Robert F.74Write to Robert

Hello, everyone in the free world! I hope you’re enjoying life as much as I once did growing up along the Connecticut shoreline, in New Haven, CT, and New York City. I truly miss those days: the people, the places, the smells and sights of New England. I’m sure California has its own beauty, but back when I was free, I didn’t appreciate those things. With age and a bit more wisdom, I’ve come to realize how special what I had really was. Not a day goes by that I don’t drift back to those good old days and wish I could stand there again. My name is Robert Fairbanks, though my friends call me Zack. If you’d like to hear about my former life in New England and New York, or even remind me of what I gave up by moving to California, feel free to write. That reminder keeps me grounded and honest. I want to be upfront: my last year of freedom was 41 years ago. I lost myself to a severe cocaine addiction and woke up in prison, an absolute nightmare. But I found sobriety, and with the help of family and friends, I rebuilt myself. At first, facing reality was terrifying, but over time I grew stronger and more positive, and I still do. Today, I’m proud to say I’ve become a pleasant, respectful, honorable, and solid man again. I have a positive outlook and would love to make new friends to share thoughts, stories, and memories with. I’m straightforward, don’t play games, and enjoy good conversation. I’ve got a diverse life story, and I promise I can make you laugh. Through writing, I’ve connected with people worldwide and even helped some through struggles with drugs. That means a lot to me. Life is short and too precious to waste. If you’re willing to write, I’d be glad to hear from you. Be sure to read my stories below. Thank you for your time. Life in the Life: From Mulberry Street to South Philly One of many days, weeks, months, years, and decades in New York City—more specifically, Manhattan, on Mulberry Street in Little Italy. Truly treasured days and memories from long ago. After visiting my favorite old Italiano tailor shop, where the owner and his two sons performed absolutely exquisite tailoring of suits and shirts, I would often stop next door to see his brother, another fine gentleman from the Old Country. His specialty was crafting handmade shoes with such care and precision that walking in them felt as though one were floating on air. Every pair was custom-made, and like many of the Italianos I knew and spent time with, I had different pairs crafted to match the various suits tailored by his brother and nephews next door. Usually, I would have at least two suits made, along with matching handcrafted Italiano leather shoes. To most people walking in off the street, such craftsmanship would seem like a small fortune, and yes, it was certainly expensive, but it was worth every penny. Through word of mouth, people from all over Manhattan came to visit these quiet Italiano gentlemen from the Old Country. As for me, and most of the kids I grew up with, we spent our younger years running around together and, as we got older, continued to stay close while handling whatever business was asked of us by our older goombahs. One of the requests we received quite often was to make the drive from Manhattan, through New Jersey, and onward to South Philadelphia. Back in the 1960s and 1970s, and right up until my incarceration in 1985, those days in South Philly became some of the most treasured memories of my life. Being there felt like being with family. The majority of the population was Italiano. Some were older, some younger, and many were our own age. Naturally, we became close and conducted quite a lot of business together over the years. One particular place that I, and many others, always looked forward to visiting was the original cheesesteak spot in South Philly: Geno’s. BADDA BING, BADDA BOOM—BADDA BOOM, BADDA BING! Those original cheesesteaks would practically melt in your mouth. They were so delicious that one simply could not leave South Philly without devouring a few of them. More often than not, melted cheese would find its way onto our tailored clothes and all over the interiors of the cars we drove. Of course, we always brought huge bags of Geno’s cheesesteaks back to Manhattan for some of our carefully chosen friends. Now, every once in a while, a few of those cheesesteaks mysteriously disappeared during the drive back to New York City. HAAAAAAAA! Most of the time, though, the intended recipients actually got their cheesesteaks. Now, to be fair, the other famous cheesesteak establishment sits directly kitty-corner across from Geno’s—Pat’s. They had, and still have, some mighty fine cheesesteaks. But in my own humble pebble-on-the-beach opinion, Geno’s wears the crown of South Philly cheesesteaks. Oh, how I miss those cheesesteaks. (Bio shortened to fit the site.)