The Gift of Fire

by Dan Caro

  Then I headed down, back to the band waiting in the car … and toward what lay ahead.

  IN 2002, AFTER TWO YEARS AND 350 EXHAUSTING GIGS in more cities than I can remember, I figured that the road had taught me everything it could. I’d had enough of the grueling tour schedule and told the band I was going to leave as soon as they could find another drummer. Once they did, I decided to take a few months off to refuel my spirit, catch my breath, and do some reading.

  The break renewed my energy, even though I was a little nervous that I’d go broke and people would forget me if I hung low for a bit. But I wasn’t that worried. With my new in-touch-with-the-universe philosophy, I’d learned to trust that it would provide, and that my talents were going to lead me into my new life as a freelance musician.

  My trust was well founded. My phone began ringing off the hook as soon as word circulated around New Orleans that I’d left the Brotherhood of Grove and was now a free agent. It wasn’t long before I was playing regular gigs with Michael Ray & the Cosmic Krewe. Michael is a legendary trumpet player who’s toured and performed with Kool & the Gang for nearly 20 years, among many other musical milestones. So whenever Michael was in New Orleans, I’d play with the Cosmic Krewe; whenever he was away with Kool & the Gang, I was free to play with other bands all over New Orleans. It was a perfect setup for me, professionally and creatively.

  On any given night, I could be playing with a band I’d never played with before, mastering a repertoire I’d never attempted. Life as a freelancer was making me a better performer and a better musician, and for the next few years my career blossomed as it never had before. It was a challenge, but luckily, I was used to challenges.

  But the biggest challenge I have ever faced—and probably the biggest challenge anyone living in New Orleans was ever to face—was taking shape somewhere over the Bahamas. It was late August 2005, and something devastating was about to sweep through all of our lives.

  Her name was Katrina.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Winds of Change

  In the summer of 2005, I was at the top of my game professionally. I was performing regularly with a dozen different bands and filling in as a substitute drummer for several others. I had recorded with some of the best players in the industry and had established my reputation as a solid jazz musician in the birthplace of jazz itself. My music was maturing, and I felt that I was at my peak.

  The rest of my life was falling nicely into place as well: I’d purchased my own home just outside of New Orleans in Metairie, I’d made some great friends, my family was healthy, and I’d even adopted a great little mutt of a dog named Dixie. Life was good.

  And then Hurricane Katrina hit and blew my world— and the city I loved—into a million shattered pieces.

  LIKE MOST OF US WHO CALLED southeastern Louisiana our home, I had no idea what was coming at us from across the Gulf of Mexico. I’d seen plenty of big storms before, and of course the Big Easy had weathered more than its share of hurricanes. Yet no one was expecting the megakiller that smacked into Louisiana on Monday, August 29, leaving more than 1,800 people dead and destroying much of the Gulf Coast, from Florida right across to Texas.

  At first, Katrina seemed as if it was going to be like any other bad tropical storm. Then when it was upgraded to a hurricane, it was only a category 1, which is the lowest level of hurricane classification. This is really nothing to be afraid of, even when you live in a city that’s below sea level (like New Orleans). Nevertheless, something about Katrina bothered me from the start.

  Well before officials told people to evacuate, I decided to get out of town until the storm blew over. On Saturday, August 27, I called up my old high-school buddy Matt Rycyk, who’d moved to Atlanta a couple of years previously. Matt and I had remained close, and I had even been asked to stand up for him at his wedding. When he got on the phone now, it was obvious that he’d heard about the hurricane. Before I had a chance to say anything other than hello, he and his wife invited me to come to Georgia and stay with them for as long as I wanted.

  Since there was no great urgency to leave, I took my time wandering around my house. As I tried to figure out what to take with me, I realized that I’d become detached from everything I owned. They were just belongings, not what made me belong. I ultimately grabbed a change of clothes, put some bottled water and a couple of cans of food in a bag, and jumped into the car with Dixie to begin the 500-mile drive to Atlanta. That evening, I was sitting with Matt and his wife in their living room talking about old times. None of us had any idea that while we were reminiscing, Katrina was morphing into a superstorm over the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

  When I woke up the next morning—still 24 hours before it smashed into New Orleans—I found out that Katrina had been labeled a category 5 hurricane, which is as bad as it gets. It was a monster, and it was moving toward my hometown at 175 miles per hour. I got a sick feeling deep in my gut that New Orleans was doomed. Luckily, I’d spoken to my parents before I left for Georgia, and I knew they were going to stay at my brother Johnny’s house in New Iberia, a safe 150 miles west of New Orleans. I was glued to Matt’s television, waiting to see what would happen.

  When it hit New Orleans on the morning of August 29, Katrina devastated the city. I watched the TV news in horror as the tragedy unfolded—the swamped neighborhoods, the unimaginable human pain and suffering … so many terrible images. And things just got worse. It was impossible to reach anyone in New Orleans by phone, but luckily I could communicate with my family by text messaging. I thanked God that they were all safe.

  I had to stay in Atlanta for two weeks before I could finally get back to Louisiana and reunite with my family. We stayed together at Johnny’s place in New Iberia for two months, waiting and watching as the floodwater slowly receded.

  Eventually, folks were allowed to visit their abandoned homes. I was lucky in that my house in Metairie was far enough west of New Orleans not to have been flooded. However, there weren’t any basic services available, such as power or fresh water. The entire region was in chaos, a total mess.

  New Orleans would eventually dry out, but it was left in ruins. The entertainment business, for instance, had been completely wiped out; for the first time in centuries, the music of the Big Easy was silenced. Since the heart and soul of the city were gone, I decided to leave as well. What else could I do? I earned my living playing music, and virtually every musician I knew was either homeless or unemployed (or both)! My musical career in New Orleans was over for the foreseeable future, and I had to go somewhere else. But where? Where could I go and earn a living with a pair of drumsticks?

  I looked north and set my sights on New York City. After all, I thought, I know a few people there, and the city does have some of the world’s most renowned jazz clubs.

  My parents didn’t want me to move—especially my dad, who thought that the competition among drummers in New York would be brutal and the music scene impossible to break into. While I appreciated his concern, I wasn’t going to change my mind. I needed a change, and New York was it.

  I RENTED A U-HAUL AND LOADED UP MY DRUMS and a few furnishings. So many family friends had been displaced by Katrina that I didn’t even think about renting my house out. I just let whoever needed a place go ahead and use it.

  Dixie and I hit the road, leisurely zigzagging our way through the scenic countryside to our new life. I found an apartment that allowed dogs (but not drums, so I had to be sneaky) in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn, not far from the foot of the amazingly long and beautiful Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.

  New York was a whole new world and a completely different lifestyle, a huge metropolis where very few people gawked at me … or even noticed my appearance, for that matter. One of the great things about New Yorkers is that they’re not shocked by anything “different”; rather, the city embraces differences. Walking through my new neighborhood was like walking through the United Nations—it was filled with Russians, Indians, Muslims, a
nd Polish people. I was the minority, and not because I looked physically different. It was refreshing and liberating to go to the store and never be pointed at or laughed at, no matter how crowded the streets were.

  At night I’d take the subway across the East River into Manhattan. When I could afford it, I’d hang out at some of the city’s most famous jazz clubs, like the Village Vanguard, Birdland, Iridium, and the Blue Note. I became a frequent patron of several other clubs, and I began sitting in with different bands and even scoring a few of my own gigs. It was an incredibly exciting time. Even though it would be tough, I knew I’d be able to carve out a living in New York if I wanted.

  What’s interesting is that I wasn’t as obsessed with professional success as I had been earlier in my life. First of all, I didn’t have a need to prove myself on that level anymore—I knew what I was capable of and wasn’t looking for validation. But more important, Katrina had changed me. I was increasingly asking myself what my purpose was in this short time on Earth we’re all allotted. I’d worked so hard to reach the pinnacle of musical success in New Orleans, and then overnight a wind had come dancing across the water and taken it all away from me. In the end, what did my success matter? What difference did it make to anyone in this world other than me?

  There was something stirring deep within me, and I knew that I was transitioning to a new phase of my life. I took long walks along the waterfront and looked out over the harbor toward the Statue of Liberty, or across the river at the cosmopolitan beauty of the Manhattan skyline. The enormity of New York gave me an unfamiliar sense of anonymity and a great deal of time to be alone with my thoughts.

  I was able to do a lot of soul-searching during this time, spending many hours reflecting on the journey I’d begun on March 17, 1982, the day I was burned. Looking back at where I’d come from—all that I’d suffered through and accomplished—I realized that the only thing I truly owned was my unique life experience. I thought I could help others by sharing it … so I decided that’s what I’d do next.

  I was excited by the thought of telling my story to as many people as I could. Hopefully, I’d help someone else struggling with the type of challenges I’d dealt with most of my life—and perhaps I’d even be able to inspire others. Yet I had no idea how to get my story out into the world. Helping people had been my motivation when I agreed to appear on The Montel Williams Show more than a decade earlier, a show that had reached millions of viewers. But it wasn’t as though television producers were currently calling me up trying to book me as a guest.

  I told myself that maybe one day I would get that call. And if playing the drums had taught me anything, it was to practice and be ready when opportunity knocked. So I resolved to learn how to best tell my story and be ready for the day when someone asked to hear it.

  I enrolled in a workshop taught by a hugely successful public speaker and author named Steve Siebold. Talk about inspiring! After one good conversation, he told me that I should become an inspirational speaker. “Start telling your story,” he advised. “People will listen.”

  Steve was patient with me and taught me how to get to the core of what I had to say. After a few meetings, he even offered me the position of president at a local speaking club he was forming in New York City. I was hugely flattered, but I didn’t think I was ready for that kind of responsibility. I told him that I’d just keep studying the tips he’d given me. I was certain my life was changing direction, and I wanted to learn as much about public speaking as I could. More and more I was feeling the call to pass along my message of how to live life positively, no matter what the hardships were.

  It was around this time that I began thinking seriously about becoming a Shriner. This seemed like one of the best ways I could give back and repay that amazing group of people who’d taken such good care of me all those years ago. Without the Shriners, I would have died at Charity Hospital in New Orleans within a few days of my accident. Without question, they’d saved my life.

  The Shriners do a lot of good for people, but they’re mostly known for coming to the aid of kids who are hurt, suffering, and in desperate need of help. They did that for me, and I wanted to help them keep doing it for others. As it turned out, I’d soon get some firsthand experience helping others in need, experience that hit very close to home.

  THE CALL CAME LATE ONE NIGHT while I was reading in my Brooklyn apartment, and it was the kind of call no one ever wants to receive.

  When I picked up the phone, I heard the shaky and troubled voice of my father, who is not the kind of man who lets his emotions carry him away. “Danny, it’s your brother Paul,” he said. “He’s sick and needs help. Can you come home right away?”

  “What is it, Dad? What’s wrong with Paul?”

  “I can’t believe it, but it’s drugs … heroin. He’s hooked. Your mom and I are so worried, and we just don’t know what to do.”

  I tried to calm my dad down and find out what was going on with my kid brother. It turned out that Paul was another victim of Katrina—the death and devastation he’d witnessed had hit him hard, and he’d turned to hard drugs to cope. He’d been living at home, but then he drifted away from the family after the storm’s devastating aftermath. My parents had done their best to make my brother happy and keep him healthy, but they couldn’t get him off drugs. Mom and Dad had tried to reason with him, but the dope had a very strong hold on Paul.

  I knew there was no reasoning with an addict, but I also knew I had to get home to be with my little brother. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I said, knowing how much my parents loved their sons and how freaked out they must be. “Paul’s a good kid, and he’s going to be fine. Tell Mom not to worry … I’ll be home by supper tomorrow, and everything’s going to be okay.”

  The truth was that I was worried sick about Paul. I knew he was a sensitive kid, and I could only imagine how shaken up he must have been in the wake of Katrina.

  When I hung up after talking with my dad, it was nearly midnight, and I spent the rest of the night booking an early-morning flight and arranging for a friend to take care of Dixie. Soon after sunrise, I was in the air and headed back home, back to what was left of New Orleans and to my troubled family.

  I didn’t know exactly what to expect after talking to my father; I just knew I was scared. But when I got home and knocked on the guest-room door, my worst fears evaporated. Paul’s face lit up like a thousand-watt bulb as soon as he saw me, and I knew he was going to be all right. Of course, it was going to take a lot of work and a lot of love, but that’s exactly what I came to give.

  I didn’t leave my brother’s side for the next two weeks. I took him to AA meetings three times a day, for walks outside in the park to reconnect with nature, and to play basketball and go bowling. I wanted him to see what I’d learned over the years: that negative energy can be rerouted into positive activities that are physically healthy and emotionally fulfilling.

  Paul and I would talk late into the night about philosophy and spirituality because I wanted him to begin his own spiritual journey—one that was guided by light, not haunted by the darkness of drug abuse. I opened up to him about my own struggles, as well as the way Johnny V and Wolf had helped me come to understand my spirit and awaken the best parts of me.

  A couple weeks later, Paul was looking much better, so I brought him to New York for a change of scenery. I hoped that the city would be invigorating and rejuvenating for him; indeed, not long after we arrived, I could see him beginning to flourish, which made my parents ecstatic. Still, drug addiction is a serious problem, and I knew that my brother was going to need professional help to beat it permanently. A friend of mine who was a former cocaine addict suggested I take Paul to a very good rehabilitation facility in Georgia that my buddy knew about. We discussed it, and my brother agreed to go in order to put the cap on his own recovery.

  TWO YEARS AFTER KATRINA HIT, I decided to head back to Louisiana so I could be there for Paul when he returned from rehab. I promised my brother that
I’d always be there for him, and it was a promise I was going to keep.

  Today, Paul is clean and sober and thriving in a new career, and our bond is even stronger now than it was before. I’m honored that he let me help him deal with his challenges, and I hope he knows how much he helped me. Thanks to him, I knew for certain that it was time to start focusing my energies on helping others. Among other things, I did decide to become a Shriner. So when Mike Andrews, the executive vice president of Shriners International, called a few months later and asked me to become one of their ambassadors, my answer was an emphatic yes!

  The first time I’d spoken to Mike was back in 2003. He’d called me at home in New Orleans and asked if I’d be willing to be featured in a short documentary titled Without Limits, which would promote the good works of the Shriners Hospitals for Children. The filmmakers wanted to chronicle how the Shriners had helped me survive and, through countless surgeries, made it possible for me to live a relatively normal and successful life.

  Mike told me that the film would premiere at the Shriners International convention in Minneapolis that summer, and he asked if I’d speak to the audience and play the drums for them. I happily agreed to it all, telling Mike that it would be an honor to help in any way I could.

  A few weeks later, the film crew arrived at my home and spent several days shooting footage of my family and me. They even followed me to some of my gigs and filmed me playing like a madman at a jazz club in New Orleans. That July, the Shriners flew my parents and me to Minneapolis, and we watched the debut of Without Limits with thousands of Shriners from all over the world.

  As promised, I went onstage after the screening and began playing the drums. It turns out that I had to play louder than I’d ever done in any club—because in the middle of my brief set, I received the largest standing ovation of my life. After I finished, I gave a short talk about my journey from burn victim to professional musician, all thanks to the Shriners.