Where were we.
Ah, yes. The miscalling. What was I thinking, I think to myself often. Well, here it is, what I was thinking, and my apologies for the personal content, but I have warned you all, many times, this is my therapy, since I can't get Harrison Ford, Jason Segel, or Jessica fucking Williams to see me, even with candy bribes.
So, once more, walk with me. Why don't I write? What threw me off course? What the hell was I thinking? I think I am repeating that last one.
It was a cold Autumn morning, back in the days of high school and worry free living, and my Portuguese language teacher, my History teacher, and my Arts teacher were all gathered at the school's cafeteria, standing by the counter, having their assorted beverages, when I came in from the misty outdoors. I looked around and sure enough, there were plenty of colleagues I knew, some were in my class. One or two waved me in to sit at their table, but I had my sights on the professors. After all, they were my favorites, and as any good student that prides himself (or herself, though less) of taunting his teachers while seemingly kissing their asses, I never missed a chance to do it. But, was I in for a ride.
"Well, Mr. Oaks. Come join us, we were just talking about you." Bulshit. They weren't fucking talking about me, they were luring me. And there I happily walked into their parlor. "Good morning, professors." I greeted as I approached, and ordered a coffee, winking at the waitress inside the counter who rolled her eyes and smiled, as she usually did whenever I winked at her. "Talking about me?" They all nodded in sync, like they had been planning that shit for ages, and finally got the opportunity to act on it. "Yes," one started, "it seems like you are getting an A from all three of us, this trimester. Hardly a surprise, I imagine." I shook my head, pretending to be genuinely shocked, "I had no idea, Sir." They smiled and another asked, "Did you pick your Faculty, yet?" Now that was a gut punch. I didn't have to fake being caught off guard, it was all over my face.
"No, professor, I have not", I said, and just like that, out of the fucking blue, the words came out of my mouth before I had the chance to stop them, "I want to fly jets, Sir." They looked at me like I had four arms and two heads, with long antlers with eyes on the extremities. "You what?" I took a deep breath, the cat was out of the bag now. "Air Force Academy, Sir. That's my pick." Now they were caught with their pants down, same as me. And there we stood for a while, our pants around our ankles, looking at each other, wondering what to say next. Finally, the waitress rescued me. "Your coffee, sweetheart." I took it, nodded to the professors and went looking for a table where I could talk about anything else, with someone else, regardless of what and who. Fuck.
Flash forward to my senior year. I was one of the school's fencing instructors, which you probably know if you read about how I was introduced to Nina Hagen, and we were taking the team to task, while waiting for a replacement Maître d'Armes since our beloved master had died in a stupid accident in Lisbon, falling down a subway escalator. Life's little tragedies. I left the training session straight for the artillery barracks where my personal coach was waiting for me. I was pressed for time but made it. He was a stiff Lieutenant-Colonel, just made out of Major. He was also my girlfriend's dad, at the time. So no crossing him. I fell into his good graces by being a fencing athlete and applying to the Air Force Academy, clearly a perfect fit for his daughter; that did not turn out so well, but I digress. I arrived on time, changed into my training gear and joined him on the track.
We did all the exercises I would be doing at the physicals in Lisbon, once I got to that part of the ingress exams. The last one that day was the pit. A five or so meter clearance jump (around 16 feet) over a deep hole with cement walls. I cleared it on the first try, landing with room to spare, and the minute I landed I heard someone laughing. Totally unrelated, probably, but as I rejoined my never to be father-in-law, he was looking at a group of soldiers nearby. He hailed one of them. "What's so funny, private?" he asked. The poor guy, and the couple of others with him, jumped to attention. "Nothing, Sir!"
I could just see it. I was standing at ease, near the man. He motioned the private to come closer, which he immediately did. "You think you can clear this pit?" The guy's eyes went big, looking inside the ditch. "Yes, Sir.", he finally let out. "Let's see it.", the man ordered. He tried. I mean, he really tried, but the minute his good foot landed before the jump I knew he wouldn't make it. He just flew into the concrete wall on the other side and landed on the bottom like a sac of potatoes. The Lieutenant-Colonel signaled the others to go help him, sending one for a medic. Then he looked at me and said, smirking, "Dumb ass. He's not laughing now."
Fast forward. Air Force Academy training facility. Lisbon. I was waiting with the other candidates for the interview, after the first round of tests. Watched them all go in, one after another, and congratulate each other as they came out, talking about the next round of tests. I was the last one, left alone. The door opened and an NCO showed up. "Oaks." I stood up and went in. There was a long table, five high ranking officers were sitting at it, the wings on their chests all I ever wanted. I stood at attention near the empty chair facing them. "Take a seat."
I did. They were looking at my file. Then the one sitting at the center, looked at me. "Mr. Oaks, there is no sugar coating this. Your psychic evaluation is pretty clear. I, and the Air Force most certainly, would never allow you to fly a combat aircraft." Was this a test? Were they trying to see my reaction? I just sat there in silence, hoping it was a fucking joke, but no. "I am sure you will be very successful in your civilian endeavors. You are dismissed." I was what, now? I don't know what got me up from that chair, but something did. "Thank you, Sir." I said. Yeah. Thank you for ruining my fucking life. And that was it.
The desert crossing started. No, I had no plan B. That was fucking it. No other Faculty lined up, no options ready. Nothing. I was staring at the void, and it was staring back at me, laughing its ass off. My professors were right. Before and after the episode I mentioned, they tried and tried to push me in the "right direction", never mind that it was really three different directions; languages, history, and arts. That didn't help. Plus I really, really wanted to fly. And when I heard those words that sealed my fate I was lost. Completely. It took me years to find myself, during which I poured my soul in black ink, over white paper. Thousands of pages in prose, verse, song, play, romance, fiction, over and over.
Ten years to finish my trilogy, that only five or six people ever read. The life and death of Fabien Jeune. All lost, except the trilogy. That, I brought with me to the new world, as my escape pod. One I am terrified to use. But use I must, and use it I will.
Flashback to a night of poetry reading. A cellar in a bar, downtown Porto, the oldest part of town, not far from the house where presumably Prince Henry, the Discoverer, was born. It was cool and filled with people, mostly women, and smoke. The smell of cigarettes, sweat, and Chanel no.5 filled the air. I was replacing the resident poet. They knew me, I was his close friend so they asked me to cover for him while he was away doing God knows what the fuck he was doing when he was not being a poet at that joint. I closed the book from which I thought I'd read from next, watched the last unknown poet from the audience step down from the "stage", which was no more than the center of the cellar with a tall stool and a flood light above it, around which the tables were set. The applause faded. I took the spotlight and looked around. There was a paper folded in my pocket. I placed Álvaro de Campos on the stool, giving up on him, and took the recently written poem out of my pocket. I had not memorized it yet. And I started reading, "Women are whores, one and all..." Did I mention the audience was mostly women?
Flash forward. I finally made it. I am a Naval Aviator. I am selected to fly with the best of the best, and sure enough, I get to cover every slot, from Seven to Solo Lead, and after a few years, even the Boss slot. What a fucking ride, pushing the envelope with my canopy a few inches away from the lead's wing tip. What a rush! I was free at last. Or was I... After a few years in the virtual Navy, trying my best to honor those who serve in real life, this dream too came to an end. And the memories of a virtual life joined the ranks of the damned, in my room, at night like they were real. Guess what. They are. Real. And I was damn good at it. But it's gone. And it's not coming back.
Flash forward. Flashback. Flash forward. I can't get a break... They are everywhere, the memories of all the different corners I never took, along with the impressions of those I did take. Years passed, and I face the demons I created on blank Moleskines, with black ink. Again. And here, where you can read me at my most vulnerable. Here where there is no place to hide. Here where shit is real. Very real. As real as it ever was. Maybe the future might still give me a chance, like George told me once, before he died. Maybe. Who the fuck knows. I look for a Lucky. Can't smoke inside. Walk is over. More to follow, perhaps. No. For sure.
Good night, and good luck.
[finis]
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