No Father's Son

[redsox907]

Chapter Six: Sins of the Father

Arturo Leon Orozco.

The name sat on the top of the folder, in bold print. Familiar, yet not. It was my father’s name, almost.

The Cadet Commander — Brigadier General Gregory Lengyel — stood across from me, solemn and unwavering.

I’d already been blindsided when my Cadet Colonel urgently pulled me out of Noon Meal Formation just an hour ago, with no explanation. As we approached the Harmon Hall administrative building, I was finally able to pull something out of her.

“All I can say is, you have a meeting with the Brigadier General.”

The fact she had referred to him by his official rank, and not simply as ‘the Commandant’ as we usually did, had me on edge.

And now, I stared up at that same Commander, dumbfounded.

“I...I don’t understand,” was all I could muster.

“How much do you know about your father, Armando?”

It turned out, nothing. At least, nothing true.

I slowly explained to him the details I knew about my father. His birth in Ocotlan in 1962, his job as a logistics liaison with Safran, how he met Mom in Las Cruces. The more I talked, the more they listened. Sometimes I would see the General glance over at Craig Smith, who had been introduced as the Area Defense Counsel, should I want legal representation. Why I would need any representation was a mystery to me up to that point.

I told them all I could remember about my father, the Spaceship Incident, his slow withdrawal from his already minimal inclusion in our life, ending with his disappearance. They asked a few more routine questions, mainly when the last time I’d heard from my father. Then, finally, they asked if I’d ever seen any suspicious men either before fleeing Las Cruces, or after.

Admittedly, I hadn’t thought about the meaning behind the Black SUVs in quite some time, content for them to be a distant memory in a life that already seemed like a dream. When I told them about the strange men in Las Cruces shortly after my father’s final visit, then the safe, and finally the men in Guymon, they exchanged a final glance.

“There is no easy way to say this, Armando,” sighed the General, “Your father worked for the Juarez cartel. He was murdered in March of 2005.”

He then pulled a Polaroid out of the closed folder in front of me. The same folder that bore my father’s birth name. They explained he had dropped his given surname on his falsified work visa to avoid suspicion. That was why it never flagged before, not until the SSBI triggered a security clearance check, which then triggered a hit from the FBI database.

He warned me the picture was graphic, but I insisted on seeing it anyway.

My father’s head, severed right below the Adam’s Apple. Placed on top of a safe filled with cash. I immediately thought of the safe in the house, the one we never knew was there until the two suited men were emptying it.

“They explained that from what they had gathered—noting that some details were 'too classified' to share—my father had been a key courier expert. A carryover from his time in the Guadalajara Cartel before they disbanded in the late 80s. He had begun siphoning cash on his own with an intent to buy his way into a rival cartel: La Familia Michoacán."

“Best we can figure out,” continued the General, “Is they found out and made an example out of him. My guess is that the two men you started seeing in Las Cruces? Juarez men, sent to see if you and your mother were complicit. When they found no evidence that you guys were involved, is probably when they dropped surveillance.”

I asked about Leslie, if they thought she had been connected. It seemed like a silly thing to ask, given the scope, but I couldn’t help that she was one of the first people that came to mind when I started reliving those memories.

“We don’t have any record of a Leslie Fletcher, but if she was involved and was a US Citizen?” He then raised his eyebrows, as if to say ‘your guess is as good as mine.’

Suddenly, everything made sense. The mysterious visits, popping up randomly in border towns before driving home. The money. The control. The mystery.

I thought of Mom. Broken, alone, too scared to go back to her religious family after dropping out of college.

“Did he ever love her?” I thought. “Or was she simply just an easy target?”

For that matter, did he even love me? Or was I just a convenient cover—an additional box to check when completing his cover to avoid suspicion while traveling?

I read his dossier, although much of it was redacted. Petty crime growing up in Ocotlan. Moved to Guadalajara as a teenager and quickly joined the Cartel.

How close had I come to mirroring his decisions? If we had stayed in Guymon, if I’d kept hanging out with Jorge and the gang. Would I have become just another Leon in the service of the cartel?

As I rifled through redacted pages with the broken pieces of the man I never knew, more questions than answers came to mind.

How many more families did he have as cover in different countries? Was I even his first child, or did I have siblings I’d never know about? Is this why I never felt that same warmth that I observed at Jose and Bobby’s, because he simply didn’t have it in him to give? How could you give unconditional love to a family, a son, that is merely an alibi?

A million more questions rose in the mush that had become my thought process, and I was only snapped back to consciousness when the General slid a new form across the table.

"Notice of Disenrollment from the United States Air Force Academy," read the header.

I picked it up, exchanging a confused look between Mr. Smith and the General.

“Armando, your application for the Academy contained falsified information. Part of this meeting was to determine the extent of your knowledge. By your reaction and the info you’ve given us, I don’t believe the information was maliciously falsified, you clearly did not know.

“But regardless, you cannot continue as a cadet at the Air Force Academy, effective immediately.”

“Surely I can finish out my senior season of football,” I desperately asked. “That has nothing to do with the Air Force, or their fucking rules,” I half shouted at the General, a moment I am not proud of looking back.

“No Armando. At this time we’re separating you honorably, but that’s dependent on how you continue to handle the news,” warned the General.

"You'll need to separate from the Academy immediately. Your credits may transfer to a civilian university if you choose to finish your degree elsewhere."

“Tomorrow, Coach Calhoun and the administration will put out a statement thanking you for your contributions to the Academy and the Falcon’s Football team. He’ll add a positive anecdote about you, he always does, but that will be the extent of what’s made public. Any other information you wish to share with family or friends is entirely at your discretion.”

“But these,” he added, reaching across the table and quickly grabbing the folder, “Remain here.”

Mr. Smith informed me that should I want to appeal the committee's decision, he could help me with the paperwork, but advised it would be a lost cause. I simply nodded, then shook both of their hands, thanking them for the opportunity. They were hollow words, but what else was I supposed to say? As angry as I was, they had done me no wrong. The sins of my father had stripped me of my purpose, everything I’d worked so hard for since settling in Havre.

I left the meeting in shock. Cadet Colonel Hern was still outside the door, with instructions to take me to Vanderburg Hall to gather my things. A few of my fellow Squadron Three mates shot me curious glances as I packed up. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything, not even a feeble goodbye. With the Cadet Colonel behind me, I’m sure they assumed the worst.

I didn’t care.

As I reached my car and pulled off the campus, I realized I had no idea where I was going to go.

I had a missed call from Mom. I was in the meeting during our scheduled lunch call, when we usually talked for a few minutes in between training and classes.

A sudden realization hit me. Mom knew. She had to have known. Why else would she leave at the first sign of trouble, rather than try and wait for my father?

The next name I saw on my cellphone was from Jessica. I’d nearly mustered up the courage to tell her how I really felt about her two weeks ago when we met up at Gasoline Alley. A casual Friday night that felt like a millennium ago now. But what would I say now?

“Oh, I got kicked out of the Air Force, so your Dad’s “No Military” rule doesn’t apply anymore?”

No. I couldn’t call her and tell her. I didn’t call anyone, in fact.

I took a quick two-hour pitstop at the Applebee’s, spent entirely at the bar until they cut me off from Long Island Iced Teas, before stopping at Spirit House Liquors to pick up my company for the night.

The night of August 13th, 2013, I passed out drunk on the bathroom floor of the Microtell Inn, chosen simply because it was the cheapest motel and furthest from the Academy in Colorado Springs.

I was supposed to be preparing for the season opener of my senior season against Colgate in two weeks’ time. Finishing my final exams, prepping to finish my degree before commissioning, earning my rightful place in the sky.

Instead, I was grounded. Permanently.

[Soapy]

A ten-year drunken binge.

let's get it.

[Caesar]

Getting wasted in Applebee's is nasty work, especially longer before dollar marg nights.

He also got something from passing out on the floor of a Microtell.

[djp73]

Drunk off Long Islands at an Applebees. The American dream. Was starting to think this was a flight sim chise.

[redsox907]

A ten-year drunken binge.

let's get it.

Getting wasted in Applebee's is nasty work, especially longer before dollar marg nights.

He also got something from passing out on the floor of a Microtell.

Applebee's was also the farthest establishment from the Academy

but yeah, not a good look with your duffel bag at an Applebees

Drunk off Long Islands at an Applebees. The American dream. Was starting to think this was a flight sim chise.

what more could one want?

James should take some notes

[redsox907]

Chapter Seven: Hello, Darkness

When I say that darkness was my only companion after my fall from grace, it isn’t hyperbole. Darkness is the only way to describe the haze of my memories after my first drunken night passed out on the floor at the Microtell Inn.

Mom and I had run 1,400 miles to escape my father and yet his shadow followed me still. Not only had he ruined my childhood, broken my mother, and forced us to leave the only home I’d ever known at 13, but now, he had the audacity to ruin my future as well.

The pain, anger, and shame were too close for me to see beyond my own circumstance. I had been disenrolled from the Academy, marred for life. No upstanding job would want a military reject, especially one with a cartel father and a questionable track record at this point.

At least, in my despair that was the lie I told myself. Whether I was trying to temper future expectations, or simply justify my future behavior, I couldn’t tell you. Just that in my eyes, it was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

So I coped the only way I knew how, by numbing the pain. Burning it under shots and drunken nights that blurred together, eventually making the next three years feel like an eternity spent walking underwater.

Over the next three years, I worked menial tasks around town. A few months with a moving company, a few more working nights at the same Microtell I’d passed out in, six months spraying for cockroaches around town. They all carried a common theme, quiet jobs that paid cash, with employers who didn’t ask questions, and looked the other way when I showed up drunk for work. Which happened more than I’d care to admit.

The only time I’d ever had a job that could be considered progressing towards a career was the six months I spent working at the Target Distribution Center down in Pueblo. With an hour drive from Colorado Springs, I was conscious enough about my alcohol consumption to make sure I wouldn’t get a DUI heading to work, and with the physical labor associated, I was slowly getting back into shape.

But when they approached me about a promotion to shift lead, which would require a background check to change my employment from seasonal to full-time, I simply said I would think about it. That night, I began a three-day bender, missing two scheduled shifts, before drunk calling my supervisor midway through my third missed shift and telling him I wasn’t going to be his token Mexican.

Mom kept reaching out. She never really stopped. Occasionally I answered, usually when I was too drunk to second-guess the decision, too drunk to remember the conversations. The pieces I do remember generally followed the same conversational arc. Her happy to hear my voice, followed by a recognition about my inebriated condition, then pleading for answers.

I never told her what I’d learned about my father, not wanting to know the truth. That she’d known all along and let me plow forward towards a military career foolhardily. I don’t know what hurt more; thinking she’d known the truth and never told me, or never wanting to find out—instead hearing the worry in her voice, knowing that without fleshing out that small detail, we’d never be as close again.

There was my father, still spoiling even the relationship with my mother years after his own death.

Jessica reached out too, for a while. Six months after my disenrollment, on my 22nd birthday, she sent her final message to me.

“Dear Armando,” it read, “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why you’ve suddenly stopped speaking to me, although I can assume it has something to do with your discharge. I don’t even know if this is still your number anymore. But I can’t keep talking to myself in unanswered texts. I still care for you, we all do. But it’s a two way street. If you ever want to reconnect, I’m sure you’ll be able to get ahold of me. I hope for the day to hear from you again, but I can’t spend every day checking police blotters and social media posts looking for a shred of information on the friend I once knew. Take care of yourself, Flyboy.”

Flyboy was the nickname Jessica had given me the first time we’d met, so many years ago when she shut down my advances at Gasoline Alley. Three years later, would she even recognize me?

By the time 2017 rolled around, I was simply living to drink. I worked enough to fuel my weekend binges, and since the incident with Target, stuck to my low profile, cash-paying jobs. 25 years old, broke, and now completely out of shape at 265 pounds, I was the definition of a degenerate dropout. The fact I worked just enough to keep from being homeless was the only difference between me and the men you see under the overpass. Well that, and their apparent drug use. Despite the bottom I had hit, I am proud to say I never ventured down that path.

Once in the summer of 2016, I had been doing drywall work with a group of Mexicans, fitting right in despite knowing very little Spanish—my father had forbidden Mom or me from learning, which made perfect sense now. If we had known, his cover could have been blown. One night after work they’d invited me out to a fiesta, where after a number of drinks someone produced some cocaine. My first thought was, what if this was smuggled through the same routes my father used to oversee? The thought alone was enough to sober me up, just enough to decline partaking and excusing myself from the party early. He may have ruined my life, but I wouldn’t let the men who took his place ruin it any further by fueling their drug operation.

Throughout the three years I spent spiraling, I was able to avoid running into any of the friends from my previous life. I assumed that after a year or two, they’d all moved on. Commissioned, gotten their Assignment, and were off in the skies. Jessica was still in town, although I had not heard from her since the final message she sent me in 2014 and had never reached out on my own. I was working for a moving company in the fall of 2016 and had been given the job of clearing out an old section of St. Francis Hospital. That was the only time I’d seen her since the Academy. She was working as a nurse, I assumed based on her scrubs, and was as beautiful as ever. But before she could turn and see me, I quickly hid behind the refrigerator I was helping to remove and made sure I was outside of the building loading the van, not inside, from that point forward.

“She wouldn’t even recognize you anymore,” I told myself while loading the fridge, “And even if she did, you aren’t the same person anymore. Why would she care?”

My inner monologue was quick to point out the caring and compassionate person she was underneath the beauty, but it didn’t matter. My shame had built such a protective wall around my conscious thought that I couldn’t even consider talking to her, let alone being seen.

Saturday, March 4th, 2017, was supposed to be another day spent in a drunken stupor. I’d gotten off work on Friday, cashed my paycheck, then booked it straight for the liquor store, purchasing enough to get me through the weekend without having to leave the house again. Or so I thought. I came out of my drunken stupor on the night of the 4th looking for my next drink, only to discover I’d plowed through two bottles already since the previous night.

I didn’t need any more to drink, I was already toasted from the night before. But when you’re on a binge, you’re never drunk enough. So I pulled on my coat, laced up my boots, and prepared for the quick 10-minute walk to the liquor store.

When I arrived, I didn’t notice the man at the counter. This was my spot, the place I always went, and I knew exactly where I was going. I barely glanced towards the register as I rounded the corner, not even noticing the “Welcome in!” that usually accompanied a customer’s entrance never came. I grabbed two more bottles of the Burnett’s on the bottom shelf—I wasn’t about to spend top dollar on vodka I’d be throwing up tomorrow—and turned on my heel to head to the front.

That was when I saw the man at the counter, holding a Glock 19, pointed directly at me.

“Are you fucking stupid, I said get on the fucking floor spic,” the man yelled at me, apparently not for the first time.

What proceeded was not an act of courage, more just a failure to recognize the gravity of the situation in my already drunk state.

“Listen man, I just want some booze. Rob the place or not, just let me pay first so I can get blackout drunk,” I half slurred while I began to walk towards the register.

“You got a death wish man!? GET.DOWN”

One more step. I opened my mouth once again to plead my case, then a deafening crack rang through the small store. The unmistakable sound of a gunshot—I’d shot enough guns to recognize the sound even in my haze. Then the sound of broken glass hitting the floor.

I don’t know if it was shock, the alcohol, or a combination of both, but it felt like everything was in slow motion. I looked down and saw that the Burnett’s in my hand was now in pieces on the floor. The liquid wasn’t clear vodka—it was cranberry red. Like someone had mixed a drink in my hand and I had spilled it.

Then, darkness.

[ShireNiner]

Don't give yourself PTSD here by getting shot.

[djp73]

Well that’s even a bit more rock bottom but I think this will be the catalyst for change

[Soapy]

Saturday, March 4th, 2017, was supposed to be another day spent in a drunken stupor. I’d gotten off work on Friday, cashed my paycheck, then booked it straight for the liquor store, purchasing enough to get me through the weekend without having to leave the house again.

should i be worried that this sounds like a great time

[Caesar]

Saturday, March 4th, 2017, was supposed to be another day spent in a drunken stupor. I’d gotten off work on Friday, cashed my paycheck, then booked it straight for the liquor store, purchasing enough to get me through the weekend without having to leave the house again.

should i be worried that this sounds like a great time

Go catch yourself a meeting, buddy.

Mando gotta clean himself up. Time to call up the cartel and get in the family business.