A virtual shut-in since the tragic events that occurred at his 12th birthday party, Fresco leaves behind a smattering of acquaintances, two cacti, an 8" x 10" glossy autographed by Terry Gross, a collection of Fresca soda bottles the guy down the hall estimates could fetch "mid-three figures" on eBay, several large-scale unfinished pieces of art, an apartment the EPA is looking into immediately, and, of course, the sad legacy of his name, which Fresco long-maintained cursed his life.
For his 12th birthday party on July 17th, 1966, "my first grown-up party," as Fresco described it in an interview he did with Interview in 1996, the pre-pubescent Alfredo was able to plan the details himself, "within reason," he later ruefully chuckled, alluding to the iron hand wielded by his nanny at the time, Sojourner Hoyden. Having been given a set of encyclopedias the previous Christmas, Fresco was well-stocked with ideas to celebrate his birthday in style. He wanted a dinner of fettucini alfredo served outside at the backyard picnic table, to be washed down by bottles of the at-the-time new soda sensation, Fresca.
Who knows what kind of environmental allergen perfect storm got whipped up that hot afternoon, but the combination of nasty smog, a high pollen count, a rather lumpy, sitting-out-in-the-sun-too-long alfredo sauce, and, well, just plain Fresca, proved to be a too-potent mix for the young man and his admittedly sensitive constitution. To make a too-often told, rather gruesome, and only intermittently entertaining long story short, after the ensuing commotion in the Fresco backyard, fumbling-in-the-dark medical treatment to find out what had happened and why and how to fix it, which included, among other stabs, an iron lung and leeches, on his 18th birthday Al Fresco was presented with his ultimately correct, and ultimately ultimate, diagnosis: he was severely allergic to fresh air and fatally allergic to alfredo sauce. Unbelievably, he was by then also addicted to Fresca. Unbelievably but also cruelly: not only couldn't Fresco stop drinking the stuff, whose taste he despised (about the only normal thing about Al Fresco, by the way, his distaste for the taste of Fresca), but his coterie of doctors realized that the daily drownings of Fresca actually helped alleviate the noxious effects of any fresh air that seeped into Al's now carefully controlled environment. For not only was a trip outdoors right out, but an open window, a draught through a crack in the floor, a John Denver song, a guest appearance by Carol Channing on the Dinah Shore show, a Boys Life article on the money raising efforts of scouts in Topeka to help out the poor people of Bangladesh--any and all literal or figurative gusts, or even breaths, of fresh air could wreak such havoc on poor Al Fresco's health that ravenous gulps of Fresca could only band-aid, at best.
So Al was left to a life indoors, watching helplessy as his younger brother Michael took over the family's import business empire. Sensing he needed a hobby to stave off insanity, Al naturally took to painting frescoes, but his insular life had made him even more of a neurotic and he became a perfectionist with his art work. He never completed a fresco. All of them reached the point where they were "just two or three dabs" away from completion before they were abandoned. As time wore on, Al felt the need for staler air, so (not being able to smoke the things himself) he hired a chain-smoker he knew, Wes, to come to his apartment and smoke cigars and cigarettes for four hours a day. Any hopes of true companionship were scotched, though, when Wes, one week into the job, tripped over an unfinished fresco. The resultant blow to the head rendered Wes a deaf mute, but eventually he recovered enough to reclaim his job, showing up daily to smoke in silence as Al talked incessantly (Wes never bothered to learn how to read lips).
With much cajoling from his rapidly dwindling circle of friends, Al decided to take a trip for his 35th birthday (figuring that he would live until the median mortality age of 70, he thought a mid-life trip would be best). Of course for Al there was only one destination: San Francisco, Frisco. Logistical problems re fresh air exposure pushed the date of departure a few months past his actual birthday, but by late October, 1989, after having reserved a room in a most desirous musty motel room, Al made the journey from his apartment to Cleveland's airport with a paper bag over his head. After a rather uneventful flight to Oakland's airport (cheaper than flying to Frisco's) Al unfortunately was riding in a fetid cab crossing the Bay Bridge when the earthquake hit. It would be three years before Al could even look out a window again.
Since by then even scenes of fresh air made Al itch and gasp for breath, he had unplugged his TV and become dependent on the radio for his sole contact with the outside world. One evening, while fiddling up and down the dial, he came across the greatest sound he had ever heard: the voice of radio host Terry Gross. Al was instantly smitten. So unprepared in his reverie of true bliss was Al that when Terry signed off for the night with her signature, "This is Fresh Air," Al nearly died. Intrepid he proved to be, though. Braving the mine fields of Terry's siren-like "This is Fresh Air!" Al listened religiously with his hands at the ready on the sides of his head to block his ears whenever Terry wound up and started to purr, "This is--" got it in time, thank God.
In recent years, Al took to running the website oxygenisdeath.com and subsisting on Girl Scout cookies, which he bought by the truckload, froze for three years, thawed, and consumed, washing them down with the requisite flagons of Fresca he despised. The coroner has ruled his death accidental, the result of his having gone to sleep with his iPod on random shuffle and the device cruelly skipping incessantly on the phrase, "Breathe deep," from the crazy poem at the end of "Nights In White Satin" by the Moody Blues. "After five or six straight hours of subconsciously hearing that phrase," coroner Stan Pype declared, "the poor man's body just shut down." At a private service last night, Wes smoked a Cuban he had been hoarding since 1959.
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