Homer Ricks - River To His People

I came back from Thailand to New York in the autumn of 2008. My good friend AP offered me a soft landing after a period of duress after my arrest for cyper counterfeiting Ferrari clothing. A case of mistaken identity and the Thai police let me off with a $100 fine. After spending the most of the pervious two decades in the Far East Fort Greene was a safe place to land, although it was hard so far away from my family. Two wives and four kids back then. I was lucky enough to stumble into Frank's Lounge on Fulton Street. Frank Peerkins had been running the bar since 1972. The clientele was black. Southern black. New York black, but we didn't see too many Philadelphia blacks or honky from Boston, but I was welcome there to drink gin-tonic to my hearts content with the blessing of Homer Ricks, a native of Philadelphia, Mississippi.

"I left that town fast. I said something to a white man and my Momma had my uncle drive me that night to Memphis, where I caught a bus to here. I was 18. I never seen a streetlight before.Another uncle got me a job."

Homer never said what that job was and I never asked, but the well-dressed man was a big fella and had worked as a bouncer at Frank's for many years. He called me White Boy and hated my football team, The New England Patriots. He didn't care much most the Celtics neither, but we enjoyed watching sports of the crappy Trinitron TV hanging at either end of the bar underneath the stalactite ceiling. Frank's was so 1970s.

Like Homer I was there most nights with the crowd; Larry Laker, Lydell, Old Bill, Rosa, Terry, Frank and his wife and so many others. We were friendly, but Homer was a friend to many. Giving. One night I came in after hearing bad news from my family. I needed $100. I got a drink.

"What's wrong, White Boy."

I told him.

He peeled off five twenties.

"You go down to that Western Union on Flatbush and send your children that."

And I did.

And I paid him back.

I moved away in 2016 to Clinton Hill. THe bar had changed. Frank's son had taken it over. It wasn't the same and Homer moved back to Mississippi. We spoke on the phone. Always a good laugh. He loved being with all his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Not so much with all his wives. He never said how many.

Last week Larry Laker posted that Homer had passed Down South.

Where else?

People wrote their condolence.

I wrote a life well spent.

We can all hope for that fate.

Love you. Da old White Boy.