A Man Named Dave

Father as an escape from dealing with my new life as a young adult. Now with Father’s death, I had to learn to deal with myself.
    I coped with Father’s death the only way I knew how: working. I would get off work and rush to the barracks to change clothes before putting in a full shift as a short-order cook at the local Denny’s restaurant. After an eight-hour shift I would get off from Denny’s with just enough time to change back into my rumpled air force fatigues and head out to the field for a day’s work. At times I went without sleep for several days. I really didn’t care. I hated my jobs. I hated my life. After a while, when I’d sleep, I often had intense nightmares of being late for either my air force or restaurant job.
    At least now when I slept, I no longer had nightmares of Mother trying to kill me. She used to always appear in my dreams standing at the end of a hallway surrounded by a gray mist. But now as Mother moved forward to attack me, instead of fleeing, I’d march toward her, step for step. When Mother would raise the knife above her head, I would rip open my shirt and hiss, “Do it…! C’mon, do it!” The gleaming knife would remain frozen beside Mother’s red face. Stepping within inches of her, I’d whisper, “Kill me now or let me be!” Even though I was still intimidated by Mother in real life, she no longer had control of my dreams. I had been terrified for so long, yet with Father’s passing, day by day I believed I was finally releasing myself from her grasp.
    Soon I found out my squadron had been chosen to fly to Egypt and build a temporary air base. Nearly all of the four hundred men assigned to the unit were tasked for the mission. I found myself desperately wanting to be a part of the extraordinary adventure. As a low-ranking airman who had been in the squadron for less than a year I was not considered, but a major officer in charge of logistics spoke with my hardhearted supervisors to give me a chance. And they did. When I was finally selected, I was so elated that I waltzed into Denny’s, quit my job, and packed my duffel bag.
    The exercise, dubbed “Proud Phantom”, gave me a different perspective on being part of a team. As a cook in the middle of the desert, just outside Cairo, I’d work ten to twelve hours in furnace-like heat during the day, then in bone-chilling temperatures at night, without any breaks. I was proud to sweat side by side with others who also pushed themselves beyond the norm in our combined effort to achieve a military mission. Whenever I’d steal a few moments for myself, I would step outside the sweltering dark green tent and scan the skies for the vintage American F-4 Phantom fighter jets as they raced overhead, showing off to the Egyptian pilots by either making diving passes or pushing their planes through Mach 1, shaking the ground like a volcanic eruption. The shock wave would practically demolish our cooking tent, scattering pots, pans, and every other piece of equipment in every direction. During more serene times, I’d stand outside mesmerized by the streaks of powder blue and bright orange skies before the sun set beyond the brown-speckled dunes. At other times, just before dawn, when an eerie quietness filled the base camp, I’d gaze at the thin layer of fog, minutes before the rising sun, and watch as a blanket of purple evaporated the mist. Halfway across the world, it was a relief not to worry about my future or be locked away in my past. I had finally found some peace.
    Immediately upon returning from Egypt, I called Alice. Barely giving her a chance to talk, I began recalling my adventures of putting in grueling hours at the base camp, my visit to the pyramids and the sphinx, and the loads of postcards I had mailed her and Harold. Finally she broke in, telling me that my uncle Dan had passed away. Cutting the conversation short, I phoned Grandmother so I could get the telephone number of Uncle Dan’s wife, Jane. As always, I didn’t know what to expect, so I took a deep breath, waiting to see what mood she was in. I was not prepared for the frail tone of Grandmother’s voice. In all my years of knowing her, even as a child in Mother’s house, I had never heard her so vulnerable. “I am truly sorry to hear about Uncle Dan,” I gently said.
    Thousands of miles away, outside the limits of Salt Lake City, I could hear Grandmother whimper. After crying for a few minutes, her entire manner began to change. As much as I wanted to “be there” for