A Man Named Dave

the lives of others, like my once-upon-a-time hero … my dad.
    The more I had boasted to Father on the phone that day about my worldly plans of obtaining a degree in fire science after my initial qualification training, the more happy he seemed. His violent coughing attacks, caused by a lifetime of smoking, eased for a few moments, and his voice seemed less tense and more warm. I nearly broke down and cried after he let out a strained laugh, saying how proud he was of me. “You’re going to make good, Tiger. You’ll be fine.” I clutched the phone with both hands and pressed it against my ear at the mention of the word “Tiger.” As a young boy, before my world had turned black, the highest compliment Father could pay his adoring children was the word Tiger. After I hung up the phone, I stood mesmerized. After all these years Father had still remembered a single precious word. I felt from the bottom of my soul how desperately I craved to someday make both Mother and Father proud. But more so, I had hoped that by becoming a fireman, I would somehow ease the loneliness and pain I felt that Father had lived with every day – because of a son, a wife, and a family he could not, would not save.
    I swallowed my dreams and my dignity and focused on applying myself as best as I could. Because of my years of working in various fast-food chains, I found the training classes boring. I blazed through the study materials while maintaining a near perfect score, and my hands-on skills surpassed the entire class. Whereas some of my peers would haphazardly throw their meals together, I would analyze every measurement, every ingredient, then time each move of whatever I was assigned to prepare for that particular shift. No matter what I cooked – a fluffy omelet with cheese oozing from both ends, perfectly crisp vegetables, or BBQ ribs that melted in one’s mouth – I felt I had somehow prepared the perfect entree, and I surged with pride whenever my instructor, or anyone who came through the food line, especially an air crew member, threw me a compliment for my efforts.
    During my off-duty hours, while most of my classmates partied at the Airman’s Club, I maintained my vow of pinching pennies and stayed in the barracks. I buried myself in books about the history of the air force or adventures of combat flying. I soon became addicted and began to build my own aeronautical library, one book at a time. Every payday I would retrieve my crumpled shopping list of specific planes that, to me, had changed the course of history. I soon became a walking encyclopedia, and I wished that someday I, too, could make a difference in my new world of flight.
    No matter what time of day or night, whenever I thought my mind would explode from the constant studying, I’d take long walks around the base. I would go to my postal box with my eyes widened. I would utter a quick prayer before speed-dialing the combination. At times I would become so frantic that I would spin past my number, and have to clasp the fingers of my right hand together to keep them from shaking. But even before I flipped open the box, I knew the outcome. It got to the point that I’d shrug my shoulders as if I didn’t care. Just as I had years ago in Mother’s house, in order to protect myself I’d turn off my emotions and remain tough inside. So I’d simply take a few laps around the air base and return three or four more times, hoping that someone from the post office had made a mistake, found my misplaced letter on the floor, and stuffed it in that precious box. For the most part I’d become numb, for I’d know that tomorrow was another day.
    One day during my lunch break, I decided not to check my box. I dared myself to stroll past without giving it a thought. The disappointment had become too much. I got only as far as five feet before I spun around and hurried back. Seconds later my fingers trembled as I pulled out a crumpled, soiled letter. With my mouth gaping open, I focused on the childish scribbling. My heart raced as I tore open the envelope. I impatiently scanned the length of the paper but lost my grip, then stood paralyzed as I watched it flutter to the floor. The distinctive penmanship belonged to Father.
    From behind, a friend woke me from my trance when he bent down and picked up my letter. “What’s wrong?”
    I took forever to form the words. “My … ah, my dad … he’s not doing too well.”
    My friend shook his head. “Hey, man, don’t sweat it. Parents they get