Free Kindle Download

I am offering the book My Worst Thanksgiving Ever as a free Kindle download on Amazon.com starting today (Thanksgiving Day 2016) and running for the next four days. This is your chance to read all about my adventures trying to find my son Benjamin after he was abducted by the U.S. embassy in Nicaragua over the Thanksgiving weekend of 2013. This is an excerpt from Chapter 22 "Abyssinia Benny:"

The guards called Cereal into their office on the afternoon of Wednesday, December 4th. He had been acting as my intermediator since his Spanish was better than mine. He slowly walked out of the office, into the compound, and approached me with a disgusted and sad look on his face. He put a consoling hand on my left shoulder and said, “your sister came to Managua and now she and Ben are flying back to the U.S. Sorry.”

When I heard that I felt like Benny had died. The feeling was not very different than watching the Pediatric resident perform CPR on Jonathon. I knew it wasn’t my sister. It was Angie. Someone made up the story to throw me off balance again. At that point it didn’t take much pushing.

The mission to save my son was over. All of the pain, suffering, and emotional turmoil meant nothing. I was not a Job who had his overcompensating God. I was not an Odysseus who had his Penelope waiting for him. In all the great myths, the man who struggles against the gods and loses is not a Hero. He is a Fool.

They let me out of the detention center after five days. They also told me that I had to leave Nicaragua within three days. Where did that come from? I was there legally, with a passport and visa. I still had three months left on my work visa and had committed no crimes. I didn’t buy, use, or sell drugs; and besides defending myself first against a mugger in Managua and then a thug in Jinotega three weeks later, never hurt anyone. The only thing left was that the mandate came from the embassy, specifically from James. The gods still demanded their entertainment.

We don’t need a Satan to explain evil. Humans are perfectly capable of harming other humans. What did Embassy James gain from all this? Or Jennifer Fay Marshall? Unsurprisingly, both continued to bash me long after this tragedy was over. And I got kicked in the head one more time.

Who is "Cereal?"

This excerpt from My Worst Thanksgiving Ever also appears as the Prologue in Desperately Seeking Cereal. It not only explains why I use the name in the title of my newest book but also why I was so desperate to find him:

I met a man from Belize in the detention center. His name is Cyril but because of his thick patois I thought he said “Cereal.” The Nicaraguan guards pronounced it “Cero” which is Spanish for “Zero.” He hated that nickname because he is “not a nobody.” Instead, he asked me to call him by his middle name, Albert.

Cyril Albert Barnett claimed he is the nephew of the Prime Minister of Belize, Dean Barrow. He said that his mom is Mr. Barrow’s sister. He spoke pidgin English, French, and Spanish. He helped me a lot during my incarceration. In return, I like to think I saved him from suicide.

Cereal ran a successful business and lived in an estate just north of Matagalpa. He was mugged in Managua one October night and the ladrones stole his wallet and passport. He reported it to the police who arrested him instead because he couldn’t prove that he was in Nicaragua legally. He sneaked his cellphone into the detention center, called his girlfriend, and waited for her to come help him. When she did show up with their infant daughter, Cyril told her where he had hidden $3,000 in their house in Matagalpa and she left to find the cash and bail him out.

He never heard from her again.

Belize does not have an embassy in Nicaragua so Cereal didn’t have any diplomatic options. He tried to commit suicide one day in October by overdosing on some acetaminophen he had been hoarding. He was still suicidal when I met him two months later. I promised to get the bail money for him ($500) upon my release. My plan was to have the funds sent by Western Union and instead of using it to pay for a flight back to the States, I would bail him out and then we would both take buses to the Belize embassy in San Salvador. He guaranteed me that his government would then fly us out, him to Belize City and me to Fort Lauderdale to pick up my car. That was Plan A. We would resort to Plan B if we got separated. This plan was to meet up at his estate in Matagalpa, dig up a chestful of money he had buried there, then pay for flights out of Managua. I felt good about both plans because neither one meant I had to deal with the embassy of the United States in Nicaragua ever again.

I promised to help Cereal and he promised not to kill himself.

The Chicken Coop Fire

This is from the Prologue of my book My Worst Thanksgiving Ever and it describes a totally surrealistic event that happened on the Fourth of July in 2012. At the end, I put a note from my newest book Mythomania which describes a feeble attempt to make sense of the events that day. I say "feeble" because it is difficult to rationalize the irrational:

"The Midwest was in the middle of a heat wave and drought that Independence Day. It was so hot and dry that our Township banned outdoor fires on the 3rd. The closest large municipality, Milwaukee, set a record high of 102º Fahrenheit on the Fourth. I was inside the house on my recliner drinking a cold Diet Mountain Dew when I heard a loud rush of noise, comparable to a speeding semi-truck passing in the opposite direction, except it was constant and getting louder. I looked out of the kitchen window and saw that the chicken coop was on fire. I yelled for my wife Angie to call 9-1-1 and I rushed to put it out.

The coop is so far from the house that the two connected hoses ended about 15-20 feet from the fire. Yelling over the roar of the fire I shouted to our son Ben to grab the hose-end nozzle and throw it to me. I was downhill from the house and saw Angie put the other two children Jon and Savannah, into our S.U.V. which was partway down the driveway. She then shouted something to Ben who had picked up the nozzle to throw to me. He dropped it on the ground. When he turned from his mother to face me, he shrugged his shoulders and started walking towards the vehicle. I yelled again for him to throw me the nozzle. He stopped, looked at me, then faced Angie who said something to him. He started for the S.U.V.

In unbelieving desperation I turned back towards the fire which was so hot that I had to back up a few paces. Placing my right thumb over the end of the hose, I tried to create a stream forceful enough to reach the coop. It was hopeless. Goodwife Angela convinced Ben to abandon me in the midst of an emergency. Later that day, after they took off for God knows where, she told him something that was confusing and schizophrenic-like in its reasoning.

She told him that he was a 'Hero.'”

"The chicken coop fire is pivotal. Angie hid the kids away from me, told her friends that I was 'out of control,' and then proceeded to destroy my life because in her mind, I started the fire. She points to the ticket I got as “proof.” But deliberately starting a fire is arson, which is a felony. I was not charged with arson. I got a misdemeanor citation for having an outdoor fire the day before. Which is what I admitted to the cops. Remember, whenever someone calls 9-1-1 in Wisconsin, they must make an arrest or issue a citation. Ironically, I am the one who told Angie to call 9-1-1. Not only that, I was also the only one in the family who fought the fire. Hardly 'out of control.'”