(An Ode to Dad)

By Salvatore A. Barcia Jr. (posted July 14, 2025)

In many ways I was an average teenager, sometimes embracing one unfortunate aspect of teenage logic – ignoring common sense.  Luckily Dad often stepped in with an assist.

The Malibu Classic

Risking redundancy from past memoirs, I loved my 1976 Malibu Classic.  Its predecessor, a 1974 Dodge Dart, was the little engine that couldn’t.  After three weeks pushing it down Richmond Avenue I decided the exercise benefits were outweighed by automotive lethargy.  In stepped the Malibu, reasonably priced but difficult for a college kid (Dad covered half, I saved for the other half).

Like most used cars it carried requisite flaws:

• The hole on the floor welcomed splashes on rainy nights (solution: metal sheet).
• After an accident, the hood’s aerodynamic abilities were showcased on the highway (solution: bike chain/lock).
• The radio celebrated AM’s airway domination (solution: FM/cassette converter).

One major flaw evaded simple remedies.  The 1970s gas gauge – a thick line with a crude pointer – was broken, permanently declaring about a quarter tank remaining.  Wisdom would demand repairs, tracking mileage, or at least maintaining a full tank.  But an invincible teen believed an empty tank was reserved for mere mortals.  This hubris birthed one difficult journey home from Rutgers.

Go RU

In my first semester at Rutgers (fall 1987) I commuted from Staten Island.  Rather than limiting my college experience, it instead expanded my social circle since I associated with many people while staying with friends.

Early-morning classes were a downside.  I was often late for Comparative Politics (comparing the United States, Ivory Coast, and Soviet Union), sometimes missing key information.  This included a missed test announcement (no online postings or class texts).  Upon arriving the following class, I gasped and gagged discovering an exam in progress.  Scrambling to the bathroom, I reviewed material for 20 minutes, then rushed through the test.  My C grade was frustrating (tearing down my straight A), but provided critical life lessons on preparation and handling a crisis.

Commuting also required constant packing/unpacking and learning the (dis)comfort of various couches.  Of course I wasn’t always staying somewhere.  In addition to my dining hall job at Brower Commons, I continued my professional tenure at McDonalds in the Staten Island Mall.  I also maintained connections to friends in the homeland.  The result was the occasional late-evening trek home.

Tempting Fate

This brings us to the evening in question, a Sunday after the MYA (band fraternity) meeting.  An independent co-ed fraternity, MYA was founded years earlier when Rutgers band members separated from the national fraternity.  Some say it was given birth by “oppression”, others insist it was a dare made over beverages.  Both likely coexist in the real story.

Traveling home I pondered the gas tank’s level and lamented not filling it earlier (on Sunday night many stations were closed).  After abandoning my too-short quest I assumed the spirits would protect me, so I continued onward.  Fate, however, does not like to be taunted.  It roared its displeasure with my arrogance and gloated as the car’s engine timidly lost its breath on the NJ Turnpike – the worst stretch of road for stalling.

Cell phones were still a distant luxury reserved for Gordon Gekko and Zack Morris.  There was no calling for help.  My determined mind distorted the truth and was certain I had an engine problem (translation: I didn’t want to admit I ran out of gas), so I tried starting it numerous times.  Next, I commenced an ill-advised quest to escape the Turnpike.  I walked to an overpass, climbed the hill, and considered hopping the fence, however it was (in my memory) more complex than an average fence (for a reason) and required superhero skills.  Conventional wisdom of the time took over and I settled into the driver’s seat with the emergency lights proclaiming my SOS, and quickly drifted off to sleep.

Following an unknown timeframe I awoke to a comforting sight.  Police lights flashed their presence and Dad was talking to the cops.  We sorted the situation and went home.  All was right with the world again.

I had assumed the police arrived, saw me stranded, ran my license plate, called my dad, and he came to help.  This juvenile logic never added up, however, and years later I interrogated Dad.  Like a kid investigating Santa’s abilities, I was full of questions:  How did they know who to call?  Why did they have your number?  How did you get there so quickly?  Clarifying my questionable scenario, Dad explained he had woken up and knew something was wrong.  Nothing specific, he just knew.  Without hesitating he drove my usual route, coincidentally arriving with the police.

This is who he was.  I needed help and he was out the door.  Over the years he did this for many people.  Often he was running out because Cousin X needed Y so he was going to Z.  There was never a question, never a doubt, never “Aw man, can’t someone else do it?”  He saw the need and filled it, unconditionally.  I am sure many of you have someone (or many) similar in your lives.  Tell those people how much you appreciate them while you still have the chance.

Thank you to everyone who was so supportive, whether you came to the services, sent a card, donated to charity, sent a message of support, or simply had him in your thoughts and prayers.  Thank you to my class for warming my heart with a hearty welcome the day after the funeral.  And finally thank you Dad for everything you did for us.  I love you and will miss you dearly.