Not Fade Away

Clipping from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, August 7, 1999:

LOCAL MAN, 63, SLAIN IN GANG ASSAULT

Paramedics were called to Fonzarelli's Garage at Alton and Kings Way at 11:50 last night in response to a neighbor's frantic 911 call. Upon arrival they found Mr. Arthur Fonzarelli, 63, collapsed on the sidewalk severely beaten and in cardiac arrest. CPR was attempted for several minutes, but Fonzarelli died despite all life-saving measures.

Reconstructing events based on the unverified details pro­vided by neighborhood witnesses, police believe the savage attack on Fonzarelli began shortly after the man closed up his garage for the night at approximately 11:30. Witnesses reported seeing a group of four to five teen-aged assailants wearing gang colors call out to the man and immediately begin beating him with chains and baseball bats. Though the attack was witnessed by several of Fonzarelli's neighbors, no one attempted to intervene beyond making the 911 call. Said one, a 42-year-old man who requested to remain anonymous, "This ain't the kind of street a person would feel like sticking his neck out for anybody else. It just ain't safe to be a Good Samaritan around here."

Such an attitude may be understandable in light of the area's frequent and markedly violent gang activity. Residing along the boundary of the "turfs" of The Dragons and Diablos street gangs, this patch of the city's lower west-side has seen eight gang-related homicides in this year alone. Mr. Fonzarelli himself had been instrumental in organizing Neighborhood Watch and Mentor Outreach programs in an effort to connect with the youth of the community. Quoted in a 1997 interview, Fonzarelli had this to say about the gang situation, "If I can only get these kids to listen, they might hear some­thing useful about the life they're choosing. And don't kid yourself, it is a choice. It doesn't matter where you start off in life, there's always a better way to go. I want to show them that and show them that someone gives a damn where they end up."

In the estimation of local police, who were aware of Mr. Fonzarelli's stance on this issue, this killing may be a direct response to Fonzarelli's out­spoken defiance of gang intimidation. "In a neighborhood too afraid to take a stand, Arthur Fonzarelli was the exception. His death is a blow to this com­munity," said Police Captain Vance Halberstam.

Confusion amongst eyewitness testimonies make the identity of the assailants difficult; reports are unclear whether the attackers belonged to either the Dragons or Diablos or even a hit squad com­posed of members of both gangs, a possibility that, though unlikely given the history between the two groups, is not currently being ruled out.

A lifelong Milwaukan and owner of two Fonzarelli's Garages, Mr. Arthur Fonzarelli still worked on many of his customers' engines himself. Considered a genuine American success story by his friends and acquaint­ances, Fonzarelli rose from being a troubled youth more than familiar with the inside of the city's jail to a respected local businessman with a long history of civic involve­ment. He is survived by a daughter, Ms. Amber Tuscadero, with whom he had only recently become close.

"We had just started to get to know each other. It was like we were finally becoming a real family," said Ms. Tuscadero through tears, "I can't believe my kids have been robbed of a grandad they didn't for the longest time know they had."

The police would appreciate any information the public may have in regards to those parties responsible for the death of Mr. Fonzarelli. You may contact the 24th precinct directly or call their Homicide hotline at 555-6060.

Letter (postmarked April 4, 1996) discovered folded in Fonzarelli's wallet:

Hey hon,

Long time no write huh? Sorry about that (and alotta other things) but its all water under the bridge. And between you and me that's gotta be a l-o-o-o-ong damn bridge! Here's hoping everything turned out okay for you –- I hear your doing great and I'm glad. Me? Well babe it ain't been the smoothest of rides but at least it'll be over soon. By that its just my not so funny way of letting you in on my bad news. My doc tells me that I'm a terminal case – there's a cancer dragstrip runnin' from my throat to my lungs. And I used to look so damn good smokin' those Virginia Slims (I come a long way baby)! We did enough chemo on me to lite up the Vegas strip, but it didnt do nothing but clog up my drain with beautiful red hair. You wouldnt recognize me these days lover. I won't lie, it hurts like hell, but they got me on some good stuff that gives me some quiet nights here and there. Don't worry about it, its just the hand that was dealt and it's not the reason I wrote you.

I dont know how to tell you this but I know I'm not gonna have another chance. You have a daughter. Technically you've had one for awhile now. Her name is Amber and she was born October 26, 1958. You never knew the real reason I had to leave town, now you know. Honey, I was scared and though you know I love you (always have always will) I didn't really want to be yours – or any man's – wife. Just so you know, that never happened. I had Amber in Long Beach, CA and raised her there all by myself. No regrets, nothing I feel I missed out on. She's what I have to show for myself and I'm dammed proud of her. She makes her living in the movies as a stuntwoman, or stuntperson, or whatever your supposed to call them these days. Her speciality is bike jumps (wonder where she got that from!). She's absolutely beautiful, recently divorced from a lousy never-happened actor punk, and (get ready) a mother of three wonderful boys. That's right, Fonzie's a grandad! I've been telling her about you her whole life so she knows who you are, but I havent told her I'm writing this letter. I figured it would be fairer to leave it up to you wether or not you decide to get in touch with her. No pressure here, but I got to say I think you'd love her. Of course, I might be a tad biased.

I don't want to drag this out, hon, I've always been one of those people who gets into more trouble the more I say, so I'll just close with this: I want to thank you, the sweetest bad boy I ever knew, for the greatest gift of my life and so much more love than I probably deserved. Think of your old cherry-top from time to time.

Love,

Pinky

Eulogy delivered by Mr. Richard Cunningham:

He could fix anything. That's what we liked to tell our­selves anyway. He had a way of just slamming the side of his fist into the most stubborn piece of machinery – be it a vacuum cleaner, TV set, or Chevy transmission – that seemed to convince it to change its tune and start working NOW. We called it his magic touch. And though I'm sure there was a lot of sweat and grease we hadn't been audience to, it sure looked cool. That's what the Fonz was, then and now. The Fonz was cool.

One thing I know my friend would have liked to have fixed was the mess of a world our kids and grandkids are growing up in. Without sounding like the old fart I know I am, I spend my mornings afraid to open the paper and my nights in dread of hearing the news. These are grim days we've all found ourselves adrift in. There's blood in the streets and it's being shed by younger and younger hands. I'm not implying that my generation was at all some innocent idyll. Kids killed and died back then too, but they didn't seem so eager to do so. I'm no pundit or the social reformer that the Fonz was becoming, I can't point a finger as to the cause of this state of society. We had Hopalong Cassidy, they have the Terminator. The saddest irony here is that, in his youth, Arthur Fonzarelli could have easily taken the same path as the kids who did him in.

We used to get together from time to time for a beer or two at that little sports bar where Arnold's used to be and we would talk about grandfathery things – how amazed he continued to be at, as he liked to call you, his "ready-made family." Amber, Duane, Aaron, and Bo, I feel like I know you guys. He loved you so much. We would annoy the yuppie types at that bar by loading up their CD jukebox with quarters and playing all the tracks off of the only two albums in there we liked: "The Best of Buddy Holly" and "Fats Domino, 12 Golden Greats". By the third time "Blue­berry Hill" came around, you should've seen that place clear out. We sat there and talked about the news of our old friends, and we would talk about whatever fights he was picking at the time, whether with greedy real-estate developers looking to demolish his old neighborhood or with the teenage punks who were looking to do the same thing – one mugging or carjacking at a time. Mostly we would laugh at the sheer implausibility that he had lived this long. He was our rebel, the original troublemaker in a leather jacket, quick to rumble or steal your girl. At least, that's the way we saw him. Once, after he'd gotten a little loose on Pabst Blue Ribbon, he admitted that he used to stand in front of a mirror and copy all his poses from Brando in The Wild One. Don't get me wrong, the Fonz was the real thing, but, in the end, he was a softie with a heart as strong and pure as a cherry Panhead V-Twin engine.

I'm told by the paramedics that were first on the scene of this tragic and cowardly assault, that, while his external injuries were, in­deed, severe enough, what really killed him was that great heart of his - more specifically, the pacemaker he'd had since last year. Apparently, the beating he received damaged the machine and stopped his heart. Those witnesses say they saw Fonzie drop to his knees, slamming his fist repeatedly into his chest. But this was one machine he couldn't fix. The magic touch was gone.

And so is he. The Fonz, with his collar flipped up and a comb in his back pocket, has gunned his '56 Triumph into a better place – a place where they truly rock around the clock – leaving us with an un­certain, Eisenhower-less future and the memories of a simpler time and happier days.