walls of our urine-smelling compartment. Across from Father and me, slumped unconsciously forward, sits a man with decrepit overcoat, clutching a brown paper bag. A closer look reveals a puddle, a yellowish bubbly puddle below his knees. I reason with clear conscience that we should switch to another car. But Dad says, “We’re off at the next stop.” I put my face in my hands and think about the meatloaf that Mom will be cooking for me later on. I have simple tastes and meatloaf is what I want and not some swanky Porterhouse or lobster tail. Besides, Porterhouses and lobster tails probably cost too much money anyway and I don’t think there’s much money for things like that, well, not since Dad lost his job last week. I feel the train losing speed. I lift my face off my hands and look at Dad, who is now staring pensively at the man across from us, the one slumped in drunkenness, and I wonder if Dad’s being reminded of his own self as he was five or six months ago, when he, himself, was drunk a lot of the time, falling down and knocking things over and sometimes passing out on The Elevated and missing his stop, probably missing a bunch of stops.That was then, before he vowed never to take a drink again. Dad is sober and I’m proud of him and we’re going to spend the day together. I’m so happy.
I feel the train slowing. Dad nudges me and then he gets up and grasps the handrail. “C’mon,” he says.
We walk for what seems like forever. Dad says we have time before our boat lifts anchor, and besides it would be good to walk and talk and look at the various landmarks and different people who, too, are out taking advantage of this most perfect day. On this day, everybody is out. This day is warm, warmer than most September days and Chicago is alive with its many children, who are carrying on and enjoying what this perfect day has to offer. For some, it will be a day at Lincoln Park Zoo. And for others, a day unfurled on a stretch of sandy beach. Today, there will be family picnics, slow-pitch softball games. Horseshoes will be tossed, volleyballs slapped, basketballs dribbled. Today, perhaps one last romp before the sun turns its face and the leaves fall from the trees and then the snow builds icy fortresses along the avenues and boulevards, keeping the city’s many children hostage until Spring comes along again and pays ransom.
We come to the Michigan Avenue Bridge and cross over it, below us the Chicago River gleaming in the sun. Once on the other side, Dad takes my hand and leads me down a flight of stairs to the dock. Awaiting our embarkation is the boat that’ll take us down the river and then out to the lake. Today I’m a sailor and I feel so proud. Scampering across the planks, head held high, I know that there are worlds to conquer. I’m young, full of hopes and dreams and ambitions and nothing could stop this boy from accomplishing his mission. I look up at Dad and he, too, is beaming with pride. He knows that he’ll duly fulfill his obligations to his family and his country and nothing will stop him. He’ll find another job, a good job and finally buy me that bicycle I wanted for the last two years. And maybe that shiny electric guitar I saw in the window of Morley’s Music. With his new job, we can move into a bigger apartment, maybe one with three or four bedrooms. Maybe Lenny could have his own room and big sis Trish, hers. And little Wendy, she could get that canopy bed she had wished for. Yeah, things are going to be great. I know this, Dad knows this, and the entire world will know it.
We board the boat. Tourists gather at the bow, cameras strapped around their shoulders. They stare and point and talk amongst themselves in a foreign language.
We choose a seat facing the aft. Dad reasons, “to see better where one has been and not worry so much what is yet ahead. Because whatever is ahead, we will soon pass. Ricky, do you understand?”
“Yes, Dad,” I say.
He nods and then closes his eyes. He put his hands together, prayer-like and begins whispering. I try to listen but I cannot hear what he’s saying, his soft and tender words suddenly being drowned out by a loud ruckus emanating from mid-ship. My attention to my father has been thwarted, derailed, stolen from me by a gang of hooligans who are in the process of antagonizing a smaller, innocent boy looking not much older or bigger than myself. I could hear:
“Hey punk, you got a problem?”
“You wanna put a bag on that ugly face of yours? You might scare those Japanese people!”
“Hey punk, aren’t you listening? You better put a bag on your face before one of those foreign people jumps off this boat and drowns. Hah, hah, hah…
I endure this bantering and tormenting and taunting for a good three or four minutes before all becomes quiet again, except for the sound of the motor under us, revving and purring and preparing for the journey ahead. I’m excited and happy again. I turn to look at Dad and I see a stream running down his cheeks and onto his chin. “Why?” I ask.
“I’m okay,” he says. He then unfolds his hands and places them on my shoulders. “Happy birthday, Ricky.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
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Part II
Mom is tossing about the salad, blending together a few leaves of lettuce and a couple of slices of leftover tomato. Thrown in for color a few shavings of carrot.
Since there isn’t enough to go around, I am to be given the salad, Mom tells everyone. It’s his birthday. But there is enough meatloaf and mashed potatoes, thank goodness. Otherwise, I would feel guilty, birthday or no birthday.
We gather around the table, well, some of us, the table is too small, so Lenny and Trish take their plates to the living room. They don’t mind they say, the small black and white television is there to keep them company. Shortly, they will be arguing on what to watch. Lenny prefers cartoons, Trish likes documentaries and reality-based shows. Lenny likes to say that cartoons are reality-based and sometimes I think he’s right.
Wendy’s sitting on the old barstool, found in the alley behind the Do Drop Inn, one of the taverns Dad and Mom sometimes go to. She spins around a few times between bites of her meatloaf, Dad thinks it funny, but Mom finds it annoying. “Stop that Wendy,” Mom says.
“But Mom, it’s fun,” says Wendy, her hair in pigtails.
“Let her have some fun,” Dad says, his hair matted and messed from the earlier winds.
“Vince,” Mom says, “why don’t you do something with that hair of yours?”
“Later,” he says. “Before I go out to—”
“What? You’re not going anywhere,” Mother interrupts, her hands beginning to shake, her face reddening. “My Mother and Papa Joe might be coming over with a cake. What am I supposed to tell them?”
“That I went to see about a job.”
“They don’t know about you losing your last job.”
That’s not my fault,” Dad says as he pushes his plate away and leaves the table, leaving Wendy with tears in her eyes and me wondering why this has to happen, especially on the night of my birthday. Mother tells us both to eat, that everything will be okay, that she’ll tell Nee and Papa Joe something if they do happen to come over. It’s getting late though and by the look of things they probably won’t be over and maybe it’s better if they don’t. I hate to see Mother looking all embarrassed and sad in front of Nee and Papa Joe. It’ll break my heart, it really will.
The night wears on. Dad has already left, his hair arranged perfectly atop his head. He had also managed to change his clothes, a spiffy looking sweater and creased trousers. Before he left he kissed both Wendy and me on our cheeks and said that he’d see us in the morning. He wished me a happy birthday again and I thanked him. Mom stood by the front door trying to block him but it was of no use, Dad still had enough muscle to push her out of the way. He did say, though, that when he returned he’d have some good news. Suddenly, I had visions of new bicycles and shiny guitars. I saw canopy beds and refrigerators full of food. Mom, I don’t know what she saw, she slammed the door and cursed and then cursed some more before running off to her bedroom, slamming its door as well.
The night wears on. Nee and Papa Joe aren’t coming, it’s been made official by Ma Bell. I answer the phone, thank goodness and not Mother, who probably hasn’t stopped crying since Dad left. Nee tells me that she would see me next weekend and that she has a present for me.
“Okay Nee,” I say.
“Just tell your mother that Papa Joe had to work late, okay, my sweet child.”
“Okay Nee, I will.”
“What did you do today for your birthday?”
“Dad took me on a boat ride…you know the one on Lake Michigan.”
“Good, my sweet child. Bet that was fun. Oh, lemme talk to your big sister.”
“Trish and Lenny aren’t here, Nee. They went out after we had meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
“You tell that sweet grandchild of mine to call me tomorrow, okay.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Well, have to go make some supper for Papa Joe. Tell your mom I’m sorry but—”
“Okay, Nee.” I put the receiver back in its cradle and then return to the living room where Wendy is concentrating on her Cinderella Coloring Book. She has already pulled out her sleeping bag for the night and is laying atop it now, knees down, adding black and red and silver to the coach that will whisk Cinderella off to the ball. Wendy lives Cinderella and this annoys Lenny and Trish and sometimes, Mom. But me, I think it’s cute. So does Dad. After telling Wendy what a good job she’s doing and how proud I am of her I go over to Mom and Dad’s bedroom and knock on the door. There’s no answer. I knock some more. Nothing. Why isn’t she answering? She can’t be asleep, could she?
“Ma, are you in there?”
Nothing
“Ma, are you okay?”
Nothing.
The door’s locked. I put my ear against it and hear nothing. That’s it, I’m worried and becoming scared. I pound on the door and this startles Wendy, who comes running down the hall, begging me to stop. But I can’t. I keep pounding till my knuckles bleed.
It’s of no use, pounding, yelling and praying to the Lord Jesus. It’s of no use that Wendy has now added her young voice and little hands to this idea of getting Mother to answer the door. Before long, Wendy’s knuckles are bleeding too. Our fists are spiked with splinter, our faces drenched in sweat. We’re both out of breath and together, fall to our knees. Oh, somebody help us!
Seconds lend to minutes and minutes are rapidly nearing that god-forsaken hour when I must call the police. What else can I do? I run into the kitchen and grab the rotary. I dial the long number, seven digits and then hang up. Heck, this is an emergency. I dial zero. “Operator, send the police to my house. My mother locked herself in her bedroom and she won’t answer me or Wendy.” I rattle off our address and slam the phone back into its cradle. I go back to Mother’s door and try again with all my might to push it open. It still won’t budge. I give up and run to the living room and stand next to the window and wait. Wendy’s curled up on the floor next to me, clutching tightly her Cinderella doll. She’s as silent as the clock above the television, whose second hand seems to have gone mute all of a sudden. The only sounds I hear are the ones from outside, an occasional beeping of a car horn, a few awkward voices of concerned parents calling out to their to children to come home. Finally a blue and white pulls up.
Two blue men get out of their car, one tall, the other short and chubby. I can hear their radios blaring, reports of crime-infested activity. I open the window wider and hang my head out. “Up here,” I say. The two blue men look up, acknowledge me, then put their nightsticks back into their belts. Needn’t worry about an innocent kid being concerned about his mother. I buzz them in and go out into the hallway and wait. They’re slow in reaching the third floor. Probably out of condition, the result of too many cheeseburgers. How often do I see a group of blue men sitting at the greasy spoon, the one down the street with the Formica countertops and checkered walls? Probably too many.times to count.
Finally, the two officers emerge from the stairwell, their faces pocked with droplets of sweat, their breathing heavy and uneven. They gain their breath, then come towards me. The chubby cop wipes his forehead.
“What’s the problem?” he says.
“My mother’s bedroom door is locked and she won’t answer me and Wendy.”
“Who is Wendy?” the tall blue man asks, his head straddling the ceiling. I tell him who Wendy is, that she’s shy and probably hiding somewhere, probably in the closet and the short and chubby cop tells me that he needs to see Wendy, just to be sure that I’m not trying to conceal something. Why in the hell would I be trying to conceal something? My mother ain’t answering her door, my father went out into the night to bring back some good news, my big sis Trish left to hang out with her hippie friends and Lenny, who knows where he went and today’s my birthday and Wendy’s afraid of strangers, especially those who carry big guns and loud walkie-talkies and think that kids like us must always have something to hide. We ain’t hiding nothing.
“Sir, can you please open the bedroom door to see about my mother,” I plead.
The tall blue man nods at his partner and then pulls from his belt a weird looking device, somewhat resembling a widget, whatever the hell that is. One of my teachers in Social Studies once drew widgets on the blackboard while explaining economics and stuff like that. This thing that the cop has must have something to do with the economy, you would think. I lead the two blue men down the short hallway and before I let them mess with the lock using that widget thing I knock one more time, just to be sure. No, nothing. I am scared and worried again, my young mind thinking the worst. Mom has never locked the door before, well, she has, but that was when she was with Dad. And if any one of us knocked, they’d answer. They’d sound out of breath and tell us to let them rest. We would too.
The officer, now I had learned his name, Officer Donahue, unlocks the door in no time at all. He cautions me to step back and enters the room, the beam of his flashlight surveying the interior, lighting up cracked plaster and worn carpet. The beam sweeps across the top of Mom and Dad’s dresser, revealing Grandma Rosa, framed and looking serious. In all the photographs I’ve seen of Grandma Rosa, she looks serious. Next to her, an alarm clock, its hands frozen from neglect. Next to it, a smattering of mementoes, kept as reminders to my father’s bodybuilding days. My anxious eyes follow the ray of light as it is heading toward the opposite side of the room, where Mom and Dad’s bed is situated.
Suddenly, Officer Donahue turns off his flashlight and tells his partner to take me to the living room. But no, I can’t go. I struggle with the chubby blue man as he tries to pull me from what may be an impossible truth. Something is terribly wrong here. I fight hard but am suddenly outnumbered as Officer Donahue helps his partner drag me out to the living room.
They plop me on the couch and warn me to stay put, “It’s for your own good,” they both say, collectively. I’m defeated, out of breath, and my heart feels as though it’s going to rip through my chest. Officer Donahue returns to Mom and Dad’s bedroom, leaving his partner to watch over me. Any thought of escape now eludes me as Wendy, her little body ravaged by fear, joins me on the couch.
She’s trembling so bad, it seems an earthquake is ready to take us both into the bowels of hell. I hold her tightly, her teeth chattering against my chest, the both of us melded together by uncertainty and fear. We’re like two shackled prisoners, each one depending on the other for freedom of movement. But we become paralyzed as Officer Donahue rushes out of the bedroom, demanding his partner to call for an ambulance immediately.
Before long, the sound of siren blasts through the half-open window. It gets louder, penetrating my brain. My head feels as though it’s going to explode.
Again I try to get up off the couch but am pulled back down by the weight of Wendy. She won’t let go. I’m the only security she has, everything else is foreign to her, everything else a threat. Blaring walkie-talkies, flashing lights, loud sirens, strange-looking men with guns and lopsided hats—it’s all too much for her. She buries her head deep into the cavity of my chest. I hope that the beating of my heart will squelch the dissonance and provide her some relief. We sit like this, entangled, for what seems like a lifetime.
As the goings-on of the police officers and paramedics swirl around me, I become entranced in reverie. I’m taken back to that day when Mom and Dad sat me up on the high chair and sang to me, Mary Had A Little Lamb, their voices so clear, so crisp. And Trish, dancing around in her little pink tutu. Lenny, sitting on the kitchen floor next to my high chair, playing with his little racecars, smiling up at me, me goo-gooing back at him.
From there, I’m taken forward. Mom comes into the house, cradling a pink bundle. “Ricky, say hello to your baby sister, Wendy.” Dad enters the house, humming some pretty song I haven’t heard before. Nor have I heard since.
Soon, I find myself standing in front of my first school—Hansen Park Elementary. I’m so excited. Finally, I made it. I’m five years old, a kindergartner and am so anxious to get started in my formal education. I beg Mom to let go of my hand. Most of the other kids cling on to their mothers or fathers, crying and screaming that they don’t want to go inside, that they just wanna go back home… oh please mamma, please daddy, please don’t make me go in there. Please, I wanna go home. But me, I can’t get inside fast enough. Before I do go inside though, I tell the other kids, Come on, this is going to be fun. Mom says goodbye to me, gives me a hug. She turns and goes. I proceed through the doors of my new school. Some other kids follow, while others cling to their parents, begging, please, don’t make me go in there.
_________________________________________________________________________
Trish is shaking me. She’s out of focus, her face blurry. She must be crying, I feel moist droplets pelting my forearms. Her hands are frenzied upon my shoulders and I beg her to stop. She, in turn, begs me to snap out of it. And in a matter of seconds, I’m snapped out of it all right and I wish to God that I didn’t have to be. The reality is upon us and there is nothing we can do now.
Momma is being wheeled out of the apartment on a stretcher. Alongside her a white-coated man is reading off some numbers to the other white-coated man who is behind the stretcher, holding a tank-like contraption.
I try to get up off the freaking couch and run over to Mom but can’t. Both Officer Donahue and his chubby little partner are now blocking the three of us from doing anything. They demand that we stay put. Everything’s going be okay, they say. But I know how big people are sometimes. They say these kinds of things. They like saying that everything is going to be okay when they know it really isn’t.
Officer Donahue asks Trish her age and she lies and says, eighteen. He tells her to follow him into the kitchen, that he has to get some information from her. She wipes her eyes and asks him what kind of questions.
“It’s about your family, that’s all,” he tells her. “And I have to file a report.”
Trish struggles to get up off the couch. Officer Donahue helps her up. She follows him into the kitchen. While she’s in there answering questions about our family, I beg the other cop to let me up. I lie and tell him that I have to go to the bathroom, “real bad, really, really bad.”
“All right,” he says, “I’ll let you up to the use the bathroom.” He steps aside and lets me get up. Wendy’s still hanging on to me and I beg her to let go, that I’ll be right back. She starts screaming.
“Please, oh please Ricky, don’t leave me. Let me go with, please, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez . . .
Through the window, I see red streaks painting the night sky. It’s a sign that I still have time. I waste not a second more and tear away from Wendy and I feel bad about it but I have no choice. I gotta get downstairs real quick before it’s too late. I must see Momma. I just don’t know what has happened to her, nobody will tell me, they just say, she’ll be okay but how do I know this. Maybe she’s dead. Those big people wouldn’t tell me, would they? They’re pretenders, that’s what they are. With their white coats, lopsided hats and big guns, they’re putting on a show, that’s all. For Wendy and me. But Trish, they’re probably telling her the truth. They think she’s one of the big people too. But she really isn’t. She’s only sixteen. She lied and said she was eighteen. She, too, is pretending but at least, not to Wendy and me. No, she has to say she’s eighteen to those cops because it’s some kind of law or something, I think.
I run out into the hall. A few of our elderly neighbors are peeking out their doors at me. They’d been awakened by all the commotion and I can tell they’re scared. They won’t open their doors fully and I can’t blame them. With the sounds of blaring walkie-talkies and wailing sirens disturbing the night and the sights of blue men with lopsided hats and white-coated men wheeling my mother past them, who can blame them for being scared? I wish I could assure them that everything’s okay but how could I. Because I know that everything is far from being okay. My mother’s being taken away, Wendy’s an emotional wreck, Trish has to tell lies to the police officer, my father’s out doing who knows what and Lenny’s up to no good, I just know he is. I think he’s been doing the pot. No, everything’s not okay and sorry neighbors, I can’t help you, not now. I gotta get downstairs quick before that station wagon without the wooden panels takes off with my mother inside. And where is it taking her, I don’t know. Right now, I don’t know much of anything except this is probably the worst birthday I ever had.
I tear down the hallway, and on my way, kick a bottle of whiskey or something into the wall, it smashing and spewing its content all over the place.
A shattering against the stucco, the result of some clumsy derelict who always seems to pick our apartment building to sneak into and do his drinking, mostly at night, mostly in the abandoned broom closet where he must feel safe and maybe at home, I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything except I got to get downstairs. Down the stairs I go, only to trip over something, a hanging thread maybe and go tumbling down, my body getting all twisted and wrapped around itself. On the bottom stair, I desperately pull myself together, shirk off the pain that’s trying to hold me back and fly out the door. Outside a gathering of brave people are huddled, talking amongst themselves and pointing, pointing to the police car that still is flashing and revealing through its radio all the crime that is taking place in the city. Across these brave people’s faces, streaks of blue and now I’m panicking. Where’s the red? What about the flashing red lights of the ambulance?
My mother’s gone! I fall to my knees. I yell out, “They took my mother without me.” The huddled mass of onlookers breaks apart, all at once deserting me, going back to whence they came. I beg them to tell me something, anything about my mother, in which direction she went, but they quickly disappear into the night, leaving me alone without any answers. I pick myself up again and run down the street only to fall again, this time I can’t get up, now matter how hard I try.
The chubby blue man is standing above me, his hands on his hips, and he’s saying something but I can’t make out what he’s saying, his voice graveled and grated. The streetlight above his head glares down on him, and now for the first time, through the folds of his shirt appears a nametag, its silver and gold gleaming with the inscription, OFFICER JOHN G. HOWITZER. I can tell he’s as proud of his name as I am of mine, for I never had seen a nametag so shiny before, never, ever. He must spend a lot of time keeping his name clean. And though, I’m wincing in pain and curled up on the cement, I let him know that he has gained my respect. I tell him, “Officer Howitzer, I’m sorry for lying to you but I just had to—”
A sudden blast from his walkie-talkie sends my apology into shrapnel. He appears that he may have gotten a piece of it though, as he half-nods an affirmative while removing from his belt the radio that is reverberating, “Officer Howitzer, can you read me? Officer Howitzer, can you read me?” It’s the voice of his partner, Officer Donahue. He’s saying something about getting back to the station, that it’s nearing the end of their shift. “We have to file our reports,” he says.
Trish is wrapping my ankle, a possible sprain, and is thankful that Officers Donahue and Howitzer helped me up the stairs before they rushed out to their waiting squad car. Besides my ankle, my hip is hurting, but not broken, no, it can’t be. If it were I would know it, you’d think.
Wendy is next to us, on the floor, asleep. Clutched in her arms the baby Cindy Doll, as she calls it. Little Cindy is unaware of this night, her face devoid of the tearstains that preside on Wendy’s face. There are so many questions that I want to ask Trish but am reluctant to. She, graduating on this night to the Big People’s Club, has been given the responsibility of guarding the truth to Mother’s condition. She had probably raised her right hand to Officer Donahue and pledged to him she would not let us minors, Wendy and me, know anything more than, “everything is going to be okay.” Although I don’t want to put Trish in a position of going against the oath, I am still her brother, and that woman that was wheeled out of here is my mother, for god’s sake. I must know about my mother, that’s all there is to it.
“Trish,” I demand, “you must tell me the truth.”
She looks at me squarely, drops the last strand of bandage, and then quickly turns away. I beg her again but she remains silent, her face hiding from me any recognition of the truth. I know she is crying now, little rasps from her diaphragm getting heavier, more rapid. I don’t want to press her but what else can I do. I know she has been given a heavy burden but so have I, and it’s weighing on me, much too heavy.
“Please Trish, tell me why Mom has been taken away. Please tell me what happened.” I pull the last bit of elastic around my ankle and clip it. Some relief there, but not much anywhere else. “I’ll be okay, just tell me,” I say, feigning a sense of optimism. Because deep down, I know that there’s a good chance that I won’t be okay, maybe never, ever again. I could live the rest of my life haunted by this night, the night of my tenth birthday. I could grow up to be some kind of weirdo, living in the park with the pigeons, eating food out of the garbage can and talking to myself. Shocked into craziness for the rest of my life. Post-traumatic stress disorder or something like that. What if Trish tells me that Momma has, no I mustn’t think that, no Trish will pretend she is one of the Big People again and tell me that everything is going to be okay, but unlike most of those other Big People, she’d really, and I mean, really, really mean it. She will tell me, “everything is going to be okay,” won’t she? She’ll tell me Momma is okay, false alarm, right?
Suddenly, as if awakened by the realization that she does owe it to her little brother to be open with him, no matter what the consequence, she turns and looks at me again and opens her mouth to say something but not a word is uttered, for her thoughts seem stuck somewhere between her brain and larynx.
“Won’t you tell me everything is going to be OK Trish,” I say, hoping to elicit another response from her, hopefully this time an audible one.
After a few moments the silence is broken. Through the roar of thunder I hear, “Mom tried to kill herself. Did you hear me? Mom tried to kill herself.”
Today is my tenth birthday. Dad told me a little while ago that he has a surprise for me, told me to get dressed, that we’re going out. “Just you and me,” he said. I begged him to tell me where we’d be going but he said it wouldn’t be a surprise then, “now would it?” Still, I wanted to know. I really don’t like surprises, to tell you the truth.
Too many surprises lately. Last week, Dad surprised us all when he’d lost his job. A few weeks before that, he lost another paycheck. Mom doesn’t like surprises either. She wasn’t too happy when Dad told her, how he lost his paycheck, “on a sure thing. Couldn’t have possibly lost.” I overheard him tell her this when I was passing their bedroom on my way to the kitchen. The kitchen is right next to their bedroom and as I was sitting there eating my cereal I could hear my mom crying. I hate when Mom cries. The last year or maybe, the last two, I’ve heard my mom cry a lot. Sometimes I’ll see her cry but that’s not very often though. Mom doesn’t like us kids seeing her cry. She does it in her bedroom with the door closed. She knows we won’t bother her when she’s in her bedroom with the door closed.
After getting dressed in my jean pants and tee shirt, Dad and me leave the apartment. On the way to the bus stop, once again I beg Dad to at least, give me a hint to where he’s taking me.
”Okay, okay,” he says. “We’ll be taking the elevated.”
“Do you mean the el train?”
“Yes, Ricky.” He pulls from his pants pocket a couple of C.T.A. (Chicago Transit Authority) tokens and then quickly switches them from one hand to the other, back and forth, back and forth and now my head’s getting dizzy. He finally stops, thank goodness, and holds out his fists. “Okay,” he says, “I bet you don’t know which hand they’re in.”
I point to his right fist and he unclenches it, revealing nothing. “All right, it’s in your left then.” I’m wrong again. Somehow, the two tokens had ended up in his ear, and I don’t know how, it just amazes me, seeing my dad pull out of his ears two bus tokens. The bus pulls up, we climb aboard, and again, I’m amazed. This time Dad pulls the tokens from his mouth and deposits them in the fare box. The bus driver looks at my dad like he’s crazy or something. We ride the bus to the el station; all the way I’m trying to guess on my birthday surprise. Each time, Dad assures me that I’m wrong. “No, we’re not going to the movies. No, not bowling.”
As we wait for our el train to come, Dad and me watch the pigeons. They’re waddling the platform pecking at bits of bread a big lady in a dark shawl is tossing. A couple of times the big lady throws the bread too far and they land next to the third rail of the track. Watching those pigeons swoop down to the tracks near the third rail is getting me very nervous. God forbid, they touch the third rail; they’d be “fried chicken.” I don’t know how many volts are running this track but Dad tells me enough to electrocute an elephant. I don’t think many elephants ride this line though. They’re usually on the circus train and I think those kinds of trains are run by steam engines, maybe diesel.
Beyond the blue spears of electric discharge, the Marina Towers, resembling two tall stacks of poker chips rise above the ground, giving me the chance to place another bet on my birthday surprise. This time I bet on a trip to the museum. I heard it’s downtown somewhere. But this bet doesn’t pay off either. Try again. Dinosaur bones, mummies and whatever else they have enslaved at The Field Museum would have to await my young and unwavering curiosity for another time.
As the el train whizzes along, I feel as though I’m flying. Through the window I see nothing but the city below. There’s nothing in between. No track, nothing. Veering to one side, my body pressed against the cool steel, I see the expanse of blue just beyond the line of gray edifice. It looks like the lake, the very big lake. The beach, that’s it, I bet we’re going to the beach.
“Dad, we’re going to beach, right?”
“No, Ricky.”
After negotiating another turn and then straightening out, in the distance, well beyond the breakers, boats, all kinds of boats begin to eclipse my view. I bet that’s it. I feel really good about this one. “Dad,” I say, “are you taking me on a boat?"
“Yes, Ricky,” Dad answers. “We’re going to take the two-hour scenic tour on Lake Michigan,” he says soberly. Now I’m getting excited, real excited, so excited that I nearly piss on the graffiti-laden seat. What a great surprise! Never been on a real boat before, only a small rowboat up in Wisconsin when I was either seven or eight or perhaps five.
“Dad,” I ask, “why did you decide to take me on a boat?” He looks up for a second, puts his index finger to his chin and begins to ruminate that his own father, my grandfather who I had never met, who died mysteriously well before I was born, took him on the same tour, but back then, “things were different, well, you know, the city wasn’t built as high as it is now, didn’t have a lot of these buildings we have now and no Ricky, no John Hancock building and no Playboy Bunny atop the building next to it either.”
As the train begins to sweep around the outer edge of The Loop, with buildings tossing shadows and shadows casting streaks across Father’s face, I’m kind of enjoying this ride aboard the elevated, although I’m starting to feel more anxious and excited about getting off this darn thing and getting on that boat. I feel a trickle down my leg. I’m kind of embarrassed so I look around at my fellow passengers, people of various age and color, most of them in light summer clothes, and realize they are all ensconced in business of their own and pay me no attention, none at all.
The train lunges into a tunnel and then snakes out into a clearing, where the mid-September sun penetrates and emblazons the crayoned swastikas and spray-painted gang insignia that are worn tightly and selfishly upon the walls of our urine-smelling compartment. Across from Father and me, slumped unconsciously forward, sits a man with decrepit overcoat, clutching a brown paper bag. A closer look reveals a puddle, a yellowish bubbly puddle below his knees. I reason with clear conscience that we should switch to another car. But Dad says, “We’re off at the next stop.” I put my face in my hands and think about the meatloaf that Mom will be cooking for me later on. I have simple tastes and meatloaf is what I want and not some swanky Porterhouse or lobster tail. Besides, Porterhouses and lobster tails probably cost too much money anyway and I don’t think there’s much money for things like that, well, not since Dad lost his job last week. I feel the train losing speed. I lift my face off my hands and look at Dad, who is now staring pensively at the man across from us, the one slumped in drunkenness, and I wonder if Dad’s being reminded of his own self as he was five or six months ago, when he, himself, was drunk a lot of the time, falling down and knocking things over and sometimes passing out on The Elevated and missing his stop, probably missing a bunch of stops.That was then, before he vowed never to take a drink again. Dad is sober and I’m proud of him and we’re going to spend the day together. I’m so happy.
I feel the train slowing. Dad nudges me and then he gets up and grasps the handrail. “C’mon,” he says.
We walk for what seems like forever. Dad says we have time before our boat lifts anchor, and besides it would be good to walk and talk and look at the various landmarks and different people who, too, are out taking advantage of this most perfect day. On this day, everybody is out. This day is warm, warmer than most September days and Chicago is alive with its many children, who are carrying on and enjoying what this perfect day has to offer. For some, it will be a day at Lincoln Park Zoo. And for others, a day unfurled on a stretch of sandy beach. Today, there will be family picnics, slow-pitch softball games. Horseshoes will be tossed, volleyballs slapped, basketballs dribbled. Today, perhaps one last romp before the sun turns its face and the leaves fall from the trees and then the snow builds icy fortresses along the avenues and boulevards, keeping the city’s many children hostage until Spring comes along again and pays ransom.
We come to the Michigan Avenue Bridge and cross over it, below us the Chicago River gleaming in the sun. Once on the other side, Dad takes my hand and leads me down a flight of stairs to the dock. Awaiting our embarkation is the boat that’ll take us down the river and then out to the lake. Today I’m a sailor and I feel so proud. Scampering across the planks, head held high, I know that there are worlds to conquer. I’m young, full of hopes and dreams and ambitions and nothing could stop this boy from accomplishing his mission. I look up at Dad and he, too, is beaming with pride. He knows that he’ll duly fulfill his obligations to his family and his country and nothing will stop him. He’ll find another job, a good job and finally buy me that bicycle I wanted for the last two years. And maybe that shiny electric guitar I saw in the window of Morley’s Music. With his new job, we can move into a bigger apartment, maybe one with three or four bedrooms. Maybe Lenny could have his own room and big sis Trish, hers. And little Wendy, she could get that canopy bed she had wished for. Yeah, things are going to be great. I know this, Dad knows this, and the entire world will know it.
We board the boat. Tourists gather at the bow, cameras strapped around their shoulders. They stare and point and talk amongst themselves in a foreign language.
We choose a seat facing the aft. Dad reasons, “to see better where one has been and not worry so much what is yet ahead. Because whatever is ahead, we will soon pass. Ricky, do you understand?”
“Yes, Dad,” I say.
He nods and then closes his eyes. He put his hands together, prayer-like and begins whispering. I try to listen but I cannot hear what he’s saying, his soft and tender words suddenly being drowned out by a loud ruckus emanating from mid-ship. My attention to my father has been thwarted, derailed, stolen from me by a gang of hooligans who are in the process of antagonizing a smaller, innocent boy looking not much older or bigger than myself. I could hear:
“Hey punk, you got a problem?”
“You wanna put a bag on that ugly face of yours? You might scare those Japanese people!”
“Hey punk, aren’t you listening? You better put a bag on your face before one of those foreign people jumps off this boat and drowns. Hah, hah, hah…
I endure this bantering and tormenting and taunting for a good three or four minutes before all becomes quiet again, except for the sound of the motor under us, revving and purring and preparing for the journey ahead. I’m excited and happy again. I turn to look at Dad and I see a stream running down his cheeks and onto his chin. “Why?” I ask.
“I’m okay,” he says. He then unfolds his hands and places them on my shoulders. “Happy birthday, Ricky.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
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Part II
Mom is tossing about the salad, blending together a few leaves of lettuce and a couple of slices of leftover tomato. Thrown in for color a few shavings of carrot.
Since there isn’t enough to go around, I am to be given the salad, Mom tells everyone. It’s his birthday. But there is enough meatloaf and mashed potatoes, thank goodness. Otherwise, I would feel guilty, birthday or no birthday.
We gather around the table, well, some of us, the table is too small, so Lenny and Trish take their plates to the living room. They don’t mind they say, the small black and white television is there to keep them company. Shortly, they will be arguing on what to watch. Lenny prefers cartoons, Trish likes documentaries and reality-based shows. Lenny likes to say that cartoons are reality-based and sometimes I think he’s right.
Wendy’s sitting on the old barstool, found in the alley behind the Do Drop Inn, one of the taverns Dad and Mom sometimes go to. She spins around a few times between bites of her meatloaf, Dad thinks it funny, but Mom finds it annoying. “Stop that Wendy,” Mom says.
“But Mom, it’s fun,” says Wendy, her hair in pigtails.
“Let her have some fun,” Dad says, his hair matted and messed from the earlier winds.
“Vince,” Mom says, “why don’t you do something with that hair of yours?”
“Later,” he says. “Before I go out to—”
“What? You’re not going anywhere,” Mother interrupts, her hands beginning to shake, her face reddening. “My Mother and Papa Joe might be coming over with a cake. What am I supposed to tell them?”
“That I went to see about a job.”
“They don’t know about you losing your last job.”
That’s not my fault,” Dad says as he pushes his plate away and leaves the table, leaving Wendy with tears in her eyes and me wondering why this has to happen, especially on the night of my birthday. Mother tells us both to eat, that everything will be okay, that she’ll tell Nee and Papa Joe something if they do happen to come over. It’s getting late though and by the look of things they probably won’t be over and maybe it’s better if they don’t. I hate to see Mother looking all embarrassed and sad in front of Nee and Papa Joe. It’ll break my heart, it really will.
The night wears on. Dad has already left, his hair arranged perfectly atop his head. He had also managed to change his clothes, a spiffy looking sweater and creased trousers. Before he left he kissed both Wendy and me on our cheeks and said that he’d see us in the morning. He wished me a happy birthday again and I thanked him. Mom stood by the front door trying to block him but it was of no use, Dad still had enough muscle to push her out of the way. He did say, though, that when he returned he’d have some good news. Suddenly, I had visions of new bicycles and shiny guitars. I saw canopy beds and refrigerators full of food. Mom, I don’t know what she saw, she slammed the door and cursed and then cursed some more before running off to her bedroom, slamming its door as well.
The night wears on. Nee and Papa Joe aren’t coming, it’s been made official by Ma Bell. I answer the phone, thank goodness and not Mother, who probably hasn’t stopped crying since Dad left. Nee tells me that she would see me next weekend and that she has a present for me.
“Okay Nee,” I say.
“Just tell your mother that Papa Joe had to work late, okay, my sweet child.”
“Okay Nee, I will.”
“What did you do today for your birthday?”
“Dad took me on a boat ride…you know the one on Lake Michigan.”
“Good, my sweet child. Bet that was fun. Oh, lemme talk to your big sister.”
“Trish and Lenny aren’t here, Nee. They went out after we had meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
“You tell that sweet grandchild of mine to call me tomorrow, okay.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Well, have to go make some supper for Papa Joe. Tell your mom I’m sorry but—”
“Okay, Nee.” I put the receiver back in its cradle and then return to the living room where Wendy is concentrating on her Cinderella Coloring Book. She has already pulled out her sleeping bag for the night and is laying atop it now, knees down, adding black and red and silver to the coach that will whisk Cinderella off to the ball. Wendy lives Cinderella and this annoys Lenny and Trish and sometimes, Mom. But me, I think it’s cute. So does Dad. After telling Wendy what a good job she’s doing and how proud I am of her I go over to Mom and Dad’s bedroom and knock on the door. There’s no answer. I knock some more. Nothing. Why isn’t she answering? She can’t be asleep, could she?
“Ma, are you in there?”
Nothing
“Ma, are you okay?”
Nothing.
The door’s locked. I put my ear against it and hear nothing. That’s it, I’m worried and becoming scared. I pound on the door and this startles Wendy, who comes running down the hall, begging me to stop. But I can’t. I keep pounding till my knuckles bleed.
It’s of no use, pounding, yelling and praying to the Lord Jesus. It’s of no use that Wendy has now added her young voice and little hands to this idea of getting Mother to answer the door. Before long, Wendy’s knuckles are bleeding too. Our fists are spiked with splinter, our faces drenched in sweat. We’re both out of breath and together, fall to our knees. Oh, somebody help us!
Seconds lend to minutes and minutes are rapidly nearing that god-forsaken hour when I must call the police. What else can I do? I run into the kitchen and grab the rotary. I dial the long number, seven digits and then hang up. Heck, this is an emergency. I dial zero. “Operator, send the police to my house. My mother locked herself in her bedroom and she won’t answer me or Wendy.” I rattle off our address and slam the phone back into its cradle. I go back to Mother’s door and try again with all my might to push it open. It still won’t budge. I give up and run to the living room and stand next to the window and wait. Wendy’s curled up on the floor next to me, clutching tightly her Cinderella doll. She’s as silent as the clock above the television, whose second hand seems to have gone mute all of a sudden. The only sounds I hear are the ones from outside, an occasional beeping of a car horn, a few awkward voices of concerned parents calling out to their to children to come home. Finally a blue and white pulls up.
Two blue men get out of their car, one tall, the other short and chubby. I can hear their radios blaring, reports of crime-infested activity. I open the window wider and hang my head out. “Up here,” I say. The two blue men look up, acknowledge me, then put their nightsticks back into their belts. Needn’t worry about an innocent kid being concerned about his mother. I buzz them in and go out into the hallway and wait. They’re slow in reaching the third floor. Probably out of condition, the result of too many cheeseburgers. How often do I see a group of blue men sitting at the greasy spoon, the one down the street with the Formica countertops and checkered walls? Probably too many.times to count.
Finally, the two officers emerge from the stairwell, their faces pocked with droplets of sweat, their breathing heavy and uneven. They gain their breath, then come towards me. The chubby cop wipes his forehead.
“What’s the problem?” he says.
“My mother’s bedroom door is locked and she won’t answer me and Wendy.”
“Who is Wendy?” the tall blue man asks, his head straddling the ceiling. I tell him who Wendy is, that she’s shy and probably hiding somewhere, probably in the closet and the short and chubby cop tells me that he needs to see Wendy, just to be sure that I’m not trying to conceal something. Why in the hell would I be trying to conceal something? My mother ain’t answering her door, my father went out into the night to bring back some good news, my big sis Trish left to hang out with her hippie friends and Lenny, who knows where he went and today’s my birthday and Wendy’s afraid of strangers, especially those who carry big guns and loud walkie-talkies and think that kids like us must always have something to hide. We ain’t hiding nothing.
“Sir, can you please open the bedroom door to see about my mother,” I plead.
The tall blue man nods at his partner and then pulls from his belt a weird looking device, somewhat resembling a widget, whatever the hell that is. One of my teachers in Social Studies once drew widgets on the blackboard while explaining economics and stuff like that. This thing that the cop has must have something to do with the economy, you would think. I lead the two blue men down the short hallway and before I let them mess with the lock using that widget thing I knock one more time, just to be sure. No, nothing. I am scared and worried again, my young mind thinking the worst. Mom has never locked the door before, well, she has, but that was when she was with Dad. And if any one of us knocked, they’d answer. They’d sound out of breath and tell us to let them rest. We would too.
The officer, now I had learned his name, Officer Donahue, unlocks the door in no time at all. He cautions me to step back and enters the room, the beam of his flashlight surveying the interior, lighting up cracked plaster and worn carpet. The beam sweeps across the top of Mom and Dad’s dresser, revealing Grandma Rosa, framed and looking serious. In all the photographs I’ve seen of Grandma Rosa, she looks serious. Next to her, an alarm clock, its hands frozen from neglect. Next to it, a smattering of mementoes, kept as reminders to my father’s bodybuilding days. My anxious eyes follow the ray of light as it is heading toward the opposite side of the room, where Mom and Dad’s bed is situated.
Suddenly, Officer Donahue turns off his flashlight and tells his partner to take me to the living room. But no, I can’t go. I struggle with the chubby blue man as he tries to pull me from what may be an impossible truth. Something is terribly wrong here. I fight hard but am suddenly outnumbered as Officer Donahue helps his partner drag me out to the living room.
They plop me on the couch and warn me to stay put, “It’s for your own good,” they both say, collectively. I’m defeated, out of breath, and my heart feels as though it’s going to rip through my chest. Officer Donahue returns to Mom and Dad’s bedroom, leaving his partner to watch over me. Any thought of escape now eludes me as Wendy, her little body ravaged by fear, joins me on the couch.
She’s trembling so bad, it seems an earthquake is ready to take us both into the bowels of hell. I hold her tightly, her teeth chattering against my chest, the both of us melded together by uncertainty and fear. We’re like two shackled prisoners, each one depending on the other for freedom of movement. But we become paralyzed as Officer Donahue rushes out of the bedroom, demanding his partner to call for an ambulance immediately.
Before long, the sound of siren blasts through the half-open window. It gets louder, penetrating my brain. My head feels as though it’s going to explode.
Again I try to get up off the couch but am pulled back down by the weight of Wendy. She won’t let go. I’m the only security she has, everything else is foreign to her, everything else a threat. Blaring walkie-talkies, flashing lights, loud sirens, strange-looking men with guns and lopsided hats—it’s all too much for her. She buries her head deep into the cavity of my chest. I hope that the beating of my heart will squelch the dissonance and provide her some relief. We sit like this, entangled, for what seems like a lifetime.
As the goings-on of the police officers and paramedics swirl around me, I become entranced in reverie. I’m taken back to that day when Mom and Dad sat me up on the high chair and sang to me, Mary Had A Little Lamb, their voices so clear, so crisp. And Trish, dancing around in her little pink tutu. Lenny, sitting on the kitchen floor next to my high chair, playing with his little racecars, smiling up at me, me goo-gooing back at him.
From there, I’m taken forward. Mom comes into the house, cradling a pink bundle. “Ricky, say hello to your baby sister, Wendy.” Dad enters the house, humming some pretty song I haven’t heard before. Nor have I heard since.
Soon, I find myself standing in front of my first school—Hansen Park Elementary. I’m so excited. Finally, I made it. I’m five years old, a kindergartner and am so anxious to get started in my formal education. I beg Mom to let go of my hand. Most of the other kids cling on to their mothers or fathers, crying and screaming that they don’t want to go inside, that they just wanna go back home… oh please mamma, please daddy, please don’t make me go in there. Please, I wanna go home. But me, I can’t get inside fast enough. Before I do go inside though, I tell the other kids, Come on, this is going to be fun. Mom says goodbye to me, gives me a hug. She turns and goes. I proceed through the doors of my new school. Some other kids follow, while others cling to their parents, begging, please, don’t make me go in there.
_________________________________________________________________________
Trish is shaking me. She’s out of focus, her face blurry. She must be crying, I feel moist droplets pelting my forearms. Her hands are frenzied upon my shoulders and I beg her to stop. She, in turn, begs me to snap out of it. And in a matter of seconds, I’m snapped out of it all right and I wish to God that I didn’t have to be. The reality is upon us and there is nothing we can do now.
Momma is being wheeled out of the apartment on a stretcher. Alongside her a white-coated man is reading off some numbers to the other white-coated man who is behind the stretcher, holding a tank-like contraption.
I try to get up off the freaking couch and run over to Mom but can’t. Both Officer Donahue and his chubby little partner are now blocking the three of us from doing anything. They demand that we stay put. Everything’s going be okay, they say. But I know how big people are sometimes. They say these kinds of things. They like saying that everything is going to be okay when they know it really isn’t.
Officer Donahue asks Trish her age and she lies and says, eighteen. He tells her to follow him into the kitchen, that he has to get some information from her. She wipes her eyes and asks him what kind of questions.
“It’s about your family, that’s all,” he tells her. “And I have to file a report.”
Trish struggles to get up off the couch. Officer Donahue helps her up. She follows him into the kitchen. While she’s in there answering questions about our family, I beg the other cop to let me up. I lie and tell him that I have to go to the bathroom, “real bad, really, really bad.”
“All right,” he says, “I’ll let you up to the use the bathroom.” He steps aside and lets me get up. Wendy’s still hanging on to me and I beg her to let go, that I’ll be right back. She starts screaming.
“Please, oh please Ricky, don’t leave me. Let me go with, please, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez . . .
Through the window, I see red streaks painting the night sky. It’s a sign that I still have time. I waste not a second more and tear away from Wendy and I feel bad about it but I have no choice. I gotta get downstairs real quick before it’s too late. I must see Momma. I just don’t know what has happened to her, nobody will tell me, they just say, she’ll be okay but how do I know this. Maybe she’s dead. Those big people wouldn’t tell me, would they? They’re pretenders, that’s what they are. With their white coats, lopsided hats and big guns, they’re putting on a show, that’s all. For Wendy and me. But Trish, they’re probably telling her the truth. They think she’s one of the big people too. But she really isn’t. She’s only sixteen. She lied and said she was eighteen. She, too, is pretending but at least, not to Wendy and me. No, she has to say she’s eighteen to those cops because it’s some kind of law or something, I think.
I run out into the hall. A few of our elderly neighbors are peeking out their doors at me. They’d been awakened by all the commotion and I can tell they’re scared. They won’t open their doors fully and I can’t blame them. With the sounds of blaring walkie-talkies and wailing sirens disturbing the night and the sights of blue men with lopsided hats and white-coated men wheeling my mother past them, who can blame them for being scared? I wish I could assure them that everything’s okay but how could I. Because I know that everything is far from being okay. My mother’s being taken away, Wendy’s an emotional wreck, Trish has to tell lies to the police officer, my father’s out doing who knows what and Lenny’s up to no good, I just know he is. I think he’s been doing the pot. No, everything’s not okay and sorry neighbors, I can’t help you, not now. I gotta get downstairs quick before that station wagon without the wooden panels takes off with my mother inside. And where is it taking her, I don’t know. Right now, I don’t know much of anything except this is probably the worst birthday I ever had.
I tear down the hallway, and on my way, kick a bottle of whiskey or something into the wall, it smashing and spewing its content all over the place.
A shattering against the stucco, the result of some clumsy derelict who always seems to pick our apartment building to sneak into and do his drinking, mostly at night, mostly in the abandoned broom closet where he must feel safe and maybe at home, I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything except I got to get downstairs. Down the stairs I go, only to trip over something, a hanging thread maybe and go tumbling down, my body getting all twisted and wrapped around itself. On the bottom stair, I desperately pull myself together, shirk off the pain that’s trying to hold me back and fly out the door. Outside a gathering of brave people are huddled, talking amongst themselves and pointing, pointing to the police car that still is flashing and revealing through its radio all the crime that is taking place in the city. Across these brave people’s faces, streaks of blue and now I’m panicking. Where’s the red? What about the flashing red lights of the ambulance?
My mother’s gone! I fall to my knees. I yell out, “They took my mother without me.” The huddled mass of onlookers breaks apart, all at once deserting me, going back to whence they came. I beg them to tell me something, anything about my mother, in which direction she went, but they quickly disappear into the night, leaving me alone without any answers. I pick myself up again and run down the street only to fall again, this time I can’t get up, now matter how hard I try.
The chubby blue man is standing above me, his hands on his hips, and he’s saying something but I can’t make out what he’s saying, his voice graveled and grated. The streetlight above his head glares down on him, and now for the first time, through the folds of his shirt appears a nametag, its silver and gold gleaming with the inscription, OFFICER JOHN G. HOWITZER. I can tell he’s as proud of his name as I am of mine, for I never had seen a nametag so shiny before, never, ever. He must spend a lot of time keeping his name clean. And though, I’m wincing in pain and curled up on the cement, I let him know that he has gained my respect. I tell him, “Officer Howitzer, I’m sorry for lying to you but I just had to—”
A sudden blast from his walkie-talkie sends my apology into shrapnel. He appears that he may have gotten a piece of it though, as he half-nods an affirmative while removing from his belt the radio that is reverberating, “Officer Howitzer, can you read me? Officer Howitzer, can you read me?” It’s the voice of his partner, Officer Donahue. He’s saying something about getting back to the station, that it’s nearing the end of their shift. “We have to file our reports,” he says.
Trish is wrapping my ankle, a possible sprain, and is thankful that Officers Donahue and Howitzer helped me up the stairs before they rushed out to their waiting squad car. Besides my ankle, my hip is hurting, but not broken, no, it can’t be. If it were I would know it, you’d think.
Wendy is next to us, on the floor, asleep. Clutched in her arms the baby Cindy Doll, as she calls it. Little Cindy is unaware of this night, her face devoid of the tearstains that preside on Wendy’s face. There are so many questions that I want to ask Trish but am reluctant to. She, graduating on this night to the Big People’s Club, has been given the responsibility of guarding the truth to Mother’s condition. She had probably raised her right hand to Officer Donahue and pledged to him she would not let us minors, Wendy and me, know anything more than, “everything is going to be okay.” Although I don’t want to put Trish in a position of going against the oath, I am still her brother, and that woman that was wheeled out of here is my mother, for god’s sake. I must know about my mother, that’s all there is to it.
“Trish,” I demand, “you must tell me the truth.”
She looks at me squarely, drops the last strand of bandage, and then quickly turns away. I beg her again but she remains silent, her face hiding from me any recognition of the truth. I know she is crying now, little rasps from her diaphragm getting heavier, more rapid. I don’t want to press her but what else can I do. I know she has been given a heavy burden but so have I, and it’s weighing on me, much too heavy.
“Please Trish, tell me why Mom has been taken away. Please tell me what happened.” I pull the last bit of elastic around my ankle and clip it. Some relief there, but not much anywhere else. “I’ll be okay, just tell me,” I say, feigning a sense of optimism. Because deep down, I know that there’s a good chance that I won’t be okay, maybe never, ever again. I could live the rest of my life haunted by this night, the night of my tenth birthday. I could grow up to be some kind of weirdo, living in the park with the pigeons, eating food out of the garbage can and talking to myself. Shocked into craziness for the rest of my life. Post-traumatic stress disorder or something like that. What if Trish tells me that Momma has, no I mustn’t think that, no Trish will pretend she is one of the Big People again and tell me that everything is going to be okay, but unlike most of those other Big People, she’d really, and I mean, really, really mean it. She will tell me, “everything is going to be okay,” won’t she? She’ll tell me Momma is okay, false alarm, right?
Suddenly, as if awakened by the realization that she does owe it to her little brother to be open with him, no matter what the consequence, she turns and looks at me again and opens her mouth to say something but not a word is uttered, for her thoughts seem stuck somewhere between her brain and larynx.
“Won’t you tell me everything is going to be OK Trish,” I say, hoping to elicit another response from her, hopefully this time an audible one.
After a few moments the silence is broken. Through the roar of thunder I hear, “Mom tried to kill herself. Did you hear me? Mom tried to kill herself.”
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The Bookcase
(In order for me to draw the parallels of my life and that of Barack Obama's I must first share a good part of my history, thus I present my memoir "The Bookcase.")
The Bookcase
“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.”
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 imposter? 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.
By: Ricky J. Fico
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Ricky's Teaser Tees & Inspirational things.
The Bookcase
“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.”
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 imposter? 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.
By: Ricky J. Fico
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Saturday, September 13, 2008
September 11, 1992
The Turning Point
It was September 11 when God Himself, came down and saved me. It was a drastic measure, but one necessary to prevent me from walking into the mighty Pacific without looking back. It was my way, the only way.
Oh, beautiful Kauai, my heaven on earth! It would be there where I'd take my last glass of wine, my final shot of scotch and my last breath. I had planned it so well, I thought. I had booked a flight from Chicago to arrive Kauai on September 12, 1992 - the day before my final birthday - September 13. I wanted to perform my "dead man walking" on my birthday. You all know the story, "Leaving Las Vegas," right?
That is the movie where the character played by Nicolas Cage goes to Las Vegas to drink himself to death. Well, I was "Leaving Kauai" and why, you may ask. Because I had grown tired of witnessing all the pain and suffering in this world, the cruelty, the disregard for each other. Also, I had enough of my own struggles, the constant battles fighting my alcoholism, the harsh memories of finding my father dead after he had died about three days before I had gone to visit him. I also had enough of the past, my past where every turn seemed to take me to another dead end.
But something happened, something so powerful that I was stopped from performing my final dance upon the shorelines of Kauai. I must believe, this time, it took God Himself to stop me.
On the evening of September 11, 1992, the night before my flight I was sitting in Tony's Tavern, saying my goodbyes, downing my scotch when suddenly the news broke. A Special Report on the television: "A fierce hurricane had hit Kauai head on." Half drunk, I thought maybe I was not really hearing right. I got up off my stool, moved closer to the television. Through the smoke and the haze I focused on it as much as my half-drunkenness would allow. Projected to me on the blurry screen were the twisted palm trees, the over-turned homes, the upended boats. I recognized what once was the idyllic shoreline of Poipu, now in twisted disarray. I cried, cried some more. Now what am I going to do? All ports would surely be closed now, I thought.
I immediately went to the phone booth and called United Airlines. It was confirmed. My flight tomorrow to Kauai was canceled. Now what? I went back to my stool, and with tears running down my cheeks, I faced the truth. I was probably better off alive.
I took the last gulp of my drink and left the tavern and walked to the neighborhood park, where I sat and thought and cried. I asked myself over and over, Why? How could this possibly have happened? Why was I stopped from going to Kauai to kill myself? Am I really better off alive?
***
This was a new beginning. I was reborn and finally I was able to quit the drinking, and with a new zest for life, I began the process of healing.
For the next year I had sat down every morning and relived my life through writing. I relived the pain, the tears, the sometime laughter and put it all down, black on white. It was my catharsis. Finally, I was freed from the chains that had bound me all my adult life. And I was finally able to forgive. Hurricane Iniki, I am sorry for your destruction. But I am forever grateful to you for saving my life . . .
And then, September 11, 2001, now living in Las Vegas, I was intent on celebrating the anniversary of my rebirth. I hopped in my car and was on my way to breakfast when the news broke through the song I was listening to, "Silent Lucidity." At first, I thought it was a practical joke, reminding me of that old Orson Welle's Halloween prank, the one broadcast on the radio: "We're being invaded by Martians" which ultimately caused pandemonium and mass hysteria throughout the land.
I quickly turned to another radio station. Same thing. This can’t be happening, there’s no way. This has to be some kind of cruel joke. Another Station: "Both World Trade Center Buildings are on fire!" I kept driving, my heart pounding, the palms of my hands gripping the steering wheel, trying desperately to retain control. "A passenger jet had slammed into the Pentagon." No, this can’t be real!
I turned on another station. "News just in from Pennsylvania - a plane had crashed in a field." What the hell is going on? Is this the end of the world? I arrived at the restaurant, and with my own two eyes, witnessed on their television, the horrific events. I really had not the stomach for egg omelets or pancakes. Not now. "Miss Waitress, just bring me a large glass of cranberry juice."
I sat and slowly drank the juice, tears falling down my cheeks. Patrons all around, also staring intently at the television in disbelief, their own faces reddened from sadness. I knew I had to get home. Pass McCarran International airport I drove. There was not a plane in the sky, neither coming in nor taking off. All was quiet now except the beating of my heart. Many questions arose and struck hard at my conscience but still I drove on, aiming for home.
Ricky J. Fico | Coincidence? Hurricane FicoSilent Lucidity by Queensryche
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