The fall from grace can be so deep. Here he was, 36 and broke. Divorced, with two little angels that he saw at least twice a week, regardless of what his ex felt. He had definitely ‘ Made his own bed’ when he blew the cash from the sale of his dying business two years earlier. The gambling fever had overtaken his soul. This time it wasn’t the devil of sports betting. No, this was from his foray into the world of Wall Street puts and calls that submarined him. It didn’t matter that just two years earlier he had ceased calling the bookie as he cold turkeyed betting on games… completely. Being addicted to gambling just transferred him to another realm. The cloud of sadness was his own device.

He found his way into becoming a limo driver. First, he had bartended and the crazy hours and flames of cigarette smoke were just too much, standing in a crowded arena with too loud music and everyone it seemed blowing acres of tar and nicotine right at him. So, here he was, mid June, taking high school grads for a 10 hour prom & romp trip. He didn’t mind it so much. Once he dropped them off at the prom he had time to drive to one of his favorite eating places. Then, the prom exited and off he went chauffeuring  the kids to Manhattan to one of the few clubs that didn’t check proof. He would park down the street and bullshit with the other limo guys until the dawn approached. Then off to the kid’s homes on Long Island.

Driving home at breakfast time he once again began to think of his boys, and how much he truly loved them, and then of his own father. God, how he had loved his dad when he was his sons’ age. Behind the wheel of the limo he recalled how his father had to drive a limo back in the mid 60s. His old man was a longshoreman (actually a ‘Checker’ cause he had more brains than the average longshoreman) and belonged to the ILA (International Longshoremen’s Union). Just about every time their contract was up the bosses wouldn’t budge enough and they went out on strike. So, his dad had to find work while the strike lasted. Sometimes this would be weeks, even a month. Lots of mouths to feed and his mom’s clerk salary wasn’t nearly enough. Now, here he was, just like his dad, having to feed not only is own mouth, but his boys’ through child support and the weekly dinners they shared at his regular Italian bistro, The Rivoli, near his apartment.

After his old man got seniority, meaning he got paid for NOT working (just show up early AM at the union hall, badge in, and go home), he found a part time job as a car service driver, using his own car (forerunner to today’s UBER). This helped his dad have some spending money in his pocket while awaiting retirement. He remembered how, while at Brooklyn College in his senior year, he would call the old man at the car service (the 1970s had no cell phones or whatever). It would be usually on a Monday, when he had a light class schedule, around 11:30. “What are you doing pop?” His dad would ask why. “Ya wanna go out there?” meaning the racetrack. The old man would follow up with the same old question each time, asking didn’t he have classes.” No pop, I’m done for today. OK?” They’d agree to meet at the same corner of the campus and off they went. Now pulling into his driveway he sighed the ‘ an do I miss those days sigh’ and a few tiny tears rolled down his face.

PA Farruggio