Boxing is a form of warfare.

Two fighters willing to die for the sake of victory.

One fighter is possibly solid and powerful.

The other is fast and agile.

Both are equipped with strategies and counter strategies to take advantage of personal strengths and exploit the other’s weaknesses.

Anger and hatred are never tactics an intelligent fighter relies on to win, as emotions cloud judgment, leading to poor decision-making.

An angry fighter is a desperate fighter, possibly opting for a disqualification path if victory is seemingly out of reach.

Cheating is better than losing to some.

On the other hand, the calm and relaxed fighter is often more poised for victory.

They are patient.

They adapt.

They rely on the angry fighter’s erratic behavior to make mistakes.

After a loss, the angry fighter blames everyone except themselves.

The fans of the angry fighter are convinced the victor cheated.

The commentators spur on the angry side.

The judges, they say, were wrong.

A rematch is warranted, they demand.

Don’t forget about the bettors placing bets along the way.

With nothing to lose, their money was found under their feet or stolen.

No earnest man leaves hard-earned money to chance.

Bettors earn more on lopsided odds.

They dream of the David vs. Goliath matchup.

The biggest losers are the fighters’ loved ones.

They witness the cumulative damage the fighters endure fight after fight.

The fight fans love boxing.

Generation after generation, we watch it all over again.

It was Monday, November 4th, 2002, and the Oakland Raiders had lost the last four games after winning the season’s first four. To make matters worse, the Raiders lost — in overtime — to their rival, the San Francisco 49ers the day before. The inept 49ers’ kicker, José Cortez, kicked the field goal of a lifetime to win the game. A loss to the 49ers was devastating for Raider fans because it meant 49er fans had the Battle of the Bay bragging rights for at least a year.

Marcelino pulled up into his driveway after a very long day at work. He was tired and pissed off. All day, the 49er fans from work rubbed yesterday’s win in his face. He was not in a good mood.

As always, he checked the mail before entering the house.

He found a small package jammed into the mailbox.

After kissing his wife, Lori, and their five-month-old daughter, Chloe, Marcelino opened the package. He first read the crumpled piece of paper packed inside.

Happy Birthday, Fool! This gift isn’t for you but for your adorable baby girl. Say hello to your hot wife for me. I’m surprised your neighbors haven’t mistakenly reported you to the cops for kidnapping. There’s no way a super hot girl like your wife is with you of her own free will!

-Roberto

P.S. I bought this gift at a remate, so you can’t return it, you yuppy!

Roberto was the ultimate jokester and put-down king. He and Marcelino grew up together, and they both loved the Raiders.

The gift was an Oakland Raiders onesie; any Raiders fan Dad would be proud for his newborn child to wear it. Any non-Raiders fan would detest such an outfit. Marcelino’s father dressed him in Raiders jerseys as an infant, and he was excited to create similar memories with his daughter.

Marcelino held the onesie up to the kitchen lights. “So badass! I can’t wait for Chloe to wear this,” he whispered.

As Marcelino gawked at the onesie, Lori said, “There’s no way you’re putting that thing on our daughter!”

“C’mon, what about game day?”

“Definitely not the whole day. If you want to dress Chloe in that thing to watch the games with you, I guess that would be okay.” After inspecting the onesie further, Lori added, “Make sure you wash that damn thing before putting it on Chloe. It looks used.” After another brief pause, Lori continued, “Why do you like the Raiders so much anyway?”

“I’ve always been a fan. I loved watching the Raiders games with my parents. I’m looking forward to watching games with Chloe.”

The following Sunday, Week 10 on the NFL schedule, the 4–4 Raiders played the Denver Broncos. Marcelino proudly dressed his baby girl in the Raiders onesie. She slept right next to him for most of the game. His heart was whole as Chloe slept in the silver and black outfit. The Raiders beat the Broncos 34–10.

Week 11, Chloe wore the onesie again as she rocked the game away in her baby swing. Raiders won 27–20.

Week 12, Chloe wore the onesie as she spent most of the game next to Marcelino, watching Barney on her little DVD player. Raiders won 41–20.

Week 13, Chloe sported the onesie again. Raiders won 26–20.

As the final seconds ticked off the clock at the end of Week 14’s game with the Raiders convincingly ahead 27–7, “Chloe is our good luck charm,” Marcelino muttered, smiling at Chloe napping in the onesie. He was convinced Chloe was ultimately responsible for the Raiders’ five-game win streak.

Later that evening, Lori reminded Marcelino that the upcoming Sunday was her mom’s birthday.

“What about next weekend’s Raider game? Can Chloe and I still watch the game together?” Marcelino asked.

Lori shot back, “You can miss one game, damn!” Marcelino knew not to push the game question further, so he went to bed.

The following Sunday, Week 15, while Marcelino and Chloe celebrated his mother-in-law’s birthday, the Raiders lost 17–23 against the Miami Dolphins.

Week 16, Chloe and the onesie were back, and the Raiders won 26–16. After the game, Marcelino received a phone call from Roberto.

“Hey, is your daughter wearing that Raiders baby shirt I sent?” Roberto asked.

“You mean the onesie, right?”

“What the fuck is a onesie? You’re such a yuppy, man!” Roberto said.

“About the ‘shirt,’ I need to tell you something,” Marcelino responded seriously.

“What about it?” Roberto responded.

“When Chloe wears it on Raiders’ game day, the Raiders win.”

“The Raiders lost last weekend, man. What happened there?” Roberto questioned, sounding unconvinced.

“We missed that game. She didn’t wear the onesie that day,” Marcelino said.

“You dumb ass. The Raiders aren’t winning because your daughter is wearing that knock-off Raider ‘onesie’,” Roberto said, Marcelino, feeling the air quotes through the phone. After a brief pause, “Hey, just in case, make sure she wears the onesie for the rest of the season,” Roberto said as he hung up.

Week 17, Chloe slept through the entire game wearing the onesie. Raiders won again. The final score was 24–0.

The regular season was over. The Raiders finished with a record of 11–5 and earned a playoff spot.

The Raiders’ first playoff game was the AFC Divisional against the New York Jets. Raiders won 30–10.

The Raiders won the second and final playoff game, the AFC Championship, against the Tennessee Titans. The final score was 41–24.

Chloe wore the onesie for both playoff games.

The Raiders were set to square off against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers in Super Bowl XXXVII.

Later that evening, after the AFC Championship Game, Lori asked, “Hey, my cousin invited us to watch the Super Bowl game at her house. What do you think? I think it would be fun.”

Marcelino thought deeply about Lori’s invitation. He preferred to watch the game at home with Chloe but understood how much Lori’s cousin meant to her and responded, “Yes, of course. That’s a great idea!”

Super Bowl Sunday had arrived. Marcelino was anxious for the big game to start. The Raiders’ last Super Bowl victory had been in 1984, eighteen years ago.

In preparation for the Super Bowl party at Lori’s cousin’s house, Marcelino carefully packed Chloe’s diaper bag, including the onesie, now affectionately referred to as the ‘wonsie’ by him and him alone.

Thirty minutes before game time, Marcelino dressed Chloe in the wonsie.

The big game kicked off. Lori’s cousin knew Marcelino was a die-hard Raiders fan and ensured he had the best seat in front of the TV. Chloe kicked away in her baby bouncer just a few feet from him.

At the end of the first quarter, the Raiders and Buccaneers were tied with 3 points apiece. The party was lively, with lots of chatter. The guys chatted about the game and wondered if this were the year the Raiders would win it all. The ladies sipped wine and were more interested in the commercials than the game itself.

Suddenly, someone in the room ripped a thunderous, watery fart. Everyone stopped talking. The house was completely silent. Everyone looked at each other, trying to identify the guilty culprit. All eyes slowly headed in the direction of the room where the explosion came from. There she was, kicking away in her bouncer, without a care in the world. Chloe was the source of the eruption.

Marcelino immediately picked up Chloe, and runny diarrhea slid down her leg. He turned her around; yellowish poop exploded out the top of her diaper and saturated the entire backside of the wonsie. Marcelino’s mouth hung open in a mild state of shock. He looked directly at Lori.

“We have to wash the wonsie and put it back on Chloe as soon as possible,” he shouted, sounding like a crazy man.

“I am not putting that dirty onesie back on her. It’s ruined. You are out of your mind. I will bathe her and dress her in a different outfit. You can keep watching the game,” Lori said, shaking her head as she took Chloe from Marcelino.

Marcelino watched the next several minutes of the game without a word to anyone. The Buccaneers scored 17 points during the second quarter. Final score 21–48. The Tampa Buccaneers were the winners of Super Bowl XXXVII.

Later that night, Marcelino and Lori were home and getting ready for bed. Before going to sleep, Marcelino decided to check on Chloe. She was sound asleep in her crib. As he left Chloe’s room, he noticed a sippy cup on the floor. He picked it up and sniffed it for no particular reason. The cup smelled like prune juice. He walked to the master bedroom, where Lori was reading a magazine.

“Lori, did you give Chloe prune juice before the Super Bowl party?” Marcelino quizzed.

“Yes, I did. Chloe was constipated. She needed it. Why do you ask?”

It was a Sunday morning in June 1995. David’s head was pounding from too many drinks. He’d attended a few college graduation parties the day before. Copious amounts of booze were consumed this time of year, and a twenty-one-year-old like David still had much to learn about self-control. He was a year away from earning a degree in Accounting from a local state university. David maintained a C average, which was good enough to receive a diploma but not good enough to receive any decent job offers in his field of study after graduation. The Accounting field was highly competitive for newly minted graduates. To make matters worse, David had no desire to pursue a career as an accountant, but on paper, it was his best path toward a meaningful career. Over the past year, it had become quite clear — clearer every day, in fact — that he had no interest in his college major as an occupation. He was discouraged about his future.

David also agonized over the fact that he had likely wasted thousands of dollars of his adoring parents’ money on a college education that bored him to tears. David’s parents had sacrificed everything to send him to college. He was the first in his family to attend college. His parents were immensely proud of him. He felt guilty for selecting a major that he detested. David constantly felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. College was anything but an enjoyable experience for him.

The phone rang.

“Dude, Jarot’s graduation party was badass last night. Damn, I am so hungover right now, but it was worth it,” said Brent, a classmate who was both study partner and drinking buddy — emphasis on the latter.

Before David could respond, Brent continued, “A few of us are taking a CPA (Certified Public Accountant) preparation exam course this summer. Are you interested in taking this course with us?”

“How much is it?” David asked.

“$5,000.00. I know it’s a ton of money, but you and I don’t have the best grades. If we become CPAs right after graduation, we may improve our chances of getting an actual job, man,” Brent added.

“Brent, I appreciate you thinking of me, but I can’t swing $5,000.00 right now.”

“No worries, bro. Think about it. If anything changes, let me know.”

They hung up.

David felt more depressed and more discouraged, if that was even possible. The thought of spending $5,000 in addition to the money his parents already spent on his education sounded like a complete waste of money.

David went for a walk to clear his confused mind.

He lived in an apartment complex occupied mostly by other college students. David ran into his friend, Jarot, an international student from Indonesia who’d just graduated with a degree in computer science. Jarot’s family was very wealthy. He spent more time at strip clubs than studying. Luckily for Jarot, he was brilliant. Despite his lack of focus on his education, he graduated with all A’s. David often saw different women at Jarot’s apartment. The women were always stunning and never carried any textbooks. According to a mutual friend, Jarot had a monthly budget earmarked for lady friends.

“Hey, Jarot. Great party last night. You always throw the best parties. What are you up to this morning, man?” David asked.

“Cleaning my apartment. I’m moving back to Indonesia in a few days. I am going to miss this place, especially the ladies,” Jarot responded with a sullen look on his face.

“Damn, we’re all going to miss you, Jarot. What’s in the box?” David said, pointing to the large cardboard box that Jarot uncomfortably held in his arms.

“Just a bunch of trash. I’m taking this crap to the dumpster.”

Pointing at a relatively thick — even intimidating — book lying on the top of the pile of trash, David asked, “What’s that book?”

“This book? Some lame Visual Basic for DOS book,” Jarot said, leaning back to read the book’s cover.

“What’s Visual Basic?” David asked, knowing a little about DOS (Disk Operating System) from a computer class he’d completed last semester.

“It’s a software programming language, but it’s lame.”

“What’s a software programming language?” David asked.

Jarot had no patience to provide any specifics about software programming, especially after a long night of partying, but offered, “You know that humans are responsible for instructing computers what to do, right?”

“Sure, of course,” David responded, not having a damn clue what Jarot meant.

“People need to learn a software language to communicate with computers. Computers cannot do anything without instructions from people,” Jarot lectured.

“Well, if you are throwing the book away, can I have it?” David responded, still not comprehending anything that Jarot said about computers.

“You want this book? Sure, you can have it, but there’s no money or future in writing software for computers. It’s a waste of time, but if you want the book, it’s yours,” Jarot said, handing the bulky book to David.

Jarot followed, “I only studied computer science because my father said he wouldn’t pay for my education otherwise. I don’t have any interest in writing software at all. It’s boring as fuck.”

“Thank you for the book, Jarot. I appreciate this,” David said, holding the six-hundred-page book with both hands.

“David, listen, man. The book is completely useless unless you have the software program it’s referencing,” Jarot said, shaking his head.

Jarot looked down into his box. He grabbed a shrink-wrapped box titled “Visual Basic 1.0 for DOS” and handed the box to David.

“David, I like you, but I think you are wasting your time learning this shit,” Jarot said, walking off toward the dumpster.

David trusted Jarot. They were good friends. If Jarot said it was a waste of time, it must be true. But a voice within David’s head asked, “What do you have to lose by learning something new?”

David had no software programming experience except for the one time in high school when he copied a classmate’s hangman software homework assignment verbatim.

David had a casual understanding of computers, at best. He’d recently finished a beginning-level Information Technology class. He’d dabbled with WordPerfect for word processing, Quattro Pro for spreadsheets and Paradox for database management. David had enjoyed the course — a fact which surprised even him. Because of that entry-level Information Technology class, he’d recognized “DOS” on the book cover that Jarot was about to throw away and asked about it without thinking.

David went back to his little apartment. He opened the six-hundred-page book, spent four seconds leafing through the pages, and quickly pushed the book to the side. It was like reading a foreign language; not a single word made sense.

Then, he tore open the shrink-wrapped white box that contained the Visual Basic 1.0 for DOS software language. He reached into the box and pulled out two big books and eight floppy disks.

David didn’t own a computer. He packed the books and disks into his backpack and rode his bike to the university’s computer lab.

Nobody was in the computer lab except the lab instructor.

“I would like to use a computer,” David said.

“You’re in luck. You have thirty to choose from,” the lab instructor responded without looking at David.

He walked to the last row of computers in the room and plopped himself in front of the computer furthest away from the instructor.

He thumbed through the books that were packaged with the software. One of the books had a section called “Start Here.” David thought that was a safe place to start from.

He read the “Start Here” section from beginning to end several times. He then installed the software on the computer, following every instruction to the letter. Nothing made any sense, but he didn’t question it. He just kept going.

He began writing his first program, the infamous “Hello World” program, still not understanding anything he was typing. He thought the Visual Basic software language was just a bunch of gibberish.

“How can anyone learn this crap?” David thought. “I’m such a loser,” he said aloud.

But, after four hours of mistakes and endless corrections. David wrote his first program!

He never felt more alive, more accomplished! David knew he was meant to be a software programmer at that moment.

Nothing was ever as clear as that precise moment. The world suddenly made sense. He wanted to learn more about software programming — a lot more. He read more pages. He wrote more programs.

During that summer, David spent fourteen hours a day in the computer lab at school.

Software programming was like a drug to him; he couldn’t get enough. The more he learned, the more he wanted to know.

Writing software programs was playing a video game without boundaries for David. He decided the boundaries. He was in absolute control of the computer in front of him. He walked around feeling that he had a superpower. He could control a machine that none of his friends knew how to operate or what it could do. A new person was born in David, a person he never knew existed within him. He wanted to tell the world about his new passion, but creating software programs wasn’t his field of study. Everyone would think he’d gone insane. For the entire summer, he kept writing software programs in Visual Basic. He bought more programming books at Barnes and Noble. Soon, he bought all of the Visual Basic books from the local Barnes and Noble.

His parents called one day, “Everything okay, David? We haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“I’m fine, Mom. I’m more than fine. I’m learning something new at school that I enjoy. I think I can make a future out of it. I’m thrilled. Honestly, Mom, it’s a subject I never knew I would like, but I’m loving it,” David confessed.

They hung up.

“How’s David?” his dad asked.

“I think he’s drunk. He said, ‘I’m enjoying school right now,’” his mom responded.

“Isn’t it summer right now? I didn’t know he was taking any summer classes. Yeah, he must have been drinking,” David’s dad summarized.

Curiously, David had stopped drinking. He didn’t even think about drinking. All he thought about was software programming.

Summer came to an end, and David registered for his fall classes. He noticed he had an upper-level, non-accounting class elective requirement. One of the options was an upper-division programming course offered by the Information Technology department. The programming language of focus was Visual Basic.

“Of all software languages,” he thought as he read about the elective.

He enrolled in the class but learned the course was only available to upper-level IT majors unless the professor provided a waiver to non-IT majors.

He attended the upper-division programming class on the first day of the fall semester. When the professor asked the class to raise their hands if they had taken lower-level programming classes at the university, David was the only student who kept his hand down. He immediately started to second-guess himself.

“What am I doing here? Who am I kidding? I don’t belong here,” David thought to himself.

The professor noticed David didn’t raise his hand and asked, “Young man, you haven’t taken any programming classes at the university previously?”

“No, sir,” David responded. All eyes turned toward him. The classmates were curious to see the fool who thought an upper-level programming class was doable without any programming experience. He was so embarrassed. He wanted to run out of the classroom.

“This course may be too advanced for you, young man,” the professor added.
“See me after class.”

David saw the professor after class.

“What’s your name, young man?” the professor asked gently.

“David, sir.”

“David, I don’t think you are a good fit for this course. This is an advanced programming class for upper-level IT majors. What is your major, David?”

“Accounting, sir.”

“David, I have been a professor at this university for a long time. I haven’t had a single Accounting major try to take this course. I’m worried this class will be too advanced for you,” the professor continued.

David was devastated. More than anything else, he was humiliated. Other students were listening to the conversation. He wanted to die.

After a deep breath, David asked, “Sir, if it’s okay with you, can I show you an application I created over the summer?”

“Sure, David,” the professor responded with a hint of pity in his voice.

David inserted the disk that contained his program into the computer.

He demonstrated the software to the professor. Other classmates were still listening.

After a five-second pause, the professor sat back in his chair and said, “David, you are too advanced for this class. We wouldn’t be able to challenge you. Would you consider being my teacher’s assistant for the class? You would still receive credits toward your degree.”

“Yes, sir! I would love that!” David responded.

Epilogue

David continued to pour every second into learning more about software programming during his senior year. His grades suffered, but he didn’t care.

He received two paid internships in programming during the spring semester. David made the most of the internships. He arrived early at the offices, worked hard, and always maintained a friendly disposition.

When his graduation came around, David had a job offer for $80,000 a year, while top accounting students received job offers for substantially less money.

Software programming changed David’s life, and maybe it can change yours, too.

The Software Programmer was originally published in The Startup on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Hello?” I answered the hotel phone, trying to sound awake and not hungover.

“Man, you’re still sleeping?! It’s 2 p.m.,” Sharon snickered on the other end.

“Hey, I didn’t think it was kosher to make phone calls on Shabbat,” I said, understanding that observant Jews turn off their phones and other electrical devices on Saturday — “Shabbat” in Hebrew — the Jewish day of rest.

“Listen, I’m at my neighbor’s house right now. They’re Christian. I handed their teenage son the name of your hotel on a piece of paper, and he called your hotel for me. He’s holding the phone away from my ear so I can speak with you. Technically, he called you. But never mind all that. I’m calling to confirm you didn’t bang the hot Russian hostess from the restaurant by your hotel last night,” Sharon said.

“How did you know about her?”

“I’m in the Army. I notice everything,” Sharon said, pausing for a second. I could hear his grin through the phone. “Okay, I saw her right before I dropped you off at your hotel. I knew there could be trouble if you saw her and she saw you. That’s why I yelled, ‘Stay away from the Russian girls’ yesterday,” he responded.

“Damn, you’re good.”

“Well?”

“Yeah, I had dinner at that restaurant.”

“Of course you did,” Sharon interjected.

“She asked if she could join me for a drink.”

“Of course she did,” Sharon interrupted again.

“But I said I wasn’t feeling well, so I left,” I said.

“Come on, man. This poor kid is getting an arm cramp holding the phone, and you’re telling me nothing happened? This kid agreed to hold the phone because I promised him some juicy stuff from a true American player,” Sharon cajoled.

“I’m serious. The restaurant owner vented to me about his crumbling business, which killed my evening. I was in no mood for conversation or anything else,” I said.

“Restaurant business in Israel is tough. What can I say?” Sharon said, then changed the topic. “Do you need a ride to the airport tomorrow? I can take you and Lori’s mom.”

“Yes, we could use a ride to the airport. Thank you,” I said.

We hung up.

Tel Aviv was quiet that Saturday afternoon. Walking was the transportation method of choice; small knots of people strolled along the sidewalks and spoke quietly and casually amongst themselves.

It was hard to believe that we were still in the midst of an international conflict.

The following day, Sharon drove Helen and me to the airport. Helen was unusually quiet during the drive.

We boarded our flight, and Helen settled into a window seat. She maintained a trance-like stare into her outside viewing pane and didn’t say a word until Israel’s beautiful coastline was only a faint beige strip behind us.

Tears welled up in Helen’s eyes. She said she felt blessed to plant her feet on the Holy Land’s soil but cursed to fly so eagerly away from it.

When we landed at the Fiumicino Airport in Rome, I received a text from Lori.

“Please rent a mobile phone for my mom. I need to be able to speak with her directly while she’s here in Rome. Thanks.”

Helen and I found a mobile phone rental booth at the airport. Helen had a Europe-wide cell phone after a couple of signatures and forty Euros. She called Lori immediately.

“Can you believe I have a European cell phone? Unbelievable.”

We spent four days touring Rome as a family. We visited the Vatican. Twice. Oohed and aahed over the Coliseum and gorged ourselves on lofty portions of pasta (I speak primarily for myself on that count).

On the last day of our Rome visit, Helen said, “Such a shame we have to go back to Israel to catch our flight back to Florida.”

“Fly with Lori and the girls back to Florida,” I offered.

“No, it’s okay, we made this this far. What’s one more night in Israel?”

The following day, Helen and I flew back to Israel. This time, we knew what to expect — or so we thought.

During the flight to Israel, we realized that we had forgotten to return Helen’s all-European rental mobile phone. Helen persisted she had committed a felony and was destined to end up in a European prison for stealing the phone. I assured her I would mail it back to the mobile phone rental company from Israel, and her near brush with jail would be behind us very soon.

Our plane landed in Israel without any unexpected events. The micro-second our plane touched the runway’s pavement, an overwhelming sense of easiness settled into my stomach.

We disembarked from our El Al flight and made our way to the airport’s passport control checkpoint. Helen and I agreed she would pass through the checkpoint ahead of me. She spoke to the passport control agent for only three minutes and was quickly admitted to Israel.

“I will see you on the other side,” Helen said, walking through the automated doors between the passport control booths that immediately closed behind her.

I approached the passport control agent with my passport in hand.

“Passport, please,” demanded the female agent in a monotone voice, making no eye contact.

The agent snatched my passport from my hand and looked me up and down with disgust. She grabbed the phone with Floyd Mayweather-like hand speed and made a sound akin to hocking a loogie into a 1970s-style rotary phone’s receiver. Before she hung up the phone, a male agent grabbed me by my right arm.

“Please follow me. We have several questions for you.”

“Wait, I’m traveling with someone. My ex-mother-in-law. She crossed to the other side already, and I must tell her I’m going with you,” I pleaded.

“You can speak with her once you answer our questions. Let’s go!” the airport security agent retorted, tightening his grip on my arm and pointing toward closed double doors to the right side of the passport control checkpoint. Two men in plain clothes with machine guns all too comfortably strapped over their right shoulders guarded the closed doors.

As we approached the two plainclothes officers, they opened the closed doors in unison. The agent continued to manhandle my right upper arm and said with petulance, “Enter!”

I felt hundreds of pairs of eyeballs following my every step as I entered the open doors. They all seemed to know something I didn’t.

The doors led to a dark and airless hallway. Only a faint light was detectable at the end of the hallway. I counted fifty steps until the soft light became a well-lit doorway to another room. “Find a seat. We will call your name when it’s your turn,” commanded the agent.

The room, I later learned, was the Ben Gurion Airport’s detention center. Detainees may remain in this concrete fishbowl for several days until logistics can be arranged for a return flight home or another long-term confinement solution is found.

“Oh fuck!” I blurted out as I was ushered into an atrocious-smelling room. Summertime body odor from those who may consider deodorant an unnecessary luxury, combined with piles of dirty diapers in the corner of the room, made me gag instantly. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to breathe.

The wretched room was a thirty-by-forty-foot windowless holding cell with mainly if not all, Arabic occupants. The incumbents sat silently in small, uncomfortable metal chairs that outlined the room’s white walls. Entire families sat together and watched a barely audible Arabic movie on a black-and-white television that hung from the low ceiling. Children had parched and sad lips. Mothers had concerned and scared expressions. Fathers had weary and suspicious eyes.

I saw an empty chair in the room’s far corner and walked tentatively towards it. Again, beady brown eyes watched my every step. I sat myself down in the hard metal chair. Thirty seconds and a few whispered Arabic words later, the family of six to my immediate right rose, walked across the room and sat in an open area on the floor.

“I guess they don’t like Mexicans,” I said jokingly to myself.

I was worried about Helen. Did the airport officers inform her that I was apprehended for additional questioning? Was she okay? She had no phone. The all-European phone was tucked away in my suitcase.

I was detained for two hours until three Israeli officers shouted my name across the room.

“Raygoza, Marc, please come with us,” the tallest of the three officers shouted.

I followed the officers back out of the horrid-smelling room and into the dark hallway.

Directly across the hallway was an open door; it had been closed when I was brought in. It contained a small office with a metal table and chairs.

“Sit, please,” one of the officers ordered while the other two stood by the door. He continued, “You left Israel four days ago, and now you are back. Why?”

“My travel companion, Helen, and I returned to Tel Aviv to catch our flight back to Miami tomorrow morning,” I responded. “We spent four days in Rome with our family. They didn’t feel comfortable coming to Israel considering the existing situation here.”

“Are you referring to the ex-wife and two daughters who never showed up at the Barcelona airport like you said they would?” he questioned sharply.

Stunned by his question, I nervously responded, “Yes.”

“The El Al Security agents waited for your wife and kids, but they never showed up. Either you’re an excellent liar, or maybe you’re telling the truth, but now I believe you are a trained liar. Which is it, you are telling the truth or not? Is that lady really your ex-mother-in-law? Other agents are talking to her, too, right now in a different room. We may need to keep her for a few days for questioning; she is not cooperating with us.”

“Helen is also being detained? For what reason?”

“She is your accomplice, no?” he asked.

“My accomplice for what? If my crime is stupidly traveling to Israel in the middle of a conflict, then yes, she’s my accomplice,” I shot back.

“Listen, I can keep you and your accomplice here at the detention center for several days if you do not cooperate and answer my questions truthfully,” he said.

We both stared at each other for at least a minute. I didn’t say a word — I couldn’t because I couldn’t believe this conversation was real. I felt like I was in a bad dream with vivid smells all around me.

“According to Helen, you have plans tonight. What are your plans?”

“Plans?” I was drawing a complete blank — I barely knew my name at this point. “Yes, we are staying at my buddy’s house tonight. He is picking us up from the airport.”

“What is your friend’s name?”

“Sharon,” I said.

“Sharon, what?” he followed.

I told him Sharon’s last name and how we spent last Friday in Tel Aviv and Haifa. He asked for Sharon’s phone number. I told him the number was stored on the phone that was confiscated earlier by the other agents.

“I will be right back.”

After 20 minutes, the officer returned.

“I tried calling Sharon, but he didn’t answer. Wouldn’t you think he would answer his phone if he were truly expecting your call to pick you up from the airport?“ He paused. “I will be right back.”

I was very worried about Helen. I was concerned about how the airport security might be treating her. I was pissed about this situation and pissed at this asshole security agent, but I was especially concerned about Helen’s well-being and safety.

Another twenty minutes passed, and the officer returned and told me to follow him. He walked me to the same passport control booth that initially pulled me aside for questioning.

“You may go. Please grab your personal belongings.”

No other explanation was provided. No apology. Essentially, just a “get the hell out here” type of response.

I grabbed my things, then strode past the booth and through the automated doors to where Helen stood. She began to sob uncontrollably.

“Where were you?” She yelled through her tears.

“I was detained for questioning.”

“I have been standing here for hours waiting for you!” she continued to yell.

“You were?”

“Yes, I waited in the same spot for three hours, waiting for you to come through those doors!”

“You didn’t speak with any airport security officers for anything?”

“No, I asked some airport officers if they knew where you went, but they ignored me.”

I told Helen I was retained and questioned about our return to Israel.

“Probably because you didn’t shave. You could pass for a thug or a terrorist,” Helen replied, regaining her composure and chuckling slightly.

My phone rang.

“Where are you, dude? I have been waiting for your call,” Sharon asked.

“I was detained for three hours. The airport officer told me he called you, but you never picked up your phone.”

“Nobody called me. Those guys are trained to lie and make you talk. Next time, have them call me in your presence. Anyway, I’m on my way to get you.”

A half-hour later, Sharon arrived at the airport.

“Next time, shave before you come to Israel. You look like an Arab.” Sharon said in greeting.

“I told you!” Helen said, getting her licks in too.

After a peaceful and relaxing evening in Tel Aviv with Sharon and his family, it was time for Helen and me to board our flight to Miami.

We took our seats, she at the window and I in the aisle seat.

Helen smiled and said, “We should come to Israel again. I had such a wonderful time here, after all.”

Helen and I grabbed our bags and scampered through the hotel’s front doors. A broad-shouldered, average-height man with impressive pearly whites stood behind the front desk.

“Welcome to the Bell Boutique Hotel. My name is Moshe. Are you checking in?” asked the man with the good-looking teeth.

“Yes, we are checking in, Moshe. Your hotel is beautiful,” Helen added.

“Thank you, may I please see your passports?” Moshe responded.

He inspected the passports in the same diligent manner as the lovely El Al security agent in Barcelona. His inspection process was no mere hotel formality. He fastidiously studied our passports and glanced at us periodically to confirm we were the persons documented in these little blue books.

“Wow, you came all the way from the United States to stay with us. We are very honored,” Moshe replied, flashing his smile again. “Did you hear the sirens about five minutes ago?”

“Yes, we heard the blaring sirens during our drive here,” I agonized.

“Did your driver pull over?”

“No! He just kept driving.”

“Oh no, that is not good. All drivers are instructed to immediately pull over and take shelter when they hear the sirens. Your driver made a terrible mistake. I’m very sorry.” After a slight pause and a smile that even a high school cheer coach would be proud of, he assured, “But don’t worry, you are in excellent hands here at the Bell Boutique Hotel.”

“Excuse me, where’s your restroom?” Helen blurted out, ignoring Moshe’s grave comments.

As Helen attended to her business, I asked Moshe if he had any rooms available facing towards the direction opposite of Gaza — rooms with a fighting chance, even if the odds were slim, of protecting our delicate human flesh from incoming rockets and life-shredding shrapnel.

Room 302 was the only room available that met my bulwark bunking requirements.

Helen returned from the restroom.

“Helen, you are staying in room 302,” I told her.

“Which room are you staying in?” she asked.

“He is staying in room 201, which has a beautiful view of the Mediterranean Sea,” Moshe beamed.

“Before I forget, and this is very important,” Moshe paused, placing Helen and me on pins and needles for a few seconds, “our free breakfast buffet starts promptly at seven in the morning.”

“Oh, I can’t wait!” Helen celebrated. “You know I will be the first in line,” she joked, looking directly at me.

I walked Helen up to her room.

Helen’s room was decorated with yellow wallpaper and a sorry-looking twenty-four-inch television. But this little room would be her bunker until we booked a flight to Rome.

After an embrace, we said good night. I found my room, realized I still had enough gas left in the tank and set out for the nearest pub. It was Thursday night in Tel Aviv, after all.

The following day, the hotel phone rang at noon on the dot.

“Hey man, you still sleeping?” the voice shouted.

“Yeah, getting up now,” I whispered, more than half-asleep.

“Late night?”

“Kinda.”

“Tell me later. I will be at your hotel in thirty minutes to pick you up,” the voice said before hanging up.

After a quick shower, I briefly stopped at Helen’s room.

“The TV only has three channels and nothing in English or Spanish,” Helen complained.

“That’s awful,” I commiserated, but not patient enough to continue our meaningful exchange. “I will be back in a few hours. Sharon is picking me up for lunch.”

“What time will you be back?” Helen asked.

“Around 4:00 pm or so. Then we will go somewhere for an early dinner. Okay?”

Before I left the hotel, I asked the front desk to maintain a watchful eye on Helen and, above all else, kindly prevent her from exiting the lobby doors if she dared to try.

Sharon showed up at the hotel at precisely 12:30 p.m.

“Man, it’s so good to see you here. I can’t believe you are in my hood,” Sharon greeted me in his best Liberty City accent.

Everyone loved Sharon. Men, women, children, pets — you name it — they all adored him. Women loved him because of his massive pair of hands, and men envied him for the same reason. Children and pets loved his gentle nature. And to top it all off, he was a Captain in the IDF, which meant he had plenty of backup.

“You hungry?” Sharon asked.

“Starving.”

“I wanted to take you to Abu Hassan in Jaffa. They have the best hummus in Israel by far, but the area is not too Israeli-friendly right now because of the Gaza situation.”

“I’m fine with eating anywhere, really,” I said.

Sharon and I drove to a popular restaurant in downtown Tel Aviv. Sharon found his hummus, although it wasn’t the best Israel had to offer. I ordered shakshuka because its picture on the menu reminded me of chorizo and eggs.

As the waiter brought our bill, my cell phone rang.

“Dad, where are you? Are you and Nana okay?” asked Reesey, my extremely outgoing nine-year-old daughter.

“We’re in Israel, and we’re fine, love. I’m having lunch with Sharon, and Nana is in her hotel room, probably watching TV.”

“Dad, Mom said there’s a war where you and Nana are, and she’s worried about you and Nana staying there,” Reesey said, cupping her mouth with her little hand to prevent eavesdropping.

“Yes, love, there’s a little argument between Israel and one of their neighbors. I hope they can work out their differences,” I said as Sharon rolled his eyes but caught himself with a quick smile.

“Love, Nana and I saw the Iron Dome in action last night, and it kept us safe from…,” I stopped mid-sentence.

“Be careful, Dad. I love you! Mom wants to talk to you,” Reesey exclaimed, abruptly ending our daddy-daughter chat.

“What did your Dad say?” I heard Lori ask Reesey on the other end.

“Dad said they are fine. Something called Nana Dome is keeping them safe,” Reesey said, replaying a few choice words from our conversation.

Lori took hold of the phone from Reesey.

“What are you doing?” Lori asked.

“Having lunch and a couple of beers with Sharon.”

“You are in the middle of a war, and you are drinking beers?”

“Well, yeah. What else should I be doing?” I said.

“Where’s my mom?”

“She’s in her hotel room.”

“You left her?! She’s not with you?” Lori asked furiously.

“She’s fine. I asked the front desk to keep an eye on her.”

“You are unbelievable, Marc. You really are. If you are not too busy drinking beers today, please book your flights to Rome. The girls and I are headed there in two days. I already got us a large apartment there that I found on Airbnb, which is roomy enough for all of us,” Lori urged before hanging up.

After an afternoon of shenanigans at Carmel Beach near Haifa, Sharon dropped me off at my hotel.

“Hey, I almost forgot to tell you something. Stay away from the Russian girls here. They are trouble,” Sharon yelled from across the busy street.

Before I could respond, Sharon sped off.

I knocked on Helen’s hotel room door a little after 6:00 p.m.

“You’ve been gone all day. Where have you been?” Helen interrogated.

“Sharon and I went to a couple of beaches north of here. It was great catching up with him,” I said.

“Oh, okay. I spoke with Lori earlier, and she was upset that you left me at the hotel. I told her the hotel staff is amiable, and I felt very safe, but she was still upset with you.”

“Yes, I know. She gave me an earful on the phone earlier,” I sighed, eager to end this topic quickly. “Are you hungry?”

Helen and I walked around until we found a small store nearby. She didn’t care to dine at a restaurant and preferred to buy a few snacks to hold her over until tomorrow’s free hotel breakfast buffet.

After some shopping and a forty-five-minute stroll near our hotel, I walked Helen back to her room.

Back in my room, I booked two tickets departing to Rome for Helen and me in two days.

Still not ready to call it a night, I moseyed down the street toward an outdoor-only restaurant that caught my eye earlier in the day.

A three-foot-high, battered iron fence separated the restaurant down the middle. The restaurant was full of patrons on one side of the fence, not a single open table. On the other side, there wasn’t a single customer, and every table was available.

“What an odd restaurant seating arrangement,” I mused.

On the empty side, a man motioned for me to sit anywhere.

I ordered a dark Goldstar beer and a side of hummus as a quick starter.

As I would learn, the man was an Israeli named Ari. He was the restaurant’s owner. Ari was a short man with a skinny build. He was attentive — if I looked up for even a micro-second, he was instantly at my table.

After polishing off another Goldstar, I asked him a question.

“I noticed that side of the restaurant is busy, not a single table available, but this side is empty. Why is that?”

“Would you mind if I sit down?” he asked, holding the top of the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Not at all. Please sit,” I responded.

Ari took a deep breath, and his eyes moistened.

“I put my entire life savings into this café, every last shekel. The café was doing well for the first year, not great, but steady. Good enough to make a decent living for myself. You see, I run this entire café by myself — nobody else besides her,” Ari said, pointing at the café’s beautiful Russian hostess.

“About a year after I opened this café, those people moved into the next stall. They are Arab. I have no problem with that, none whatsoever. Every morning for the first two weeks, I said hello to them in Arabic but never received a greeting in return. Don’t you think neighbors should introduce themselves?” he asked, and I nodded in agreement. “They never introduced themselves. I never understood why. They cleaned that stall for two months. The stall was filthy, and the kitchen in the back was full of garbage before they took it over. I was happy they cleaned up that disgusting stall; even my café looked more pleasing. Then I realized they were opening a café, too. I was even happy about that. I would offer my Israeli food, and they would offer their Arab food. We could attract more customers to this area that way.”

Ari continued, “Then strange deliveries began arriving at their stall. It started with a delivery of floor tiles. They ordered the same floor tile that I have in my café. See?” Ari grimaced, pointing at the busy side of the restaurant’s floor tile.

I examined the floor beneath me, then the floor on the other side of the fence. They were identical.

“Then came a delivery of tables and chairs, the same as mine. Same color. Same everything,” he said.

“It got even worse from there — the café layout, the countertops, the menu books, the food, the refrigerators, the freezers, even the shirt I am wearing now — they copied it all,” Ari lamented while gently placing his forehead flat on the table.

I didn’t know what to say or how to respond. I sat and stared at the top of his balding head.

After a minute of silence, Ari lifted his head and continued, “They created a replica of my café. The only thing they didn’t copy was the name of my café,” he continued, eyeballing the sign written in Hebrew above our heads. “You see, they have no name above their stall. They do this to confuse customers into thinking we are the same café. At least fifty times every day, I hear them telling the customers we are the same café, and because they are closer to the busy intersection, the customers enter on their side.”

“I recently started selling gelato during the summer. What did they do? Of course, they started selling gelato, too. They bought the same gelato machine and the same display case.” Ari said, pointing at the twin gelato display cases separated only by the aged iron fence.

“One day, I asked them, ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ They didn’t even look at me.”

“Three families run that café. One family will live in and work the stall for four months straight. Then, the next family will take over. They keep rotating all year while I run this café alone.”

“I’m tired of running this café from sunrise to almost midnight every day, except for the Sabbath, of course,” he woefully complained, pausing to collect his thoughts.

Ari’s situation was the saddest and most disturbing story ever. Such horrible people, I thought.

“Ari, I am only in Tel Aviv for a couple more days, and I will not eat at that restaurant,” I promised him, always at a loss for the right words when I needed them the most.

“Thank you for listening to me. I hate to cry to my only customer tonight, but nobody has ever asked about my café as you did. By the way, I think my hostess likes you.” Ari said, then headed back into the kitchen.

To be continued….

Our flight to Israel was as comfortable as a four-hour flight could be. Helen read every magazine and newspaper she could get her hands on — she even flipped through a couple of newspapers written in Hebrew.

As for me, I relaxed with a couple of Gold Star beers. I thought The extra TLC we received from the delightful El Al Security Agent during pre-boarding was worth the torment.

We were scheduled to land in Tel Aviv at 7:45 PM/19:45 Israel Standard Time. As our flight approached Israel, we had a perfect view of its historic Mediterranean coastline through our teeny plane window.

“How beautiful!” Helen exclaimed.

Not a second later, our plane took an unexpected sharp right turn, straightening its wings after ten seconds, followed by another, even more intense right. I grimaced; I could feel the Gold Stars trying to come up for air. The Israeli shoreline was now behind us.

The passengers, including Helen and me, were shocked in fear.

After about two minutes of eerie silence, our flight captain’s calm, steady voice filled the cabin’s airwaves.

“This is your captain speaking. We have received reports of hostile rockets landing near the airport. We plan to remain in the air until we receive clearance from air traffic control to land,” the captain said in perfect English.

WTF!

We were just ten miles from landing at Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport. Still, the Israeli Air Traffic Control had instructed our pilots to perform the standard circle-around until airspace conditions were safe for landing.

I fixed my eyes on the in-flight video screen before me and watched the El Al flight tracker draw a perfect circle of our flight path over the Mediterranean Sea.

Ten minutes later, our plane completed another mid-air circle.

“Maybe coming to Israel wasn’t a good idea after all,” Helen joked, attempting to quell our nerves.

“Our plane is equipped with an anti-missile defense system, which is designed to jam an incoming missile’s heat-seeking sensors,” I said, also in jest but praying I was partially correct. Deep down, I felt we were all sitting ducks.

Thoughts of my girls crept into my mind. Would I ever see them again? Would they have to grow up without their Dad?

Ten more excruciatingly slow minutes ensued, and our plane completed a third circle.

Our captain finally announced what we desperately wanted to hear, “We have received clearance to land. Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing.”

Helen and I were the only non-Hebrew-speaking passengers — who else, besides Israelis, would be flying to Israel during wartime? We could not understand a single verbal conversation, but each passenger’s body language spoke the same terrified dialect.

After forty-five extra minutes in the air, our plane landed safely at the Ben Gurion Airport.

As Helen and I apprehensively traversed the airport toward the baggage claim area, we spotted white portable sign stands scattered throughout the airport with “SHELTER” painted in large green letters.

These sign stands offered visual cues to locate the nearest bomb shelter like Disneyland’s “follow the arrow” signs help ride-goers navigate to the front of the line. But these signs were not directions to Fantasyland. They were signposts offering hope of hugging and kissing your family again.

“How does one know when to hide?” I asked myself. In less than two hours, I would know the answer.

Lori’s company had arranged for a driver to pick us up at the airport. We waited curbside for thirty minutes until our ride showed up.

It was a warm summer Israeli night, and our driver dressed the part in a very worn Miller Lite tank top, seemingly doubling as a shammy towel for his car.

Our driver was incredibly hairy. His tank top struggled to keep his chest hair — and back hair — under control. Thick black hairs harpooned through the tank top’s cotton fabric… and I thought we Mexicans were hairy.

“I’m Ishay,” the driver warmly introduced himself to us.

Ishay’s car was nothing fancy, not that it mattered. The vehicle was not American or Japanese-made and reminded me of a dilapidated late 1970’s Toyota Corolla.

Regardless, I was thankful that Ishay met us at the airport.

According to Ishay, we had a forty-five-minute car ride to our hotel.

“Madam, if you sit in the rear seat behind me,” our driver suggested to Helen, “you will have a better view of the lovely downtown Tel Aviv buildings.”

Helen obliged.

I sat in the front passenger seat to the right of Ishay.

As we drove through downtown Tel Aviv, I noticed outdoor restaurants bursting at the seams with young people enjoying themselves. After all, it was Thursday night in Israel, where Thursday nights are the equivalent of North America’s Friday nights.

We had been driving for thirty minutes when loud sirens began to blast from all angles.

“What are those alarms?” Helen shouted with her hands over her ears.

“Red Alert sirens, madam, rockets have been launched from Gaza, but not to worry, we are safe in the city,” our driver said, but despite his calm voice, he started to drive noticeably faster.

The Israeli air raid sirens were loud, continuous, ascending and descending cries for all to seek shelter immediately.

Every car in front and behind us came to a screeching halt. Passengers jumped out of their vehicles and ran for cover. They ran toward any building or house they could find. People were running in all directions. The ones who could not run or walk fast enough laid down flat on their stomachs next to their vehicles, cradling their heads in their arms.

Not us — Ishay kept driving.

“Shouldn’t we stop like everyone else?” I asked Ishay as he swerved to avoid the parked cars that cluttered the street.

“We are very close to your hotel. We don’t need to stop,” our driver-of-the-year foolishly responded.

We exited the chaotic street several minutes later and entered a quiet residential neighborhood. Helen remained with her hands clasped over her ears and her eyes staring at the back of the driver’s headset directly in front of her.

In the middle of this peaceful neighborhood was a large, unlit grassy area. It could have been a downtown park or a football pitch, but it was too dark.

Two rockets in unison launched from the pitch-black field, less than 200 yards from our moving car. I could not believe my eyes.

“Don’t worry about those rockets. They belong to our Iron Dome, and they destroy the incoming missiles from Gaza in the air,” Ishay stated casually while taking a sip from his water bottle.

In early 2011, the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) deployed the Iron Dome anti-missile system to protect Israel against rockets launched from the Gaza Strip or other adoring neighbors. The Iron Dome calculates the incoming projectiles’ flight trajectory and counters with defensive missiles that intercept them in mid-air. Rockets from Gaza are launched in calculated batches to overwhelm the Iron Dome.

“What if the Iron Dome rockets miss their intended targets?” I asked.

“The Iron Dome does not miss,” he championed.

“But what if they do miss?” I shot back.

“Then hopefully, we are taking shelter somewhere…”

“Is driving in a car considered taking shelter?” I countered.

Ishay was visibly irritated and didn’t answer the question.

I lost sight of the Iron Dome rockets in the dark, cloudy sky.

Moments later, we heard a thunderous explosion overhead.

“What was that?!” I exclaimed.

“The Iron Dome doing its job, nothing more,” he responded as he glanced at his watch.

“Meaning, the rockets intercepted the incoming missiles?”

“Yeah, that’s what the Iron Dome rockets do; they knock incoming missiles out of the sky and keep you and me safe,” he responded like I was a complete idiot.

Helen still had her hands cupped over her ears and did not hear or see any of the Iron Dome commotion. Thank God.

As we finally arrived at our hotel, the sirens suddenly stopped.

Ishay quickly removed our suitcases from his small trunk and placed them on the curb in front of our hotel. Helen and I thanked him for the ride, and he sped off.

To be continued….

I was furious. I yelled, “I want to speak to your supervisor right now! I demand a full refund for our flights!”

A female Iberia Airlines customer service agent, who was just doing her job, responded, “Sir, the Federal Aviation Administration has not issued any travel restrictions from the U.S. to Israel. We are not issuing refunds for flights to Tel Aviv. If you and your travel companion do not board your scheduled flight, you both will forfeit your seats and will be charged the full fare.”

“This whole thing is fucked up!” I shouted, but before I could carry on with another vulgar outburst, my travel companion embraced my arm and, in a motherly tone, said, “Marc, let’s board the flight to Israel as planned. Good or bad, whatever happens to us, there is God’s plan for us. There’s no changing God’s plan.”

Eight days earlier, on July 8, 2014, the Israeli Defense Forces launched a series of military strikes on Gaza in retaliation for the kidnapping and murder of three Israeli teenagers. These military assaults started an all-out brawl, later known as the 2014 Israel–Gaza Conflict, one of the deadliest Israeli-Palestinian hostile exchanges in decades. As fate would have it, I was headed straight into the heart of the battleground with my travel companion.

My travel companion was a 73-year-old, devout Catholic woman named Helen Cortez — my ex-mother-in-law. Yes, mi ex suegra. I was married to Helen’s daughter, Lori, for thirteen years, and we had two wonderful daughters together. Since the divorce, Helen and I spent several hours per month coordinating early-morning school drop-offs and after-school pickups. My daughters lovingly referred to Helen as their Nana, a term of endearment shared by many Mexican grandmothers.

Helen and I also had much in common. We were both born and raised in the agriculturally rich San Joaquin Valley by Mexican parents. Our shared Mexican heritage shaped our understanding of and respect for one another. Throughout my divorce with her daughter, Helen and I maintained an incredibly — almost unbelievably — healthy ex-in-law relationship. If anything, our family bond grew even stronger after my divorce from her daughter.

“Okay, let’s board the flight, and hopefully, by the time we land in Israel, an Israel-Hamas ceasefire will be in effect,” I replied.

According to the local South Florida TV news, ceasefire discussions had been initiated. Still, according to the American-based Israel-Hamas conflict pundits, neither side was ready to declare a truce.

Helen and I boarded our Iberia Airlines Barcelona-bound flight. We would board an El Al Airlines flight to Tel Aviv in Barcelona.

We had a five-hour layover in Barcelona. We enjoyed a delightful airport breakfast together, and then I checked my emails.

The first email I saw in my inbox was from Lori. The email’s subject line instantly caught my attention, “CALL ME WHEN YOU LAND IN BARCELONA!!!!”

Lori and the girls were in southern Spain that summer, where the girls were attending a camp while Lori worked remotely nearby.

I called Lori from my cellphone.

“Hi. How are you and my Mom?” Lori asked.

“We’re fine. We’re boarding our flight to Tel Aviv in a few hours,” I responded.

“I don’t think you and my Mom should go to Israel. It’s not safe there. We should change our vacation plans and meet in Rome instead.”

“I’ve been thinking along the same lines. According to the Spanish news, Hamas is launching rockets toward Tel Aviv,” I said.

“Change your flights then.”

“Okay. I will call you back,” I responded as I hung up.

Helen and I walked over to the Iberia Airlines customer service counter. A little lady behind the counter motioned to us to approach her.

“Hi, we have a flight to Tel Aviv in a few hours but are uncomfortable flying to Israel because of the current hostilities. We would like to change our flight itinerary and fly to Rome, Italy instead. Can we change our flight destination because of the current situation in Israel without paying a change fee?” I asked.

“No, sir. We are not offering any special ticketing changes for Tel Aviv-bound passengers. You must cancel your existing flights and book a new flight travel plan.”

She somehow managed to search flight schedules and at the same time hold a meaningful conversation as only ticketing agents know how to do, then continued, “Sir, I recommend that you both travel to Israel as planned and book your flights to Rome from there.”

“Okay, what about…” as I interrupted her mid-sentence.

“Sir, I am not finished. May I finish?” with another, this time slightly dramatic, breather. “The day before your flight to Miami, fly back to Tel Aviv from Rome.”

I stepped back from the counter and asked Helen, “What do you think?”

“Sounds fine to me,” she shrugged.

I called Lori and explained that her Mom and I would fly to Israel and then book flights to Rome from our hotel.

“Please, please take care of my mom!” Lori pleaded.

Helen and I finally started our jaunt to our El Al Airlines departure gate.

As we approached the gate, I noticed a short queue of people waiting their turn to pass through the El Al security checkpoint. A family in front of us spoke Hebrew with Israeli passports in tow. An El Al security agent quickly verified their passports, and with only a few basic questions, the family passed through the security checkpoint.

“Wow, that was easy,” I murmured.

The El Al security personnel could be abrasive and exhaustive in their pre-boarding questioning.

A female El Al security agent in her mid-twenties gestured for Helen and me to approach her.

“Passports, please,” she said with a forced smile.

Helen and I handed our passports to the agent.

As the El Al security agent flipped through the pages of my passport, she asked, “What’s your relation to her?” as she tilted her head in Helen’s direction.

“This might sound strange, but she’s my ex-mother-in-law.”

“Your ex-mother-in-law? Why would you be traveling with your ex-mother-in-law?” She said with a look of disbelief.

“It’s a long story,” I responded.

“Don’t worry. I have time.”

“Helen and I are meeting her daughter — my ex — and her granddaughters — my daughters — in Israel. My ex-wife, Lori, works for an Israeli company based in Tel Aviv.”

“Why aren’t they traveling with you now? Shouldn’t you all be together?”

“Helen and I just flew in from Miami, where I live. The girls have been attending a summer camp in Spain for the past weeks, and the camp ends in two days. They will be flying separately from Barcelona and meeting us in Israel,” I responded.

“I would think the grandmother would be her with her daughter and granddaughters and not with her ex-son-in-law,” she countered.

She had a good point.

“Your story makes no sense,” She protested.

“Which part?” I asked.

“The entire thing. Especially the part that you are traveling with your ex-mother-in-law. What kind of a man would agree to travel to a different country with his ex-mother-in-law?”

Glancing at Helen, I responded, “She and I have a wonderful relationship and focus on raising our girls.”

The El Al security agent was losing her patience. Her body language carried an aggravated tone.

“Tell me again who she is to you?” the El Al security agent asked.

“She’s my ex-mother-in-law,” I responded calmly.

“Let me get this straight … your story is that you are traveling to Israel with your ex-mother-in-law,” she asked with a raised eyebrow while looking at me for a head nod or any affirmative gesture.

I nodded my head.

“And what are you planning to do in Israel?” she asked.

“We are meeting my ex-wife and kids in Tel Aviv for a planned vacation.”

“Where do you sleep? Do you and your ex-wife sleep in the same room? Same bed when you vacation together?” she asked.

“No, I stay in a different hotel room,” I responded, thoroughly impressed with her imaginative questioning.

“Stay here. I will be right back,” she said.

I glanced over at Helen, who looked perturbed.

“What’s her problem? She asked you the same questions twice?” Helen asked.

I explained to Helen that the El AL Security agents were notorious for grilling passengers, especially non-Israeli citizens, with repetitive questions during the pre-boarding process. As I continued to explain, the objective was to identify any inconsistencies in the passengers’ responses or any indication of traveling to Israel for the wrong reasons.

In the distance, our El Al Security Agent spoke to several other El Al Security Agents. I couldn’t hear anything that she was saying. But as she spoke, they all had turns glancing at Helen and me. Most of them smiled politely as they looked, but one agent couldn’t contain himself. He laughed so hard that a booger torpedo launched from his rather sizeable Jewish nose.

After a few minutes, our female El AL Security agent returned with one of her male colleagues.

“This is my supervisor. He has a few questions for you,” she said curtly.

“I understand you are traveling to Israel to meet your ex-wife and children. Is that correct?” he asked.

“Yes, that is correct,” I responded.

“And she’s your ex-mother-in-law?” he asked as he looked Helen up and down, pausing a few seconds to examine her breast area.

“Yes,” I said, disturbed that any early thirty-something male would gawk at a seventy-year-old’s boobs.

“This is a highly unusual story. To be honest, I just had to come over and meet the poor guy who is traveling to Israel with his ex-mother-in-law,” he said. “You do know rockets are being fired into Tel Aviv. It’s not the safest place for children, especially children not born in Israel.”

“Yes, we are aware of the situation in Israel.”

“How do you feel about the situation?” he questioned.

“It’s very unfortunate. I have been receiving updates from my buddy, Sharon, who lives on the outskirts of Tel Aviv,” I responded.

“Who’s Sharon? Is he Israeli?” he asked with genuine interest.

“Yes”

“How do you know Sharon?” he asked.

“Sharon and I worked together at a software development company in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, ten years ago, and we maintained a very close friendship even though he moved back to Israel several years ago,” I responded.

I told the El Al Security Agents that my girls and I had plans to visit Sharon and his family during our trip.

“Do you know the name of the city where Sharon lives?” asked the female El Al Security Agent.

“No, I don’t,” I responded.

“Do you have his address?” she asked.

“I don’t know it by heart. I have his address on my laptop,” I answered, pointing to my travel bag draped over my left shoulder.

“Are you staying with Sharon while you are on vacation in Israel?” she continued.

“No, we are staying at the Bell Hotel in Tel Aviv.”

“One minute, we will be right back.”

Both security agents walked off. The male security agent re-joined the group of security agents, and the female who had questioned us first went to a telephone at a nearby desk.

After a few minutes on the phone, she returned to where Helen and I stood.

“Okay, you are free to board your flight now. Please tell your ex-wife I will be looking for her in a couple of days when she boards her flight to Tel Aviv,” she said with a smirk.

“Oh, you two are equally charming. You will get along with her very well!” I retorted as I started down the ramp toward our flight.

To be continued….

Day 1 (Wednesday)

I was showering when my wife barged into our master bathroom, screaming, “I lost it! I lost it! I can’t find it!”

“What, Lori, your sex drive?” I responded sarcastically.

“No, I lost that a long time ago!” she responded. “Marc, you are such an asshole sometimes! I’m talking about my diamond! I lost my diamond! I can’t find my diamond! Get out of the shower and help me look for it!”

I immediately jumped out of the shower and shouted, “You lost your diamond? When did you lose it?”

The missing diamond was a nearly flawless 2-carat rock I bought 18 years ago when I proposed to Lori. She loved this diamond. I loved the fact that Lori loved it.

Lori and I divorced over ten years ago. We’re still divorced but recently reconciled. I still affectionately refer to her as my wife.

Soon after we divorced, Lori removed the diamond from her wedding band and re-set it into a beautiful diamond pendant necklace. Despite our time apart, newfound lives, and the animosity that manifests from a divorce, I would always glance at her neck area to confirm that she was still wearing the diamond. I took strange comfort in knowing that even after our divorce, she still held the diamond close to her heart. I sheepishly felt that maybe I wasn’t too far from her heart either. The diamond became my personal symbol of hope.

“How did you lose it?” I questioned.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” screamed Lori. “I went on a run this morning, and halfway into my run, I noticed the diamond wasn’t bouncing off my chest as it usually does. I reached for it and immediately realized it was gone!”

Lori loved to run, and the diamond played an important analytical role in Lori’s runs — The faster she ran, the higher the diamond bounced. According to Lori’s running methodology, if the diamond hit her chin for five continuous minutes, her run would have been deemed respectable.

“Then you must have lost the diamond while running,” I said.

“Not sure. The diamond could have fallen from its clasp before my run.”

The diamond had been secured around Lori’s neck with an eagle-like claw clasp for almost eight years.

“Marc, please help me look for it!” Lori pleaded.

“Let’s retrace your exact steps from when you woke up this morning.” I began, trying to bring some calm to the situation.

Lori vividly remembered that the diamond had been around her neck last night, as it was uncomfortably digging into her neck in the middle of the night.

“Well, I dressed into my running outfit on my side of the bed, then went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I walked downstairs to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee. After I replied to several emails, I went out the front door to start my run.” Lori recalled.

Lori and I first inspected our unmade bed. The comforter had somehow balled up during the night, and we carefully unraveled it and thoroughly examined every square inch. We then slowly stripped the sheets. I naively expected to find the diamond lodged on Lori’s side of the bed and quickly put an end to this fire drill — no such luck.

We looked under the bed. But still no luck.

We then combed the carpet area on Lori’s side of the bed. Unfortunately, we had a textured carpet where a 2-carat diamond could remain unnoticed for quite some time unless painfully stepped on with bare feet. I crawled on my hands and knees, probing every centimeter of carpet between our master bedroom and the kitchen. I came up empty on my first attempt. I re-crawled the same carpeted path again, but still no diamond. I painstakingly repeated the same nose-to-carpet bloodhound process two more times, but the diamond was not to be found.

“The diamond is not in the house.” I finally conceded three hours later.

“The diamond must have fallen from my clasp while running.” Lori moaned.

I quickly called my office to let them know I had a family emergency and wouldn’t be coming into the office. I knew if I didn’t apply my total energy to finding the diamond, Lori would kick my ass. Then again, she wouldn’t have to — honestly, if we didn’t find the diamond, I’d be kicking my own ass.

Lori was an excellent runner — she could easily run 7–10 miles. I had no idea how far she’d run this morning. If she did lose the diamond on her run, we could be searching several miles.

“Now that I think about it, the diamond had been a little loose in its clasp since last week,” Lori remembered. “The jarring motion of a run may have popped it out!”

“The diamond could be anywhere between our house and the point I realized the diamond was not bouncing off my chest,” Lori sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly lower.

“How far had you run when you realized it was missing?” I asked.

Lori looked down and up, gulped back tears, and said, “Two miles.”

“The odds of finding the diamond are not in our favor, but we must look for it,” I said determinedly.

The time was a little after 1:00 p.m. We still had plenty of daylight, and the sun shone brightly to aid our two-person search party.

Lori preferred to run in the street, not on the sidewalk — it was softer on the knees, she would say.

Today, with the constant commotion, Lori had difficulty remembering the side of the street she had run on that morning. We decided to walk Lori’s most probable running route carefully.

Of course, neither Lori nor I had experience finding an expensive gem on a public street. I felt sad for us. We were searching for a needle in a hay field — not just a haystack, but a whole hay field.

Passersby noticed our peculiar slow-walking, head-down, detective-like movements and naturally asked what we were doing. We didn’t dare mention we were trying to find a 2-carat diamond. For starters, we did not need any competition to find the diamond. On a self-conscious level, we preferred perfect strangers not to think of us as the completely nuts divorced couple. A little nuts was fine, but we had to draw the line somewhere.

We eventually walked the entire with-traffic-running route with no diamond in hand.

That night, Lori and I decided any additional search and recovery efforts in locating the diamond would end in heartache and, quite frankly, wasting more time would add insult to injury.

We decided to focus on contacting local newspapers and police and fire departments. We hoped a saintly soul might have found the diamond and turned it into local authorities. That was our last and only practical hope.

Day 2 (Thursday)

My Mom arrived in the morning by train for a visit, and I picked her up at the train station as planned. She knew immediately that I was preoccupied with estranged thoughts.

“Are you okay, son?” she asked.

“I’m fine. Everything is fine, Mom,” I responded. “But Lori lost her diamond yesterday, probably while she was out running.”

“The diamond you bought when you asked her to marry you?” my mom questioned.

“Yes, that diamond.”

“Oh no, son. I’m so sorry. I know that diamond meant a lot to you both, and I know it cost a pretty penny, too,” she said.

My mom was always cool, calm, and collected. She had no other approach to life. She had a knack for turning shitty situations into learning opportunities, which firmly cemented her position, year after year, as the best mom in the world.

“What are you going to do? Have you and Lori tried to find it?” she asked.

“Yes, mom. We retraced the entire route that Lori ran yesterday but didn’t find it,” I said.

“That’s good, son. I’m glad you’re trying to find it. Let me ask you this: is the diamond still insured?” my mom asked.

I had to think about her question for a few seconds because I didn’t know the answer to her practical, almost obvious question. For the remainder of the car ride home from the train station, I thought we had a partial solution to the problem. The more I thought about my mom’s question, the more convinced I became that the diamond was insured.

We had the diamond insured for ten years when we were officially married. As we pulled into the driveway, I vaguely remembered from a conversation with Lori that she had unilaterally decided to suspend the diamond’s insurance coverage.

I entered the house. Lori was in the kitchen — sexy as always but noticeably sad. She’s typically upbeat, full of energy, always talking… and I mean always talking. Today, she seemed different, carrying the world’s weight on her mind.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked her quietly.

“Sure?” Lori responded inquisitively.

Lori and I went upstairs after Lori greeted my Mom and visited with her for a few minutes.

“What’s up?” Lori asked.

“Is the diamond still insured?” I asked.

Lori looked right at me, almost through me. I got the strange feeling she’d hoped the dreadful insurance question wouldn’t enter my mind.

“No, I stopped paying for the insurance plan a few years ago. The diamond isn’t insured,” Lori said.

I knew the chances were slim that the diamond was still insured, but I had to ask. She clearly felt guilty for not maintaining the insurance plan, but I hadn’t asked her about it since we reconciled, so it was my fault as much as hers.

“Okay, Love. No worries. We will continue searching for the diamond,” I said gently.

Day 3 (Friday)

I went to work Friday Morning. Everything seemed out of place, including me.

I felt incredibly low and almost hopeless, but worse for Lori. The diamond meant a lot to me, but I knew it meant more to her.

I had another disturbing thought. Deep down inside, I wondered what would happen if we couldn’t find the diamond; maybe our reconciliation efforts would be over, too. I was concerned that Lori would interpret losing the diamond as a spiritual sign that our reconciliation was not meant to be.

In the afternoon, Lori called the local authorities again and asked whether a 2-carat diamond had been turned in. She didn’t receive good news.

I arrived home shortly after 6:00 PM and had a nice family dinner. Lori and I didn’t talk much about the diamond that evening. Our kids went to bed around 9:00 PM.

The kids had been asleep for about thirty minutes when I asked Lori if she wanted a drink.

“Of course,” she responded before I could finish my question.

After a couple of glasses of wine, Lori was in better spirits.

“I know this might sound crazy, but I think we should look for the diamond right now,” Lori yelled.

“Right now?” I raised an eyebrow. “It’s pitch black outside. We won’t be able to see anything right now.”

“I bought two ultra-bright LED flashlights this afternoon, one for you and one for me. I think these high-powered flashlights will make the diamond sparkle brightly at night,” she almost grinned, and her eyes twinkled for the first time since the diamond went missing.

Feeling the liquid courage from the wine, I responded like any good husband should: “Sure, let’s do it!”

We bounded out the front door, armed with an ultra-bright LED flashlight in one hand and a full glass of wine in the other.

Even though we were slightly tipsy, we remembered to alternate our route and search the against-traffic side of the street this time.

Lori and I agreed she should walk a few feet ahead of me. We didn’t have a good reason for that decision, but it made sense then.

The flashlights were astonishingly bright; even pieces of broken glass sparkled like diamonds. I worried that a million false positives would consume our search.

Almost a quarter mile into our search, I noticed what I thought was a crumpled Wrigley gum aluminum foil wrapper lying on the asphalt about six feet away from the curb. I thought nothing of it, but I picked it up anyway. As I pinched the object between my thumb and index finger, I noticed it was too heavy, too important to be a wadded-up aluminum foil gum wrapper. I suddenly realized I was looking at the backside of our diamond’s memory frame. I was in a state of absolute shock. We had found the diamond!

In an emotional voice, as I held the diamond in front of my flashlight’s bright beam, I mouthed the most amazing words of my life: “Lori, are you looking for this?”

Our Miraculous Route

I have been a software developer for 40 years. I started out as a VAX Macro programmer in 1977. Software development has been my life’s work, and it has brought me admiration from my peers. I have won numerous programming awards and have written several books about Java multithreading and concurrency. Over the years, other software professionals have referred to me as a 10x programmer, a term given to a programmer who is ten times more productive than the average programmer.

Sadly, my software development skills have diminished considerably over the past 12 months. My mastery over Java, a software language I have mastered for the past 20 years, is no more. Until last year, I was the “go-to Java guy” in our company who solved the most complex programming problems. Now, I find myself referring to the Java reference guide on an hourly basis to solve even the simplest of problems.

My boss, bless his heart, has been supportive. He knows that I’m struggling and that I can’t code like I used to.

One day, he approached me. “Stephen, come into my office. I need to speak with you.”

“Sure,” I responded.

“You’ve missed almost every deadline this year. What’s going on?” he asked.

With my head down, I replied, “I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I’m forgetting how to write code. Sometimes, I can’t even remember the syntax for a simple If Statement. I rely on Stack Overflow at least a dozen times per day to help me write code.”

My boss took a deep breath and glanced at the last programming book that I wrote a few years ago, which happened to be pinned open by a stapler on his messy desk. “I’m sorry to hear this. I really am. You used to be our best software developer, but I need to be honest with you. If you continue to miss deadlines, we may have to let you go. Our company is too small to keep underperformers,” he said.

“I understand,” I said, fighting back tears.

I walked back to my desk, feeling ashamed and embarrassed. I couldn’t believe my career was unraveling like this. As my boss indicated, I was the company’s best programmer at one time, dammit!

Distracted by my own self-pity, I bumped into Cody, an annoying millennial software developer. I went from feeling sorry for myself to being pissed off in a hot second. Damn, I can’t stand millennials. They are all spoiled little shits if you ask me. Every single one of them! They are good-for-nothing, participation trophy-loving, entitled brats. And Cody is their king!

“Cody, watch where you’re going!” I yelled.

“Sorry, Stephen. Didn’t see you,” Cody responded. After a brief pause, he asked, “Hey, are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

“Yes, Cody. Everything is fine. Not having a great day, that’s all.”

“Maybe I can help?” Cody replied.

“Thanks for your concern, Cody. I’m fine, really. I need to get back to work,” I responded in an aggravated tone.

Finally, back at my desk, I slouched into my chair. I just stared at my computer screen. Thirty minutes had gone by before I finally conjured up enough motivation to write code. Then, without pressing any of the keys on my keyboard, the craziest thing happened — the cursor on my computer screen began typing. Elegantly written Java code began flowing into my IntelliJ IDE. I inspected the software code more closely. It was exactly the code I needed to finish my current task. I updated my boss on my progress and told him I had completed my deliverable.

“Wow! I didn’t expect you to fix that bug for another few days,” he said.

Over the next three months, each of my software projects were completed in this manner. With me at my desk, watching my computer gracefully write software by itself. Of course, I told absolutely nobody about this.

On one Friday afternoon, my boss called me into his office.

“Stephen, you have really turned things around recently. Your work is impeccable. You have completed more programming tasks than anyone else in our department!” he said, grinning. “I’m promoting you to Chief Software Architect with a 14 percent raise!”

My heart started to race. My mind began to spin. My smile beamed ear to ear.

“That’s not all. I want you to take next week off as a little reward so you can relax a little. You deserve it,” my boss cheerfully added. I went home immediately after the meeting and told my wife the wonderful news.

After a week-long vacation, I went back to work. I learned the company made a few personnel changes while I was away. For starters, Cody was fired. Apparently, he was underperforming. He had recently missed many deadlines. I felt bad for the kid, but let’s face it — software programming isn’t for everyone.

After a couple of meetings, it was time to start working on my first programming task since my vacation. I sat in my chair, but this time, my computer just stared back at me. No elegant Java code miraculously appeared on my computer screen like before. “Come on, write code, you dumb computer!” I said. The computer didn’t respond.

For the next two days, I sat in front of my computer and made zero progress on my deliverables.

My boss then called me into his office.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “You haven’t finished the task I assigned to you a couple of days ago.”

“Everything is fine. Just been responding to a ton of emails that accumulated while I was away last week,” I nervously responded.

My boss noticed my nervousness, and he played along, “Sure, that’s understandable.”

I excused myself and left his office.

I felt like throwing up as I plodded back to my desk. I was disgusted with myself. I was disgusted that I happily accepted full credit for work I didn’t recently produce. Disgusted that I couldn’t earnestly solve software problems any longer.

A few minutes later, slouched in my chair, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I received an email from Cody.

Hey,

I hope you had a great vacation. As you probably heard by now, I got fired. Anyway, would you provide a reference for me regarding a new job opportunity?

Thanks in advance,
Cody
 — — — — — — — — — —

Cute. Cody, the king of the pain-in-the-ass millennials, requested a reference from me. I mulled his request over, but Cody was only an average software developer at best. I responded to Cody immediately.

Hello Cody,

Sorry to hear about your recent departure. Unfortunately, I’m not comfortable with providing you with a recommendation at this time.

Best of luck,
Stephen
 — — — — — — — — — —

A couple of minutes later, I received another email from Cody. “Damn, he is so annoying. Can’t he take a hint?” I muttered to myself.

I felt no obligation to respond to his second email and decided I would reply to his email before I headed home that evening.

Later that same day, I read Cody’s follow-up email. An email I will never forget.

Hey,

I’m disappointed that you declined my reference request. It’s really disappointing since I’m the reason you got promoted. You see, I overheard the conversation you had with your boss regarding your inability to complete your software development tasks. Your situation reminded me of my grandfather’s recent decline; who could no longer perform surgeries as an aging surgeon. When I heard you were struggling with your projects, I knew I had to do something. Some time ago, while you were away from your desk, I installed a software program to access your computer remotely. I’m the one who has been secretly writing your code for you over the past three months.

Cody

My Software Codyng Secret was originally published in The Startup on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I grew up in a tiny countryside village outside Guadalajara, Mexico. I was three years old when I started helping my mom in the kitchen. She desperately needed assistance to cook for our family of eleven children. I was the third youngest, and I instinctively knew my mom needed help to cook for my brothers and sisters. My father was useless around the house. He worked during the day and drank at night. The vato loved his tequila.

My mom was the best of the best. She made any sacrifice required for our family to eat something every night. My mom only served herself dinner after we kids had eaten and if any food was miraculously left over. She was the backbone of our family and my heart and soul.

My mom passed away when I was 16 years old. I could live one hundred lifetimes and never get over losing her. I remember every word of our last conversation.

“Cesar, I don’t have much time left. Our maker is calling me home soon,” my mom said.

“I know, mama,” I responded, tears running down my face.

“Promise me that you will work hard and follow your dreams,” she said, caressing my hand. ”Shoot for the stars, mijo (my son). Don’t be afraid to fail because I will still love you even if you fail.”

“I promise, mama. I will work hard, and I will make you proud. One day, mama, I want to be the best chef in the world!” I said with a sense of pride and naive optimism.

“That’s wonderful, mijo,” my mom said, briefly pausing to catch her breath. “Also, remember, don’t sacrifice your dignity and your morals to get ahead or to become rich. Don’t steal. Don’t lie. You can’t live a rich life without dignity,” my mom said, sounding more like a prophet than my mother.

“I understand, mama,” I responded tearfully.

Two days later, she passed away.

The following year, I left home for good. I couldn’t live in the same house with my father any longer. I moved to the resort town of Puerto Vallarta to look for work. When I arrived in Puerto Vallarta, I was overwhelmed and scared. Puerto Vallarta was a big city in my country boy’s eyes.

Right away, I found a job as a dishwasher at the most popular taqueria (taco restaurant) in Puerto Vallarta. Tourists would travel from around the world just to eat at our taqueria. Of course, my boss was very proud of his taqueria, and I felt honored to work for such an exceptional establishment.

Every day, I worked hard. My boss was pleased with my work ethic. I loved working at the taqueria, and I often wondered if my mom would be proud of me if she were still alive.

I worked at the taqueria for a little over a year when my boss promoted me to carnicero (the person who prepared and cooked the meat).

“Cesar, you do excellent work around here,” my boss said affectionately. “I want to give you more responsibility. From now on, you will be responsible for all meat preparations and grilling. Think you can handle it?”

“Patron (boss), I love to cook. I’ve been helping in the kitchen since I was three years old. I would be honored to cook here at your taqueria!” I said, thinking and wishing my mom was still alive so I could tell her the good news. I was on top of the world.

My boss personally trained me. He carefully explained every detail of his recipes to me and demonstrated his self-taught culinary techniques. I loved learning from him. I was living my dream.

Every day. I woke up early to marinate the meat. In the afternoons, I operated the grill — 12 hours a day, seven days a week. Everyone in Puerto Vallarta worked a similar schedule. I heard that in the United States, people worked 8 hours a day, five days a week, and Saturdays and Sundays were days to rest. Such a blessed life, I thought. One day, I would love to live in the United States.

Our taqueria was always very busy. Customers waited at least two hours to feast on our food daily. The customers stood in long lines wrapped around the entire block until they were seated at a table. My boss was a local celebrity. I was very fond of him. He was the father I always wanted.

A couple of years had gone by, and the lines of customers were noticeably shorter. Then, one day, the lines completely disappeared. The tourists no longer visited Puerto Vallarta due to the local drug cartel atrocities. People didn’t feel safe here anymore.

During this time, the restaurant suffered miserably.

“I may be forced to close the business if things don’t pick up soon,” my boss said, his voice cracking.

My boss was a great person. I ached to see him suffer like this, and I would do anything to help him and his business.

As days went by, the bills piled up. My boss now paid the bills from his personal savings account. The business had no money, and he was on the verge of going broke.

One day, my boss asked me to accompany him on a walk.

“Cesar, I have terrible news. I’m closing the taqueria next week. I can’t afford it anymore,” he said, gently touching my shoulder. “I can get you a job at another taqueria in town if you like.”

“Sure, patron, but only if your taqueria is closed for good. I’m not leaving your side until then,” I said.

“Cesar, another thing, you need to start thinking about your future,” my boss sternly said.

I interrupted, “I want to be the best chef in the world and cook for wealthy people in the United States.”

“To be the best, you must train under the best. You must attend a U.S. culinary school to learn from the best.

“Learn from Aaron Sanchez, the guy on Chopped?” I excitedly responded.

“No … Rick Bayless. The gringo. He’s the best,” my boss responded, trying to lighten things up. “Just kidding. In all seriousness, to be the best chef, you need to learn other styles and techniques from around the world. There’s an amazing culinary school in the U.S. called CIA that can provide you the training you need,” my boss said.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept rewinding the conversation with my boss in my head. I would love to attend culinary school in the U.S., but how? I had very little money. I couldn’t afford to travel to the United States, and I absolutely could not afford to attend a prestigious culinary school.

Two days later, my boss excitedly ran through the front doors of the taqueria.

“I have wonderful news! The owner of Chipotle, the biggest Mexican food restaurant chain in the United States, is currently touring all of Mexico. He is searching for Mexico’s best burrito and wants to add it to the Chipotle menu. He’s ventured into every corner of Mexico looking for that special, one-of-a-kind recipe,” my boss said, beaming ear to ear. “I got a call from his secretary, and he’s coming to our taqueria! The best part is that he will pay one million U.S. dollars to buy the exclusive rights to the recipe. This would save our business forever!”

The entire staff yelled and jumped as high as they could. A couple of the guys even cried.

A unique buzz was in the air throughout the taqueria. Everyone worked harder, laughed louder, smiled wider, and cooked better. This was a day to remember. We struggled for many months, and we needed this good news.

Before we went home that evening, my boss had another announcement, “By the way, the gentleman from Chiptole will be here tomorrow at 19:00 to sample our burritos. I’m closing the restaurant to the public tomorrow so we can concentrate on preparing the best burritos we ever made!”

I had one evening to prepare for an opportunity of a lifetime. I thought about all of the possibilities. If the American loved our food, he could take me to the United States to cook for his restaurant. I was very excited. My dreams were coming true.

That night, I barely slept. I was too anxious.

The next day, I was the first person to arrive at the taqueria.

The refrigerator door was wide open. A dull stench filled the air. To my dismay, I realized I had forgotten to close the refrigerator door the night before. The meat for today’s special guest was ruined!

“Oh no! What am I going to do now!” I said, crying and panicking.

I could not believe I could be so damn stupid. I’d never forgotten to close the refrigerator door until last night. I was devastated.

I tried to collect my frazzled wits. What should I do? Should I call my boss? Should I call our meat supplier? I was in shock, but I had to do something. Anything. The rest of the guys would arrive soon.

To clear my head, I walked outside to our outdoor seating area in front of the taqueria. I needed some air. I plopped myself down at one of the tables in our eating area and sat there with a blank stare.

As I sat on the verge of suicide, a black cat strutted toward me, crossing our busy street. What a beautiful cat, I thought. Its fur coat was elegant and silky. I envied the cat’s stunning beauty. At that exact moment, a car zoomed by and flattened the cat like a tortilla.

The car didn’t stop. The driver sped on as if nothing happened. I leaped from my chair and chased the vehicle on foot. I ran about half a kilometer before I stopped to catch my breath.

I ran back to the spot where I last saw the black cat. To my disbelief, the cat was still alive. The car crushed the cat’s hind legs, and it dragged itself across the street to safety. It was the saddest thing I had ever seen. The poor cat still had the will to live. The most horrific screams wailed from the cat’s little lungs. The cat cried to me for help. I picked up the poor cat. Its entire body quivered violently. I had never seen anything suffer this type of pain.

“I can’t allow this poor cat to suffer,” I whispered.

With the cat cradled in my arms, I carried it to the alley behind the taqueria.

“I’m sorry, my little friend. I have to do something terrible to you … but … I hope your pain and suffering will soon be over.”

I ended the cat’s life with a whack of my machete across its neck.

As I stared down at the cat’s headless body, thoughts of my desperate situation reemerged in my mind.

I had no idea how to solve my hopeless dilemma. I still needed meat to serve our special guest. I couldn’t call the boss; the news would break his heart. I couldn’t call the meat supplier because it was too late to place an order.

As I spun a wheel of solutions, I remembered a story my mom told me as a kid. Her grandmother burnt the rabbit meat she planned to include in a rabbit stew. She didn’t confess the bad news to my grandfather; instead, she killed and cooked a neighborhood stray cat for my grandfather’s stew. At the end of the meal, my grandfather said, “That was the damn best rabbit stew I ever had. The rabbit meat was exquisite!” My grandmother never told my grandfather the truth about that stew.

I slowly turned my head and glanced at the cat’s lifeless body. A single thought entered my mind: marinade and grill the cat.

As I skinned the cat's smooth, almost silky black fur, I prayed and prayed for forgiveness. I removed the cat’s lean flesh from its bone and marinated its meat in the taqueria’s homemade marinade.

At this time, the staff started to trickle into the taqueria. Everyone beamed with excitement.

My boss then walked into the taqueria.

“How are the preparations going, Cesar?” my boss cheerfully asked.

“Fine, patron. The meat is marinating.” I responded, feeling damn guilty.

The meat marinated all day. I glanced often at the refrigerator where the meat was. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. Was I going to serve a cat-filled burrito to another human being?

As 19:00 approached, the taqueria looked incredible. Beautifully decorated and meticulously cleaned. No detail was too small that day. Every napkin folded perfectly. Each fork and knife were set in their rightful places on the tables.

The meat was almost done marinating. It was time to cook. I had never cooked cat meat before, so I wasn’t sure about the required cooking time or correct temperature. I had to wing it.

I put the meat on the grill just as our special guest from the U.S. walked through the door. My boss happily greeted him at the door.

My boss and the special guest spoke like old friends.

“How much longer until the burritos are ready, Cesar?” my boss asked.

“Five minutes, patron,” I responded.

When I pulled the meat from the grill, it looked remarkably delicious and smelled exquisite. For a couple of seconds, I forgot it was cat meat. I carefully drizzled the meat into the tortillas one by one, and I carefully prepared three burritos for our special guest.

“Sir, I hope you enjoy our special burritos!” I said, serving Mr. Chipotle. My hand trembled as I slid the burritos onto the table.

I almost fainted as our guest took his first bite. He chewed for an eternity, it seemed, then eventually swallowed. He gently placed his burrito back on the plate. He looked around the room and made eye contact with a few of us who stood around the table. He expressed no emotion whatsoever. I was so scared. I had no idea what he would say or do next.

“I have to be honest, this is the best damn burrito I have ever had!” our special guest said enthusiastically. “This burrito contains so many rich flavors; I never had anything like it. You guys have hit a home run with this burrito! I gotta have this recipe!”

“I will pay you the $1,000,000.00 for the recipe!” our guest continued.

My boss looked at me with the biggest smile and said, “Go ahead, Cesar. Tell him the recipe!”

I gulped, “Patron, I need to tell you something…”

To be continued…