Chapter 9 - Going Back to Normal?

                                                                

     

On Sunday the 26th of February, shortly after lunch, I wrote the last word of the letter. This wasn’t just any ordinary letter. The letter was twenty pages long, an 18,000-word large document summarizing my life, my opinion on today’s world, my beliefs and feelings. 

“Perfect timing,” I thought. “My wife and kids will be here this evening. Tomorrow is another day and my brain is fried, I’ll do the final review tomorrow.”                    

I was excited about the accomplishment and prepared for the second tennis match of the season, scheduled in the evening at Loch Highland subdivision, not too far from my house. The right hand was still bothering me but I was able to warm up the wrist to play the whole game. It was a good game overall. My opponent, Paul, was friendly, positive, and didn’t care if he won or lost. What a difference compared to Matt. We talked about our jobs. Paul was an IT expert, and I told him a few stories about indirect tax. I couldn’t help but share my grievances regarding the big four accounting firms.

“I heard conversation about tax. Hi, I am Matt. I used to work for PWC, corporate tax,” said a young-looking man playing tennis on the adjacent court.

Matt was about my age, resembling Mark Zuckerberg to a certain extent.

“You used to? I guess the so-called work/life balance failed to materialize,” I answered, and we both laughed.

“I left the CPA firm to work for the industry and what a difference. I am much happier when it comes to work/life balance,” he said.

We talked some more between sets and I asked, “Do you know Corey Self? He is one of the founders of City of Brookhaven. He used to work for PWC tax in the early 2000s. I used to work with him at PulteGroup. What a great guy with an impressive personality.”

“I never met Corey in person, but heard about him. I started after he left,” Matt said, and continued to play.

I couldn’t help but think about Leah, how much I missed her from time to time. I hoped Corey was taking good care of her. He did an amazing job flirting with her, something I wasn’t able to do at that time.

​

What an incredible feeling when I arrived home, opened the door leading to the living room and both daughters jumped into my arms. It had been three weeks since I kissed and hugged my beloved children. That was a long time, especially at this early age of three and seven, they changed so much and appeared sort of taller than in my memory. Romana said “Hi” and told me to move to a different bedroom and abruptly ended the discussion.

The next day, on Monday morning, I had an early breakfast with the family before Teresa had to catch a school bus. Romana gave me a list of projects to be completed that week: file 2016 income taxes, find a job, patch drywall in the kitchen and Teresa’s bedroom, which became my bedroom as of yesterday. To get her off my back, I agreed to everything she said and added another project myself: to seal leaking holding tank of the backyard water fountain. My priorities were somewhere else – to finalize and send the letter to Ronnee. I wasn’t sure how to send the letter. It could have been easily intercepted if sent via email or directly to her at work.

“For all I know the NSA, together with Argos, are monitoring Ronnee twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, waiting for me to make a move. Even if she isn’t monitored this closely, her boss, Mark, may open the letter. Jessica is the perfect person to receive the letter. She is Ronnee’s friend and doesn’t have a boss that is constantly breathing over her shoulders.”

I made up my mind and decided to mail the letter to Jessica. The return address presented a small challenge. I didn’t want the letter to fall into the wrong hands, in case it wasn’t delivered. Quality Care for Children was the perfect return address, since Jessica was on the Board of Trustees and would eventually receive the letter, in case it was returned. The projects and finishing the letter were postponed, spending time with the kids became the priority for the rest of the day.

In the afternoon, we went to East Cobb Park where there is always so much to do, like playing at the playground or walking the trails. Upon our return, we had more fun together until Romana called us to eat dinner. The kids have all kinds of toys: endless amounts of dolls, dishes, puppets, cars, airplanes, Lego, you name it. Playing soccer inside was also a lot of fun, since there is plenty of room to build a “soccer field”; the second living room with adjacent formal dining room was converted into one large play area shortly after we moved to the house.

“Formal dining room, you never use it unless there are guests. It’s a waste of space, so let’s convert it to something we can use every day,” Romana said back in 2015.

I couldn’t agree more and replied, “Teresa and Julia would sure appreciate a large playground. They can’t run around the town the way we used to when we were little.”

After dinner, I drove to the nearby Walmart to buy large envelopes, return address stickers, blank printer paper and a stapler. It became impossible to concentrate and efficiently select the products, a chilly reminder of when I purchased the watch. I stopped comparing the products, quickly grabbed one of everything and walked to the cashier. Aviation noises, the same noises I heard so often before I went to jail and hospital, were audible during my drive home. I didn’t know, I didn’t want to know what was going on anymore. I went to speak with my children as soon as I entered the house and ignored the noises until they had finally subsided.

​

It appeared this was going to be a long evening before my mind and body would be able to fall asleep regardless of thoughts, exhausted to just the right level.

“Why not watch some old movies? Something that always made me relaxed and feel good, something I haven’t seen in a while,” I thought. I went to the laundry and found an original bundle collection of Schwarzenegger DVD movies: Commando, Predator, The Running Man, and Total Recall, purchased in 1998.

I lay in my bed, turned on the computer and inserted the DVD of The Running Man (1987) movie. A strange desire to be totally disconnected from the outside world entered my mind. Oddly enough, I thought this was necessary to fully enjoy the movie, filmed exactly thirty years ago.

“I am most definitely being monitored at this moment,” was my reasoning.

I disconnected the computer from the internet.

The more I watched the movie, the more different it was when compared to the last time I saw it, back in 1998. There were many instances combined with inner thoughts; somehow the movie fitted perfectly into the puzzle of my whole life, the recent experiences, my knowledge and beliefs of the current world and my love for the four women.

“Is this why I watched the movie endlessly, once a day for several weeks, when living behind the Iron Curtain? Was the mind of the ten-year-old boy trying to decode hidden messages, the messages which only now I’m able to see?”

I didn’t know what to think or what to do at that point, more information was needed to confirm my suspicions. I was, however, able to fall asleep peacefully that night.

The next morning, I reviewed the letter for the last time and attached a handwritten note for Jessica, asking her to give the letter to Ronnee and meet me for a cup of coffee. I chose the UPS store on Delk Road over a US post office because both the mail to and return addressees were going to be printed on the envelope by the UPS store, thus avoiding any handwriting whatsoever which could be recognized by Argos employees, especially by mailroom person Steve, who knew my distinct/ugly handwriting very well. I entered the UPS store and there was no one there except for a man; an employee standing behind the counter. I was given an envelope to place the letter in. The background music changed to classical as I was walking back toward the counter to mail the letter “certified.” The payment was processed and the receipt with the tracking number given to me for my records. I turned around and there was a line of at least ten people who were smiling directly to my face, standing in total silence. It felt awkward.

“Who are all these people that appeared in the store like ghosts? I hope this is not some sort of warning sign given to me by the intelligence agency.”

Emotionless a person has to be to play this game right. I looked down, walked out of the store and drove to the LA Fitness gym on Roswell Road.

​

Memories of the gym and restaurant

At the gym, lack of energy, combined with facial pains, arm pains and the wrong state of mind, prevented me from having a decent workout. I lifted some light weights but mostly daydreamed. The normal workout routine consisted of three, two-hour sessions per week; thirty minutes cardio on each day, chest/biceps/triceps on Wednesday night, back/shoulders on Saturday morning and legs on Sunday morning. This was a far cry from the late 1990s/early 2000s when I worked out five to six times per week and concentrated on smaller muscle groups. Being single and the atmosphere of the old gym, Main Event Fitness, made the rigorous workout routine possible.

Back in those days, thanks to my favorite “healthy sounding” energy drink, Thermo Hydroxadrine, a person could have a great workout even when dead tired. On many occasions I walked into the gym tired, barely able to walk after working a double shift at Houston’s restaurant the day before, bought the drink and sat on a couch for twenty minutes. What an out of this world feeling when the ephedrine alkaloids expanded the sockets in my lungs and supercharged the lungs to allow much higher air intake per breath. I was able to lift the whole gym at that point.

“Drugs, don’t drink this!” George Hyder, who was the head of Steel Ballet fitness program, warned me on multiple occasions while I was consuming the energy drink.

“OK, George, I won’t next time,” I answered, to get him off my back while entirely dismissing his advice in my mind. “Look who’s talking, an ex-steroid user.”

Many times, George said how much he regrets taking steroids in his early twenties. “Joseph, even if you do a couple of cycles it will stay with you for the rest of your life. Your body will rot from inside out.”

George passed away in January 2001, at age thirty-seven, due to multiple organ failure. My worst nightmare became reality; a seemingly healthy, well-built individual I talked with almost daily, with no warnings, forever disappeared from everyone’s life. My last memory of George was him training a person, standing and facing a pulldown machine. He was gone the next day. George, his achievements, and later his spirit, became an inseparable part of MEF. People missed and talked about him for years, until the gym closed. There were other interesting people attending the club:

 

1. A person wearing a mask and plastic clothes, throwing away the gear after each workout.

2. Toothpick Rambo; a gentleman in mid-thirties wearing a camouflage bandana, white tank top and really tight shorts. He looked into a mirror after each set while performing one of the following: flexed his biceps or moved pecs up and down – one at a time or moved his butt cheeks up and down – one at a time. He frequently ran on the sidewalks of Powers Ferry Road, wearing his uniform and boxing like Rocky.

3. The Heavy Guys; a couple of well-built males lifting only very heavy weights; moving the free weights two to four inches per repetition, thinking it is the perfect workout.

 

To drop the weight to the floor and scream as loud as possible after each set was the zenith of a workout for many bodybuilders and wrestlers. Many times, the whole upper floor of the gym shook when dumbbells weighting 200 pounds or more were dropped to the floor. MEF was the only gym in Atlanta and probably the whole US where this behavior wasn’t against the rules. I asked at other gyms about the rule and always received the same answer; the average people and especially women feel intimidated by the noises. I’ve never seen any women that were intimidated. On the other hand, MEF was no average gym, that was for sure. To see Lex Luger warm up; bench press 315 pounds, 18 times, on his first set was intimidating enough for me to stay in reality and warm up with my usual 135 pounds. Who wouldn’t know the owner, Lex? He talked to everybody at the gym regardless of background. On one occasion I waited on him at Houston’s restaurant, located right across the street from the gym. Lex and his girlfriend, Ms. Elizabeth, were sitting at a four-top table, at the far corner of the restaurant.

We were talking about the usual everyday events but I couldn’t help myself, I had to tell him, “The other day I measured the diameter of my arm, it’s seventeen inches!” I was excited and proud of the achievement.

“That’s great, Joseph, most people don’t come even close,” he said, as they both smiled directly into my eyes.

This comment made me feel really good because it came from the person who knew very well how much effort is needed to achieve something like that.

“And I did it without steroids,” I replied.

​

While going through the light workout routine at LA Fitness, my thoughts then shifted to memories of Houston’s restaurant. In 1998, I walked into the restaurant in the middle of a lunch rush hour and asked for a manager. I introduced myself, said a couple sentences about my restaurant experience and asked about open wait-staff positions.

“I am really busy as you can see. You are hired, come back tomorrow to speak with the assistant GM. His name is Joe,” said a gorgeous, classy young woman named Summer, and that was the end of the interview.

Summer was a great manager, fair to everyone but tough if you didn’t do your job 100%. On one occasion, I forgot to “manicure” a table – to take an empty sugar package from a guest’s table – and she immediately took me to the “Hobart” (back of the restaurant) area and tore me apart.

After her motivational speech she said, “Joseph, you have a heart.”

I had no idea why she made the statement and have been puzzled by it ever since. I am able to picture the moment and see Summer in front of my eyes making that statement like it happened yesterday. The place refused to carry any of the mainstream beers, such as Budweiser or Miller Light. The owner, George Biel, wanted to offer his customers a different experience when it came to beer. This was great and as a result the restaurant offered my favorite beer, Pilsner Urquell. Lex was a regular customer and made several requests for the restaurant to carry his favorite beer, Coors Light. One day, after many countless and unsuccessful Coors Light requests, he lost it. Lex got up from the table and walked towards the open grill/kitchen area and screamed at the manager in such a way the whole restaurant heard him: “I don’t care the owner doesn’t like Coors Light. I am the customer and not him! Next time I come back, you better have Coors Light!!!”

I’ve never seen anybody that pissed off over a beer. Maybe he had a bad day or forgot to take his dose of pain pills and roids, or was just upset when he realized that a “wall” not a person was listening to him every time he made the request. Anyway, the point was made and going forward, the managers always had a case of Coors Light hidden in a walk-in cooler in case of the arrival of this “special guest.”

For a waiter like myself, the restaurant business was a hit or miss lottery of guests from different backgrounds. The salary was $2.30 per hour, just enough to pay the taxes. Our livelihood depended on a mixture of guests of four different tipping categories:

 

1. Above average; 20% +

2. Average; 14% to 19%

3. Below average; 6% to 13%

4. Way below average; 0% to 5%

 

Given great consistent food and service, experienced waiters knew how to accurately categorize their guests upon arrival to the restaurant. All sorts of direct and indirect signs were used to read customers’ minds; wardrobe/appearance, age, sex, race, educational level, nationality, and accent. Most people tipped average. Many business people and regulars tipped above average. Most rednecks, foreigners, and uneducated people tipped below average.

There was one category of guests that all servers, regardless of race and background, feared like the Devil of the crucifix. They required the most maintenance and almost always tipped way below average. These guests usually arrived late at night, shortly before closing time. They wore lots of gold jewelry, sunglasses, baggy pants, and a FUBU jersey. We called them the “Fucked Up Black Underachievers.” It appeared many of them thought they were entitled to a free meal with service. On many occasions, they drank Hennessy cognac, Heineken using a straw and unusually sweet alcoholic beverages.

“I have to go back and cut down a fruit tree to make this Pina Mulata and Frozen Strawberry Blackuiri,” I joked with my buddy Brant, who was also my workout partner, and other servers on many occasions.

The food ordered by this group consisted mostly of well-done or fried extra-crispy protein, with extra sauces and extra-crispy fries with extra ketchup. Even the water had to have a straw, extra lemon or extra maraschino cherries with extra grenadine.

“It always takes so long to correctly enter these orders,” I complained to Brant while he was standing next to me, entering his order into the system.

“No kidding, there should be one key, the special guest key, making everything extra-crispy and adding extra sauces,” he said, and we both laughed.

On one night, my friend, a server named Gary, had his section full of the late-night arrivals.

“You have the real winners tonight,” I said to Gary, and laughed at his face while rolling silverware.

“Joseph, don’t even go there. I’m so ashamed of my people,” he answered, while making his drinks, then walked away in a not so good mood. This was a strange comment.

“Are they not tipping on purpose, or due to lack of education? Maybe they’re thinking this behavior could somehow make up for all the injustices that happened to their people during the past 400 years.” I tried to figure out the right reason.

​

I was almost fired for reading guests more than I should. A server named Rizwan complained to manager Margie that I refused to serve his six guests sitting next to my seven guests because of racial reasons. Due to lack of extra-large tables, the party of thirteen had to split between two different tables. This was during a short period of time when the restaurant didn’t allow servers to enter an automatic 18% gratuity to parties of five or more guests. Since servers had to pay 2% of gross sales (tip-share) back to the house, I didn’t want to work for free and refused to swap tables.

“Riz, you take care of your part of the group and enjoy it,” I said.

Margie called me to the office shortly after. “We are a place of business and serve all guests. With these skills you should be working for the Third Reich and not here. I am not firing you, but don’t let this happen again!” she said.

“It’s a party of thirteen and I can’t give them good service. I have two other tables as well. Riz tried to give me the table because he didn’t want to take care of them,” was my justification of the situation.

       I was lucky, Margie was a woman who took it easy on me and gave me a break. The wait staff made fun of me for months due to the fact Margie recommended the Third Reich as my next place of employment. I never figured out why Riz complained, especially since we were laughing at each other’s tables on almost a daily basis. In a few days, we became friends again and continued to laugh at each other’s guests until I left the restaurant in 2004.

​

As mentioned earlier, the servers were from different backgrounds, including LGBT. I had made fun of gay guys since about the age of seven, but never made fun of lesbians because I viewed the idea as sort of hot. The pleasant thought of two or more women playing with each other always made me kind of excited. The longer I worked at the restaurant, the more I became accustomed to the idea that gay guys are normal, no different than the rest of us human beings. They looked the same, talked the same (except for one girlish guy), had the same feelings and behaved the same way as me. To certain extent, I even flirted with a couple gay guys at work; to keep them in suspense – them not knowing if I was straight, bisexual or just curious was the excitement this game provided for me.

“Come on, guys, give me a break, I would never do anything like that. I am straight as can be,” I said, to cool them off when the game became too hot for my standards.

“Straight as can be? Yeah right. Straight to bed, that’s what you are,” a person named Erik answered.

There were two people, Juan and Charles, who stood apart from the usual crowd. The couple adopted a baby boy via private adoption. For years, Juan told me how difficult a time the State of Georgia gave them because of the adoption.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, the government here is making our lives miserable because we’re gay and adopted a child. We wasted tens of thousands of dollars on legal fees and there’s no end in sight. We’ll have to move away, probably to Florida, to live a normal life.”

Many times, Juan, Charles, and their son came to the restaurant to eat. The smiling and talkative little boy was always hugged and kissed by the loving parents. It appeared he was loved beyond imagination. At that moment, I realized it doesn’t matter if a child grows up with mom/dad, or mom/mom, or dad/dad, as long as the child is loved and has a happy childhood. The little boy was surely better off growing up with Juan and Charles instead of in some government institution.

​

There was one more story that came to my mind before the workout was finished. After about a year, I moved up in seniority and didn’t have to work lunch shifts any longer. The lunch shifts were always hit or miss; a server made anywhere between $25 to $90 working on weekdays between 10.30 a.m. and 2.30 p.m. It all depended on how fast the tables turned. An unlucky server had the table section full of female secretaries who were drinking chamomile hot teas, eating grilled chicken salads dry, with dressing on the side, and were yapping about bullshit for hours at a time. No wonder I didn’t want to work anymore lunch shifts unless absolutely necessary. Oddly, I kept being asked to work the lunch shifts by the same group of people, usually girls, over and over again.

My answer was always the same, “No, I can’t work the lunch shift.”

A pretty, young, and persistent girl then asked again, “Come on Joseph, work for me. You have nothing to do anyway.”

“I am busy, I can’t do it,” I answered.

“What are you going to do that’s so important that you can’t work for me?” she asked, clearly to irritate me.

“Gym, bike, pool,” I snapped back at her.

“What do you mean by gym, bike, pool? Come on, work for me,” she asked again.

At that point I gave up and told her everything. “Let me explain something to you. I get up at 9 a.m. and go to the gym. I eat lunch around 12.30 p.m. After lunch, I ride my bicycle at Chattahoochee River. At 3 p.m., I go to the pool to work on my tan and at 4.20 p.m., I have to be at work. So, you see? I can’t work for you because it would mess up my workout routine.”

“You are such an asshole, screw you!” was the typical answer received after the thorough explanation.

“Well, if you really mean what you just said, you don’t have to tell me twice,” I said, and smiled into her face.

At that point the girl clearly received the message and walked away without saying another word.

About two weeks later, she asked the same question again.

“Sorry, can’t do it, gym, bike, pool!” I quickly answered, without pausing my walk, without looking into her face, just laughed loudly as I was walking away leaving her standing in front of the salad area in total shock, with her mouth partially open. I learned to appreciate this type of work/life balance while working at KPMG.

​

Daydreaming was over

After almost two hours, I left the LA Fitness club, not remembering most of the repetitions performed. The stories of my past life combined with music played on Pandora kept my mind occupied and away from the gym. At home, there was a flyer attached to a white magnetic board nailed to a wall close to the kitchen table. The yellow flyer displayed a fundraising event organized by the Chick-fil-A restaurant for Taylor, a little girl who suffered brain injury due to a car accident. My daughter Teresa was the same age as Taylor and attended the same school, East Valley Elementary. The fundraiser was going to be good lesson for my daughters, especially for Teresa.

“Girls, let’s go to Chick-fil-A and make a donation for this girl who is really sick. Anybody’s life can change in a few seconds. You should enjoy every day as much as you can,” I said, and they were both looking at me, requiring additional information so their small brains could process the meaning of what was said.

“Is she going to be healthy, why is she sick?” Teresa asked.

I explained the situation in more detail and we drove to the Chick-fil-A store located on Roswell Road, about two miles from the house.

“Here is $20, put it in the collection box,” I said to Teresa as we were entering the store.

The place was really busy, tables were full and about eight people were waiting on the right side of the cash registers for the food to be ready. The famous Chick-fil-A cow mascot was playing with the countless small children running around the store.

“Where can we place the donation for the Taylor Grace Fundraiser?” I asked the cashier when our time had come to place the order.

“We don’t accept cash donations, you have to buy the food in order to contribute,” the cashier answered.

I was stunned by the answer and asked, “What percentage of sales is going towards the cause?”

I don’t know,” she replied.

“You don’t know? Can you please find out for me?”

She went and talked to some person who appeared to be her boss and came right back. “We will give away 10% to the cause,” she said.

“That’s it, you will only give out 10% of the sales?” I asked and placed an order worth almost $13. “Out of the $20 dollars I originally wanted to give to the cause, the little girl will only receive $1.30. This can’t be right. This corporation always presents itself as the pillar of the community. It has to be a mistake. They can’t be this greedy.”

While we waited for the food, I reasoned why the percentage was this ridiculously low, then walked back toward the cash registers and asked a person who appeared to be the manager.

“I heard you are only going to give out 10% of gross sales to tonight’s fundraiser,” I said, looked into her face and maintained a certain facial expression that demanded the truthful answer.

The young blonde lady who happened to be the marketing director stopped smiling and gave me the “What the fuck?” look, and answered, “It’s 14%, but if you spend more than $15 per order, we will give out 20%.”

“Really? Can I verify this on your website?” I asked, refusing to move an inch.

“It’s not on our website,” she said.

I persisted and asked another question. “Are you going to post the percentage of sales and the donated amount on your website?”

“We don’t post the percentage of sales anywhere, but I will post the donated amount within a couple days,” she said.

The kids and I sat at the only open table to eat our dinner, consisting of two chicken sandwiches, fries, fruit cup and a drink. I went on the store website to see where the dollar amounts from the past fundraisers were posted. I didn’t find the information or anything about past fundraising events. The current February 28th fundraiser was not even posted on the calendar where other events were listed. Something about this whole situation didn’t seem right.

“Why do you need a marketing person at a fundraising event? Why don’t you have the event listed on your calendar? As an organizer of this charitable event, don’t you want to raise as much money as possible to help this little girl, who is almost brain dead?”

I became sick to my stomach, unable to eat any more food. Evidently, the store didn’t give a shit about the little girl’s health, she was just being used as another marketing tool to generate sales. That’s why there was a marketing person present at the so-called fundraiser and the store employees gave me conflicting information. Flyers of the child’s photograph were distributed outside, away from the store, but there was nothing inside the store to remind people there was a fundraiser going on. I left the place disgusted, without saying a word to my little girls.

The next day, Romana and I drove to Buckhead to see our marriage therapist, Mr. Milton S. Gay. She quickly looked into my face with a slight smirk, started to talk, and kept talking most of the session, blaming everything on me and unwilling to give me another chance to save our marriage.

“If you can’t move beyond the past events and are unable to give him another chance, there is no point in me continuing to be your therapist. Is that what you want?” he asked.

Romana, without any hesitation, said, “Yes, the marriage is over. I don’t want to give him any more chances. He deserted us by travelling to Europe and broke his promise by extending the stay another week.”

Mr. Milton and I looked at each other and then both looked at Romana. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t give me another chance.

“It appears the intelligence agency forced her to do this, to divorce me, to kick me out of the house. Once I live alone, I could easily be kidnapped.” I figured out the answer but remained calm, as usual, and didn’t ask any unnecessary questions.

​

Later in the afternoon my health symptoms started to worsen. Facial and chest pains made completing any of the projects impossible. I had to lie down several times per day and take naps for the symptoms to decrease. (This continued sporadically until around the middle of April.) Driving the Nissan Leaf made me feel even worse, so I drove the Highlander as much as possible. In the mornings, my problems resumed again. I had a very difficult time making any kind of decision, including the most miniscule ones: “Should I make toast or eat the bread plain? Should I put cream cheese on the bread? If yes, how much? Oh, I forgot to make a coffee. How strong and how much should I make?”

It took way longer than usual to finally calm down and eat a meal in peace. My eyes were hurting and dilating sporadically. Throughout the day, I kept moving around and worked on the different projects, but was unable to finish any of them. On many occasions, I couldn’t remember what I did a couple hours ago.

I also played with my children quite a lot. Our favorite activity was playing soccer with a large inflatable plastic ball. At certain times, it appeared the ball was moving slower than normal, changing directions in a way considered impossible. It literally felt like being in a video game, some sort of twilight zone. My abilities to kick and throw the ball with both feet and hands improved dramatically.

“I had no idea I was ever this good. What happened to me in the jail? Did my brain somehow get rewired to have this ability?” I thought.

I was even able to play with and juggle two balls simultaneously. I became anxious and didn’t say anything to my wife and kids. The kids had a great time and laughed when the tricks were performed. I, however, never performed this in front of Romana, thinking she would give me up in case of ever being placed under a lie detector.

​

On most evenings, Teresa and Julia both wanted me to read them books, different books to be read at the same time. Having two heads to accommodate the request would have been nice but that never happened. After a ten-minute explanation and back and forth arguing, the girls realized they would have to compromise. They were taught from early childhood to share, respect, and love each other. One day their parents will rest in peace, gone forever except in their memories. They will only have each other to depend on and ask for help.         

After Julia and Teresa fell asleep, I departed to my new, much smaller, but cozy bedroom. I had all the time in the world to see some of the DVDs my dad gave me. To watch the endless struggle of Václav Havel was the topic of several different recordings. Throughout his life, he always stood apart from the crowd, tried to solve all the problems the society was facing with love and respect for other people, including the Communist oppressors. In one instance, he helped the secret police agents that followed him twenty-four hours a day to dig out their vehicle that was stuck in a ditch, buried in snow.

Havel explained the situation: “People in the mountains always have to help each other, no matter what. I left the cottage, walked to the car and offered assistance to get them out of the ditch. The three of us were eventually able to get the car back on the road.”

I remembered seeing a political campaign billboard with a large heart printed under Havel’s initials. During his life, he was ridiculed by many people in Czechoslovakia for using too much love to solve problems. Somehow, he figured out this was the only way to heal the world, to solve all the problems the country and humanity was facing.

“How is this possible? Maybe, early in his life, someone taught him to think logically on his own, to figure things out on his own, to be able to strip away all the endless bullshit filters and to see the world the way it really is, the real world facing self-destruction in the near future.” I thought of this as the only logical explanation for his actions.

​

When watching the documentaries became too much for my brain to handle, I switched to the Schwarzenegger action bundle set and watched Total Recall (1990). This movie also perfectly fitted into my current life. Someone was able to erase Doug’s (Schwarzenegger) memories and implant a whole new identity into his mind. This fitted the “Reality TV game show” scenario perfectly.

“Is this another clue given to me by the producers, to tell me that I am being correct regarding the game show scenario?”

My mind became confused, tired, and unable to figure anything out. Not to think, to forget and fall asleep was the solution to escape the reality.                                            

On the evening of March 2nd, I finally had a chance to sit down and find out more about Eduard Albert (Billy) Meier, the Swiss man I read about more than twenty years ago. Times have really changed for the better. There was so much information available on the internet, way more information than any single book could handle. Bill is an interesting individual; he lived in many different countries, worked hundreds of different jobs and all his life remained dedicated to his cause, to warn humanity about upcoming dangers. As a young man he accidently lost his left arm, but remained positive and able to overcome life’s difficulties.

               

The next morning, on Friday, March 3rd, I had a meeting scheduled with a person named Fareed to remodel apartments in College Park. I had a suspicion the money would not be great, but drove there anyway since I was just starting the business and needed the work. Also, Fareed was the only person that paid me back in 2007, when most builders stopped paying their sub-contractors. He actually called out of the blue, after we had not spoken for ten years, and informed me about the upcoming project. Fareed reminded me of the last project I did for him; installing trim in a Muslim mosque located on Hank Aaron Drive in downtown Atlanta.

I drove the Mercedes to the meeting and was stopped by a police officer at the gates of the run-down apartment complex on Washington Road.

“What’s up with all this security? It looks like I’m entering a military compound,” I said to the officer, who smiled and replied, “The complex is partially empty and has to be protected.”

Fareed looked different, sort of older than the last time I saw him. He and his friend showed me the building I might potentially renovate. I drove home shortly after.

​

Coincidently, this was also the day of the long-awaited Snapchat IPO, offered at $17.00 per share. Unfortunately, I couldn’t place a “to buy” order the day before since the stock was not yet available to the public. Shortly before 9.30 a.m., I messaged Marcel Peter and asked him about the stock.

The reply was soon received, “I wouldn’t touch it unless it was less than $15.00 per share.” 

I disregarded his opinion and wanted to purchase ten thousand dollars’ worth of the stock at $17.50 per share, but was unable to do so even when the market opened. The same reason appeared on my phone screen; the stock is not yet available for trade at secondary markets. I was upset. “What secondary market, this is AMEX, right? Oh, you mean the market for the average people, the small investors.”

The stock remained unavailable to ordinary AMEX investors for about two hours and finally went on sale for $22.30 – screw this price. I refused to buy a single share. “What a scam the IPOs are; for the first two hours the stock wasn’t available to the general public but only to a selected few entities predetermined to make a killing that day. This is what I call pure capitalism; the rules of the game are made by the rich for the rich to get richer, while the others are forced to sit, wait, and smile while this bullshit is going on right in front of their faces.”

I was driving home, analyzed the situation and became tired and irritated the more I thought about it. Lunch tasted great, to fall asleep with a full stomach felt even better.          

I woke up and drove to Cumberland Mall, located not too far from the house, to make my appointment with an eye doctor at Visionworks and to pick up a gold bracelet my grandmother gave me in 1998, when I first visited the Czech Republic. I almost lost the bracelet in the early 2000s when it opened and fell from my arm. It has been in a drawer ever since, forgotten, collecting dust. About a week ago, after shopping around for the best price and the type of repair, I dropped off the bracelet at Helzberg Diamonds. At Visionworks, a young, pretty girl in mid-twenties, wearing glasses, took my personal information so the eye exam could begin. The doctor tested both eyes by placing different types of lenses in front of each eye and asking me how I could see. I remembered the enhanced vision experienced multiple times in the past month and became afraid, not knowing how to react.

“Should I really tell her truthfully how I see? If the tests reveal the enhanced vision ability, the NSA will definitely perform medical experiments on my eyes. The Bush administration already sold the idea to the public; it’s OK to torture other human beings in the name of national security,” I thought, and decided to give the examiner conflicting information.

I was not the best actor and became hesitant at certain times, not knowing what to tell her.

“Don’t try to figure this out, just tell me what you see,” she said.

I wasn’t experiencing any unusual effects at that moment. I changed my mind and reported everything truthfully.

The doctor was happy with the information given and said, “This is how you see normally without glasses when I take all lenses away.”

Everything become blurry and I wasn’t able to see anything except for flashes of colors and light that made no sense. I kept quiet and continued to play whatever the game might be.

“OK, we are done. Go up to the front and pick your frames and lenses.” 

“I really need glasses?” I asked, in a sad tone of voice. “Yes, you do,” she said.

I felt this was karma; at elementary school, I laughed directly into other children’s faces for wearing glasses.

“Jessica, nothing personal, but I probably would have laughed at you as well since at that time I wouldn’t have known what else to do with you,” I thought, and walked up to the front of the store to pick glasses.

I had a difficult time concentrating and kept going from one type of glasses to the next, not remembering what I had seen and tried. I gave up and asked the same young lady, who was more than happy to help me select the right lenses and frames. The sad faces of many of the children I laughed at kept appearing in front of my eyes. Consequently, the look of the glasses was the most important factor. “How do I look? Do I still look good?” I kept asking the girl these and similar questions over and over after placing a new pair of glasses on my face. After numerous tries, I picked a pair of small, thin blue frames I liked the most.

“You really look good in these,” she said.

“You think so?” I said.

“Yes,” she said, and smiled, while looking directly into my eyes.

Judging by her facial expression, it appeared she really meant what she had just said and wasn’t bullshitting me to make a sale. She recommended non-glassy, polarized HD lenses and I agreed. For the first time in my life, I was covered under vision insurance and only paid $220.96. Without the insurance, the bill would have been $734.00; $614.00 for the glasses and $120.00 for the examination. The original intention was to buy colored contact lenses to cover up dilated eyes.

“At dance clubs, people on drugs would be ecstatic to see one person with two eyes of different color. I would definitely look awesome walking around town wearing colored lenses, like Marilyn Manson.”

In my mind I couldn’t help but combine his and my appearance. The young lady advised not to buy the colored lenses or any contact lenses for that matter because of eye irritation.

​

I walked out of the store plenty satisfied and had a couple of missed calls from unfamiliar numbers. I called the first number and Debbie, the Argos HR Manager, said “Hello.”

“Hi Debbie, I had a missed call from you,” I said.

Debbie immediately spoke in an upset tone of voice. “Joseph, what do you think you’re doing!! You’re supposed to have no contact with anyone at Argos. It is disturbing!”

My body instantly felt chest and facial pains accompanied by breathing difficulty, knowing very well she’d read the letter intended for Ronnee.

“I am sorry, Debbie,” I said, and hung up the phone, unable to continue the conversation.

I quickly walked to Helzberg Diamonds to pick up the bracelet.

“Would you like some water?” asked a smiling young man standing behind the counter, who held a small bottle of water.

It looked like the person was reading my mind, knowing exactly what happened just a few seconds ago. I gratefully accepted the water, calmed down and relaxed within a few minutes. The bracelet was fixed according to my expectations. I left the store and walked to the parking lot.

“Did Jessica at least allow Ronnee to read the letter before running to Debbie?” was my biggest worry. “The package was mailed on Tuesday and most likely arrived today, around 10 a.m. The phone call wasn’t received until this afternoon, because both girls read the letter at lunch before contacting Debbie. At least the girls are doing good and nothing bad had happened to Ronnee, unless the intelligence services or the TV directors forced Debbie to lie. I hoped this was not the case, it was impossible for me to find out.”

This answer was satisfactory enough and, while sitting in my car, I called the second number.

“Hello, this is Debbie,” answered the person at the other end of the line.

“Debbie, I’m so sorry, I had another missed call and didn’t know this was your number,” I said politely.

“Joseph, what is going on?” she asked, in an almost caring tone of voice.

I quickly answered, “Nothing.”

“You are not welcome at Argos anymore. If you contact anyone again, I will call the police,” she said, but this time sounded calm and reasonable.

“I promise, I will not contact anyone, and thank you for the warning,” I said to her in a calm tone of voice.

We said “Bye” and ended the conversation. Luck was on my side that day, Debbie didn’t call the cops without speaking with me first. She was a woman who gave me a break that day. I had talked with her on several occasions at Argos. She always smiled and was a good conversationalist.

“This English chick, although a little older, is probably a lot of fun to hang out with,” I said to myself, and drove home.