The Roaring 20s. The sound of fury made the year Mother Nature and Father Time said, “fuck humanity!” and exercised self-care. Their sabbatical marked 2020 as the year from hell—ushering in a global pandemic, the deaths of countless legends, and the Black Lives Matter and Me Too movements. It’s also the year I turned 50 and developed a 20/20 vision that finally allowed me to see myself.

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My name is Myles Gunn. My friends call me Mylo. I’m an average Joe who loves Jesus, cussing, coffee, comedy, music, and never being alone with my thoughts for too long. To say the year 2020 fucked me all the way up would be a ginormous understatement.

For one, quarantine felt like fighting in hell with a squirt gun. It was the Dark Ages. Some jailhouse rock meets sign of the times shit. A time when professional felt personal and personal was having a motherfucking identity crisis. The constant loop of introspection, doom, regret, fear, and confinement was a low-rent nightmare occupying every conscious and unconscious thought in my head. I spent hours listening to myself breathe in my mask while watching the world turn into a literal dumpster fire on CNN. It was A LOT.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a loner. But this time alone was different. The irony of hindsight and 2020. I think that was the hardest part. Like I said before, I don’t sit well with my thoughts for too long.

Luckily, I didn’t have to spend all of lockdown at home driving my wife, Traci, nuts. I work as a facilities manager for a government contractor and am a professional church musician. So when lockdown happened, I became an essential worker and unemployed simultaneously. In other words, I was on the front lines the day the music died. Churches were closed, and as a facilities manager, being in the office daily was ”business as usual.”

But the office was eerie. Our space only housed 30 employees. And the only peeps around during the pandemic were me, our cleaning lady Petra, and Chris, our IT support specialist. We were the three musketeers, safeguarding printer ink and paper clips in the name of capitalism. I felt like Will Smith in I Am Legend. Except I was wishing Scotty would beam me up.

 Speaking of alien encounters, let me tell you about the day of reckoning that led me here. It was I Am Legend-ary, riddled with ET references and close encounters of the strangest kind.

It all started with Petra’s arrival at the office. But first, here’s a little backstory on Petra...

As I said, Petra’s the cleaning lady for our building. She’s a loud, gossipy, Spanglish-speaking Honduran with a gigantic heart. I’m convinced she was an airhorn with an inferiority complex in a previous life. Petra’s what you’d call a jealous wallflower. An attention whore with a temper who doesn’t want to be seen. Which is why being a cleaner is the perfect day job for her.

As I mentioned earlier, English isn’t Petra’s first language. And she’s knighted me as her linguistics sounding board since she’s obsessed with speaking like ‘a respectable white woman’ instead of the nosy and brash drama queen she is. Petra’s drama meter was set to extra zesty on this particular Thursday. She got off the elevator, schlepping a bike with a wicker basket on the handles, wearing a blanket-like shawl over her head and a hefty scowl across her brow.

“Jefe! Ay Dios mío! The chickens are bringing the cold today!” she bellowed through her mask.

“Hi, Petra. You mean the hawk is out?” I responded.

Petra snapped, “Yes, Jefe. That’s what I say. Your ears on vacation from the cold or something? You don’t have the Corona beer, do you?”

I laugh-talked, “No, Petra. My ears are fine, and I don’t have the damn Coronavirus. So exhale and smile before your frown lines freeze in place. I left my chisel and patience at home.”

Petra pulled down her mask and gave me a megawatt smile, “Why you so estricto, Jefe? Here!” She handed me a pack of Reese’s Pieces. I thanked her and suddenly had the urge to phone home.

A few minutes after my encounter with Petra, our IT guy, Chris, appeared. Chris is a nerd with nerve—your stereotypical awkward, self-centered, know-it-all techie with the tact of an over-opinionated five-year-old. I call him Pinky and the Brain because he tells me daily that he’s planning to take over a company in the future. I nod and stay on his good side if it ever happens.

A few months before the pandemic hit, Chris confided he didn’t like how he looked and felt uncomfortable in his skin. He’s racially and sexually ambiguous and has been dropping me crumbs about his life-long identity crisis for the past two years. So I was happy he felt comfortable coming clean with me. That heart-to-heart chat kinda bonded us as friends. We’ve been cool ever since.

Chris has been using the empty office as an opportunity to discover his personal style. He’s appointed Petra and me as judges for his project runway, and this particular week, he was experimenting with masks. Chris showed up that day wearing a Stormtrooper mask with an n95 mask over it. He claims he was having a bad hair day. Petra and I gave him a double thumbs down and an eye roll for emphasis.

Petra circled back to my desk around lunchtime with her cell phone in hand. “Jefe, look at this!” She shoved her phone in my face.

“I failed my test yesterday.” Petra was taking ESL classes online and gave me weekly progress reports.

“This is no bueno. You help me do better, yes? My English is better when I talk to you. So you have to help me more. My therapist tell me that is good for me, Jefe.”

I raised my eyebrow “Wait, therapist? When did you start seeing a therapist?”

Petra responded, “I no tell you? I go to therapy three times now! Very nice lady. I want to talk like her.”

“That’s nice, Petra. What made you decide to go to therapy? Everything okay?” I asked.

Petra furrowed her brow “Remember last month I tell you I argue with my son about his controladora girlfriend? Well, he tell me I’m biplar and need to be shrunk back to normal. So I go online and find a shrink because I no want to be biplar. My husband call me honey, I shrunk the loca now.”

Petra didn’t even wait for me to respond. She spun around on her hot pink Crocs and headed down the hall, garbage bags flailing from her back pocket. I whispered, “space cadet,” and shook my head. It took me another 10 minutes to figure out that biplar meant bipolar.

“Shit, I’m probably the one who needs to be shrunk. Maybe I’ll ask Petra to take me to her leader.” I went back to eating my lunch.

Halfway through my salad, my cell phone rang. “Awwh, hell!” It was my pain in my ass friend, Calvin. Where do I even start with him? I’ve known Calvin since Christ was a child. We grew up together and he’s like a bad habit I’ve never been able to shake. He’s a baby daddy with issues and an obsessive appetite for self-sabotage. He knows better but doesn’t do better and has been in and out of prison for a total of 10 years. Not for any violent crimes or misdemeanors, mind you. He’s continually been locked up for child support evasion and a horrible pull-out game. I answered the call.

“Man, what you doing?” Calvin barked.

I responded, “Fool, I’m at work. What YOU doing?”

Calvin answered, “You at work, huh? That’s what’s up! Man, I just finished breaking up a fight between two rats. You know I don’t allow violence in my house.”

I busted out laughing. Calvin hung up. Typical Calvin. He’ll call back.

It was quiet now, and my mind was racing again. Hearing from Calvin always transported me to my past life. He reminded me of youth, naiveté, and poor choices, so I rarely talk to Calvin. Thankfully, our conversations never last that long.

I try not to think about it. The mistake that snatched my youth. I’d bounced back and made a success of myself. I’m happy, healthy, and about to turn 50. I should be seeing the light, not ruminating in darkness. I tell you, hindsight and 2020 is a serious mind fuck.

I’d managed to avoid doom watching CNN for most of the day. But the day had already morphed into a telenovela of The Young and the Chestless. So, I decided to play news roulette and turned the volume up on the next story segment.

“The GOP culture war continues. With Republicans shining a spotlight on sexual grooming and anti-gay legislation, arguments are swirling over which political party has the most pedophiles. Well, one Republican congresswoman’s name is trending at the top of that list. Kentucky Representative Jackie Flowers’ young husband is raising some SERIOUS questions. Here’s her engagement announcement from 2014. And no, that’s not her son. She’s nearly two decades older than her husband, Mike, and they were engaged before he graduated college. The two reportedly met when he was in high school, where Flowers served as a board chair. At the time of their meeting, it was reported that she was 35 and he was 16. In a speech at a Young Business Leaders of America event, Mike praised Flowers for granting him a scholarship from her family that changed his life. Well, it appears she gave him more than that. She served as his mentor and personal coach and ensured he never had to have a job while pursuing his studies. Perhaps…”

I turned off the TV and stared for a moment. I couldn’t focus and was sweating. My hands were trembling. I looked up and noticed Petra and Chris were in the room with me. Their presence calmed me a bit. The two of them were talking, but their voices were background noise. I grabbed my phone and googled “sexual grooming.’” My only context with the phrase was the current political rhetoric that teachers who mention sexual orientation are “grooming” kids to be gay. I’d never heard the phrase applied to the Mrs. Robinsons of the world. Or me. I frantically read through the search results…

Intentional manipulation.

Predatory behavior for personal gain.

Emotional blackmail.

Robbery.

Seduce, influence, dominate…

Victims are GROOMED.

Wait, this can’t be me.

“Mylo! Mylo! Earth to Mylo!!!” Chris yelled and shook my shoulder. The sight of his Stormtrooper mask shook me out of my stupor.

I shouted, “Got damn! Stop shaking me, you little fucker! I feel like I’m on one of those horrible amusement park rides that make you hurl.”

Chris backed up with a concerned look. “Dude, are you okay? You’re sweating, and your hands are shaking. You need some water? Should I call your wife?”

“Nah, no need to call Traci and disturb the peace at home. I’m fine.” I huffed. “Did you see that story about the lady politician marrying that young kid?” I asked.

Petra responded, “Yes, Jefe. They make the big deal. When woman chase the tiger, she no good. When old man chase young girl, they tell him he wear nice suit for a priest.”

“The women are called cougars, not tigers, Petra.” I corrected.

“And my first wife was one. Well, I thought she was one. According to my Google search, I was like that 16-year-old high school kid who was groomed. My first wife groomed me.” Saying the words made me lightheaded.

 “Shit! You got married at 16? That’s fucked up!” Chris hollered.

“No, dumbass. I got married at 20. We started dating when I was 17. She was 25. I can’t believe I took a grown-ass woman to my senior prom!” I declared.

Chris asked, “How was that, dude?”

I responded, “Awkward as fuck. She was older than my English teacher who chaperoned.”

We all chuckled at that, and then there was an awkward silence. Petra was scowling and looking straight through me. I could see the wheels spinning in her head.

“Jefe,” she said. “I so sorry what I say before. Cougars should not eat alive nice man like you. I see now it scramble your cabeza. You need to write down what happened. That’s what my therapist tell me to do. Talk to the paper. It make your mind slow down so you don’t be biplar. I don’t want you to be biplar, Jefe.”

Petra hugged me then shoved me out of the way to empty my trash. She was right. I needed to write down the experience with my first marriage. Transfer my thoughts outside my head so I can get some peace…

I started preparing to close up shop for the day. My day on Planet of the Aints had come full circle: biplar bikes, Reese’s Pieces, Stormtroopers, rat rage, and a vocabulary aha moment. Scotty had finally beamed me up. I closed out the Google search on my phone and opened my Amazon account to purchase a journal.

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