Déjà vu

The sun has just started to get through the trees. The view from my solitary cabin is beautiful. That’s exactly why I selected it, five years ago. Solitary and beautiful.

I’m drinking my first coffee of the day, comfortably wrapped up in my checkered dressing gown, when the black helicopter noisily lands into my backyard in a cloud of dust. Three men in dark suits and shining aviator sunglasses come out of it. They keep their heads down, the propeller is still turning. Do they really assume that engineers were dumb enough to position the heli props at a head chopping height? CIA morons, I think.

A familiar silhouette walks in front, the other two seem just busy to watch his back. He knocks at my kitchen door. I’m not in a hurry, I exactly know who he is and what he wants from me. He sketches an uneasy grin as my face appears behind the mosquito grid.

“Hey, Heavy! Glad to see you old crook! You look in shape, even if you’d need a good shaving. May I get in?”

“Thomas J. Thompson… I told you I didn’t want to see your dirty mug around anymore. Tell your guys to clear off my backyard right away or I’ll take delight in shooting into your legs and your fucking eggbeater.” I gently lift my right hand, my .44 Remington shines like gold in the morning light.

“C’mon, Heavy! Ok, I am sorry for the Mosul thing, we shouldn’t have dumped you. But you knew the risks and… Well, whatever, we need you back into service, the President needs you. Come with me now, I will tell y…”

I feel confused. I suddenly realize that I’ve never had a backyard or a gun. Or a checkered dressing gown, either. I hear the speaker’s voice coming out of my radio alarm, announcing the 6am news. I wake up.