Elegy of a Serendipitous Demise

“Rico, it won’t be the same here without you,” Shawn says in a grievous tone. Rico’s colleague started working at the Manhattan company along with him eight faithful years ago. "I can't believe they are letting you go. It's disgraceful. Where's the loyalty?"

Rico packs up his things at his cubicle as quickly as possible, so he can get off the floor before any more of his colleagues could see him.

“I’m going to miss you, man. Especially, not seeing all your Superman paraphernalia next to me,” Shawn says with a chuckle.

"I'm going to miss you too, Shawn." Rico pats his ex-coworker on the back, as the "Superman of 55 Water Street" begins his walk of shame to the elevator. "Goodbye."

What Would Superman Do?

He would take flight and soar over all obstacles, barriers, and hard-to-climb mountains like aircraft and eagles.

His abilities of invulnerability will keep him confident about gaining success going up against the odds.

He'd have no worries about potential harms from negativity, doubt or self-blame because he stays optimistic.

With superspeed, he will be free from the gravitational pull of lethargy and sedentary ways.

Tirelessly, he outruns time so that time doesn't run out.

With X-ray vision, he would see behind others' cellophane smiles and their empty promises to understand profound truths.

His super hearing will keep him alert and evade danger before it gets too close to escape from.

He'll always hear opportunity when it knocks.

Superman would not accept defeat—not even when enduring crippling pain from the kryptonite of fear, anxiety or uncertainty.

He would approach each day with confidence in his ability to handle life's unpredictable curveballs—even if they are faster than a speeding bullet.

He will always think of how his actions affect others and remember that his words are more powerful than a locomotive.

He will not be discouraged by his imperfections, shortcomings or circumstances because he knows he's got it in him to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Rico rents a one-bedroom apartment on the first floor of a private house. The owner of the house is kind and sympathetic to the news of Rico's termination. He gives Rico three months to find a job and come up with the rent money.

Although Rico receives unemployment benefits, it isn’t enough to cover the rent. For the first time, he has to apply for government assistance, like food stamps. Unfortunately, he doesn't find a job within three months. Now, Rico has only two weeks before his eviction. He doesn’t have any family in New York, and he isn't about to return to his hometown down south.

A few years ago, Rico took part in a research study on the effects of doing good deeds on people’s happiness and stress. He was required to jot down stressful events experienced during his day in a little black book—along with any helpful behaviors towards others and the emotions associated with those acts.

The study found, and Rico concurred upon reflection, when he did favors and nice things for people on stressful days, he experienced less stress. So, he continued keeping the journal after the study ended. He noticed how his mood remained more balanced, which was great for managing his bipolar.

Now, Rico must turn to his little black book. It is his only hope. Surely, someone in it who he’s blessed in some way, whether financially or through other valuable but intangible commodities like time, advice, or rent-free lodging, will be kind enough to let him sleep on their couch for a while.

Rico calls every number he has for past recipients of his generosity and compassionate heart. But no one in Manhattan, the Bronx, Queens, Staten Island or Brooklyn could offer accommodations. He doesn't want to go into the shelter, But that's his only choice now.

Eviction day comes. After putting his belongings in a public storage facility, he takes himself to the Bellevue Men’s intake shelter. After the administrative tasks of being put into the system, he is escorted to his bed in the dormitory. Rico lays in bed and prays for lights out to hurry up and come. Once it does, he covers his face with an anorexic pillow and weeps.

Bellevue is only a temporary stop after doing intake. The next day Rico is sent to Ward's Island—home to many of the city's shelters—to carry out the rest of his sentence. Rico compares nearly every activity in the shelter system to incarceration—from his booking to his cell block, which is the dormitory that dozens of strange, homeless men share with him.

Rico doesn't feel comfortable around all the men. It doesn't help that the shelter feels like a medium-security prison. Rico's never felt safe around men in any setting, whether the men have a criminal record or not, but many of the men in the shelter were recently released from prison and on parole. The possibility of sleeping next to a sexualdoesn'tpredator or other potentially dangerous stranger is beyond unsettling for him.

The shelter doesn’t allow the men to hang out in the dorms during the day. The beds only become available in the evening when dinner is served. At first, Rico doesn’t cope well with the life of a vagabond. Soon, he finds that he must adapt or wither away to nothing more than another dilapidated mouth the City feeds. Rico begins sleeping on bus stop benches during the days he doesn't have job interviews. It's so bad that he picks up discarded cigarette butts from the sidewalk to smoke, and he begs for loose change at subway entrances.

For weeks, Rico has multiple job interviews. His therapist notices that he flip flops between being a homeless and hopeful person to being a homeless and hopeless person. Who wouldn’t feel dejected? Nevertheless, his therapist tries to keep him from becoming discouraged.

He doesn't get callbacks after the interviews. And there seems to be no rooms or apartments available. The landlords want tenants to have an impeccable credit score. To Rico, it's unrealistic to expect such a thing from a homeless person living on assistance.

A Place of My Own

Left here with no other place to go.

I need a place of my own.

Powerless to change what once was in my control.

Now, I need a place of my own.

Fighting for survival and trying not to forget.

Each day I live, I am surviving.

Waiting for when I can have a place of my own.

This is a fight for my mental health.

My home, this shelter, until I find a place of my own.

Tomorrow must become today before the day can sting and bring sorrow.

So, I feel that the divinity that defines my destiny's directives is dominating the detriment daily, demonstrating endeavors of destruction.

I need a place of my own.

Nowhere else to go right now.

I'm alone among many.

But I'm trying to be patient until I have a home to call my own.

Then one evening, while at the shelter, he receives a phone call. It's a number with a Florida area code. He knows it must be a family member. Something tells him to answer—even though he divorced his genealogical heritage many moons and solstices ago.

Rico lets the phone ring until the voicemail picks up. When Rico moved to New York City, he knew no one—except for the Statue of Liberty. But even she was only an eviscerated silhouette of a 9th-grade field trip memory.

The caller leaves a voicemail. Rico hesitates to listen to it but retrieves the message, eventually. It was Cantus, who used to be his favorite cousin. Cantus leaves a message saying that Rico's father has died. He also says that his father's wife has something important to give him from his father and needs his address.

Rico isn’t sad but does feel sorry for his family's loss. Suddenly, the noises around him become muffled. There’s a fade to black. Then like home movie night in a vintage sitcom, a film projector begins showing in his mind of various moments in his life.

This was a life when his father only made cameo appearances that were long enough for photo ops. But, were never long enough for any real, authentic emotional connections to develop. Then like a cinematic flashback, those fleeting moments cut to the day Rico was molested by the son of one of his father's many girlfriends. After that traumatic flashback, Rico sees an emotional montage of all his attempts throughout his life to find male role models and make friends with other guys. He sees himself always on guard that some man will violate him again.

For the first time, Rico realizes the one person who was the most absent from his life was somehow the one person at the center of most of the pain and suffering he’s felt in his life. He knows he has to respond to the message Cantus left. So, he settles on sending a text with the address for the shelter.

The Least Present but Most Impactful

There was something in you that always seemed reluctant to accept me as your own.

I know not what it was, but I was yours.

I didn’t need a Cliff Huxtable

A John Walton, Sr.

A Howard Cunningham

A Steven Keaton

An Archie Bunker

A Rob Petrie

A Bernie Mac

A Tony Micelli

A Homer Simpson

A Fred Sandford

A Ward Cleaver or George Jefferson.

But maybe you did.

I didn’t need the television to infiltrate my mind with caricatures of how a father should act.

But maybe you did.

Did you watch these men playing house with other playmates and compare your experience and competence at fatherhood to their scripted ideology?

I didn’t need a real-life version of any of those men.

Although they will go down in history as some of the greatest dads to grace the small screen, how will you be remembered?

I could count on TV fathers to show up each week at the same time for the same length of time.

I could only count on you to be a fantasy.

I never got to know you.

You never got to know me.

There’s no blame necessary, but I longed for you.

I wanted the young, irresponsible, inexperienced you.

One gloomy day, when Rico returns to the shelter after a long day of panhandling, a woman at the front desk behind the thick glass window, where all the men sign in, slips Rico a letter.

“Thanks," Rico says. He goes to sit outside and smoke a cigarette. He is in no rush to open the letter. Rico doesn’t want to read some sappy, dying man’s repentance. After he finishes his cigarette, he goes inside and heads to his bed. He sits with the letter in hand—grappling with the thought of opening it or tossing it out. Eventually, he gives in and opens it.

In the envelope is a short note that reads, “I know I failed you, but I didn’t deserve to have you in the first place. But the world does. This can’t mend broken hearts, but I hope it is a start to healing any broken dreams.” Behind the note is a check for $20,000. Rico cries. He doesn’t care who sees. These are tears of joy—not tears of weakness.

Rico doesn’t know which direction to ride his windfall gain. However, when the new day breaks, it becomes clear. He decides to start a non-profit, similar to Big Brother but specifically for boys who were victims of sexual abuse. He thinks he will name the organization, "Superboys."

With more money to offer realtors and landlords, Rico instantly becomes a more attractive prospective tenant. He finds a place of his own soon. And although he may not be ready to reunite with the family he divorced, he hopes his deceased father is resting in the peace of Rico’s forgiveness and gratitude.

Darkness of Loss

Once abandoned and left to roam

Held captive by my trust, freed by my faith, even though home wasn’t home

Even still, no regrets

It all continues to hurt, but I endure, take it all and the rest

My resilience gives me the fuel I need

Each moment that comes is another chance to take heed

The universe has always spoken to me

The grand design was laid before me, but I couldn’t see

The sun lights new pathways along this odyssey of uncertainty

Let it remain eventual, how from the darkness of loss can come the gain of serendipity