Suddenly there was the crackle of fireworks and the mad race was on. At first the flock gently pushed forward while anticipating the horde of muscular Bos taurus coming our way soon. I jogged alongside the stimulated crowd that hugged the fence poles.
“Viva San Fermin!” a lovely Basque girl with soft dark hair and stunning features echoed.
“Viva Espana!” roared a mature voice. The cries heightened, indicating that the bulls were right behind us. The pace quickened up the corridor. There on the corner, leaning on the top wooden rail of the fence, I saw him. Muerto simply gave a slight smile and rhythmically waved his strong-boned hand. The game was on and I became delirious with exhilaration. The contest moved rapidly now, waves of color in unison. To my left a large man tumbled. I raced on slithering through when I could. I paused for a split second to determine by the reaction of the crowd on the street and above, the location of the bulls. My first estimation was about fifty to sixty yards, not a safe buffer with speed of these animals. Still clinging to my rolled newspaper, I did not see the teenager fall right in front of me. I stumbled and quickly tumbled to the side, hugging the wall of a merchant's store. Looking up I saw the panic in the eyes of the participants. Fear dominated the morning and I loved it.
I tried to stand but was pushed down by the masses as the first bulls came into view. A young man with bell bottom jeans lying in the middle of the cobblestone street seemed to be singled out by one drooling beast. The animal was enormous but magnificent. I was mesmerized by his structure: every muscle was visible. The bull snorted in defiance and quickly turned his head in my direction. I instinctively ditched into a doorway but it was too late, my movement caused him concern and in a second he was confronting me. In a panic, I shot my arm forward and swatted his moist nose as hard as I could with my funnel of newspaper. He froze, just standing and perhaps laughing at my futile gesture.
“Eh, conio!” Two brave teens yelled at the beast from behind and startled the animal. One young man jumped forward and swatted the bull's massive hind end. Before retreating to safety the boys raised their tanned faces and smiled at me in celebration of their bluster. The black bull turned and proceeded confidently up the street.
“He must be the first bull” I thought but then viewed the scene approaching from behind: a wave of black with a glistening from those opalescent lethal horns. Human bodies were swirling like an ocean current, swaying from one side to the other, working their way up the incline to the plaza. The mass swept over anything or anyone in its path. The smart thing to do was to huddle in a doorway until the immediate danger passed. The problem was, I was not that smart. The desire to jump into the turmoil was too great. Like a drug, the hysteria drew me into the swirl of the thundering mass as it turned the corner, trampling and stomping whatever obstacle was in the way.
“Madre de Dios!” Suddenly, there was a rise in the chaos and in a split second I witnessed a human body tossed aside by the first herd. I leaped onto the street and rejoined the run. I sped recklessly trying to distance myself from Muerto. The pack ahead suddenly came to a stop as someone leapt from one side of the road or the other. The group resembled a human zipper ripping open and I saw the reason for the panic. The first arrogant bull that had cornered me decided to change direction. The muscled male was retreating down the hill and woe be to whoever failed to see him. The beast snorted insults to us all.
“Eh, toro! Toro!” A Spanish man stood in defiance. Others dared to come close to swat the animal. I spotted two young boys lying on the stone avenue. One, wearing a blue and yellow shirt, Scandinavian in features, was doing the right thing. He huddled motionless in a fetal position with his hands protecting his blond head. The bull acknowledged his submission, turned his thick necked head to the other lad who looked of North African heritage. This poor boy's fear appeared as defiant to the animal. He tried to quickly crawl to the fence. The beast jumped to block his escape. Luckily, a brave Spaniard in the traditional white garb took command, confidently leaping between the boy and the bull.
“Facil, toro!” He gracefully slid along the length of the bull. He lightly laid the palm of his hand along the broadside muscles. His actions turned the angry bull away allowing the boy to escape.
“Viva!” The crowd roared as arms and hands reached down to pull the boy from danger.
I, on the other hand, cowered against a wall. I sorely wanted to challenge Death once again but had no aspirations of being gallant or elegant in the process. In fact, it was the opposite. It was now total stupidity that directed my decisions. The beast trotted forward, continuing his journey up the hill and the screams of the observers signaled another wave of bulls approaching. The floor of bodies began to move more rapidly now for the bull ring was the only place to escape to safety. As we passed the renowned bust of Ernest Hemingway at the entrance of the Plaza de Toros, the street dipped down to the tunnel into the open ring. Descending into the darkness, the screams and yells became deafening as they echoed off the concrete tunnel walls we were now encased in.
“I'm home free.” I relaxed as the bright sunlight expanded while I approached the open ring. Then one person went tumbling, then another. All at once, the whole group fell forward in unison becoming an immovable wall of human flesh. Hands of all shades rose up in panic. Arms and legs jerked in an eternal knot, blocking the exit for the fast moving wave of bovine right behind us. Finding myself on the top of this pile of lost souls, I thought it simple enough to roll forward, down the few feet of rapidly growing human barricade. I lurched forward but was unable to move. I looked down and found myself seized by the hands and the arms of the people below me, all twitching in fear. I found eyes, light and dark, wide open in desperation. One man's teeth were capped; I noticed the gold in the midst of his plea for help. There were limbs in an orchestration of various colors. Blue jeans of all shades squirmed like a giant snake. There were piles of muscle and bone twisting, seeking self preservation. Their motions gave life to the walls of the arena. I looked around and envisioned flames around us.
“Why didn't you help me?” Young Javier's voice rang clear.
My daughter! My mother!” A woman's voice echoed. The herd now entered the tunnel and I knew I had to act. I unceremoniously wrenched open the fingers of some man who was gripping my jeans. I kicked aside the entangled legs and slipped off into the open ring just as the pack hit the barrier with great force. I ran to the nearby ring wall, ready to leap to safety. Frustrated, the scared and angry animals tried to retreat, going backwards on the roadway once again, but then forced to forge forward by the incoming crowds. I looked up into the stands of the packed arena and spotted Muerto. He was filled with delight as he orchestrated the peril that was playing out. A few died that hot, muggy day in the Province of Navarra. I had survived once more but had thousands of fellow survivors alongside me. We all drank, feasted and danced through the streets of the old Basque town throughout the night. In the morning my belly was filled with wine, cognac and anise, and my head swirled like a beehive. Stupidly, I talked myself into challenging Muerto's pernicious run once again.
“Have fun but don't get idiotic,” I told myself over and over as I hurried down to the plaza. When I was a flight attendant I liked to push the envelope, expand the boundaries given by the job's gift of world travel. Then, Muerto showed up one early fogging morning in Mexico City and that innocent drive was tainted severely. I got careless, or was it what I intended to do? The lines of subconscious and reality were becoming blurred. That morning I allowed myself to be cornered on the final turn leading up to the arena. With a swift motion of a rambunctious young bull's hind leg, reality rushed in to the massive ringing and throbbing of my head. I lay on the cold cobblestones trying to regain my senses. A faceless voice inquired,
“Estas bien, hombre?” I arose and staggered to the fence. That festive night there was a commemorative nasty bruise on my brow for all to see. The obvious decision at this point should have been to leave this scenic town, meet up with Tommy
in Madrid and continue the rest of my journey in good health. I did not make that decision. Instead, the contusion was looked upon by my fellow celebrants as a badge of honor; one that was worth celebrating. Death was throwing a party and I was an honored guest.
After six days of debauchery I stumbled onto an old bus for and an eight-hour ride to Madrid. It was the middle of July and it became instantly apparent there was no functioning air-conditioner.
“Please make sure your seat belts are tightly fastened. I just wish to advise you that there will be no air-conditioning available on this segment of your trip. We sincerely apologize if we have inconvenienced you.” The large red and white coach pulled out of the Pamplona depot and my head and body made it very clear that payment for my behavior was now due. Being severely hungover, I suffered for my iniquities.
Caked in wine, dirt, and unshaven, I found it difficult to step off the bus as my jeans were stiffened by the dried vino. Like a homeless vagabond I moved slowly through the bus terminal, turning the heads of the “Madrileanos.” My bruised body made its way towards the hotel where Tommy and his wife Takako were staying. I staggered like a wounded stork along the Gran Via.
“The obvious result of liquor.” I heard one woman state in Spanish as the doorman, with a badge indicating the name “Ignacio” gave me a strange look. I slipped through the door of the well-respected hotel. The majority of the well dressed inhabitants did not notice me at first. I moved to the front desk where a man began to repeat a memorized speech.
“Bienvenido, senor.” He stopped in mid sentence as all at once I was surrounded by a security man, Ignacio and the manager on duty. None of the distinguished Spaniards seemed pleased by my presence.
“Por favor, Senior Tomas Acoba.” I requested. Not a word was spoken as a clerk looked at his manager, hesitated, then began to look for Tommy's name. I turned and faced my inquisitors.
“Sign the f###### paper!” I was in a foreign country once again, subject to their laws, looking like a rodent. I should not inhabit such space. I took out my passport from its trusty pouch and offered it up in submission.
“San Fermin,” where the only words I could speak. The doorman's angry face began to slowly soften.
“Fuiste a Pamplona?” The security man raised his hand and pointed at me. I nodded.
“La Fiesta de San Fermin.” They all backed away, relaxed, and I became one of the boys. The manager chuckled as his body bounced up and down in hilarity. Ignacio placed his hand on my shoulder, my six-days-wine-caked, soiled shoulder. These finely dressed men became jovial, admiring my smuttiness. I seemed to be a human trophy, a walking depiction of my recent appalling antics. The Magnificent Edmundo in Madrid. All at once the professionals came back to reality. Certainly, I could not be left in the large white lobby with its high ceilings and artistic trim. The manager urged the clerk to work more rapidly in contacting “Senor Acoba” so I could be on my way as quickly as possible.
“Holy shit!” Tommy was as cordial as ever. “You need a shower and a beer. We'll maybe not the beer but the shower for sure.”
I would eventually come back to life after a thorough cleansing and a cold San Miquel with my dear friend. Tommy tolerated my capers because that is what good people do for their friends. His intellect allowed him to always find the humor in my journey, insuring me that I would find a way out of the bewilderment I produced. He, along with Takako, provided stability at this point in our trip. They certainly deserved my civil behavior as we jointly traveled on to Barcelona. With Tommy, I felt safe which allowed me to relax, enjoy the tranquility and beauty of our ventures.
We boarded a train heading north into France, Le Festival d'Avignon. Soon I would be dancing with Tommy and the crowd on the courtyard of Medieval Gothic structure known as Palais des Papes (the palace of the popes). Takako was wise enough not let Tommy and me get too carried away.
Moving onward we boarded a train once again. The purpose of this trip was to attend the wedding of our friend Jean Pierre Donici, a flight attendant with Pan American Airways. His fiancee' Carine lived in Sur Sallon, our destination. The ceremony was performed at the Cathedral of St. Vincent and all guests were then bused to the Chateau Rully for the reception. There were attendees from fifteen countries and five religions. Most of the non-locals were airline employees. Pan American, Air India, Iberia Airlines, Pakistani International, Trans World Airlines, United Airlines and my own were represented. The faces were intriguing and the languages puzzling. The variety was a testament to the limitless boundaries an airline position afforded an individual. The champagne flowed and the music echoed through the valley and lush hills of the French countryside. The setting sun bathed the courtyard with hues of yellow and orange.
“Eddy is also a flight attendant,” J.P. announced as I turned and stood face to face with two Pan Am F/As. The statement stung me like a vicious bee.
“You are not a flight attendant, not any more.” The voices were uninvited guests to this celebration. I had not flown a flight as a working crew-member in a long time. The two ladies smiled, waiting for me to respond to the introduction.
“No, I'm not a flight attendant, I am a full time student. I am employed by an airline, a really good one, but I never go to work, you know?” These thoughts remained with me. I was a fellow associate of the industry but my involvement felt like a fraud.
“I fly,” I muttered.
“Do you work the DC-10? Where? Out of LAX?” Crew-members wanted to compare notes and discuss their latest ventures to exotic locations, whether on a pass or assigned layover. I no longer fit in and that hurt. The only place I knew I truly belonged was with my crew-mates from 2605. I envied them, the dead.
The evening's festivities continued far into the wee hours with the music and screaming guitar blaring above the merriment of the delirious crowd. Usually I would overindulge, but this night I hesitated, even though I so wished to anesthetize my guilt.
I was soon swept up with a group of inebriated flight attendants who decided to take a late night stroll up an old dirt road to a hilltop overlooking the moonlit valley. With wine bottles in hand a couple yelled a salute in French.
“Hourra puor J.P. et Carine!” A chorus of merry songs ensued as the mixture of locals and F/A's settled ourselves on a grassy knoll. We became mesmerized by the radiant beauty and serenity of the vale.
“Qu'est-ce que c 'est?”(What's that?) Across the landscape, on the opposite rim of the hills was spotted an unusual sight. It seemed a large glow worm was making its way laterally along the hill side. It gradually worked its way in our direction. The uncertain spectacle was divided into multiple sections each challenging the blackness of the sky with its own brilliant luminescence. Like a giant insect it traversed across an undiluted scenery. I so wished to partake in this glow worm's journey through a filament of emptiness where I felt no pain. As the fanciful light moved closer we all realized it was, in reality, the late night express train from the south of France heading north to Lyon and possibly on to Paris. I, too, would have to be moving along soon- on to the French capital with Tommy and Takako.
Paris, in the company of the of dear friends, was splendid. We were blessed with intellectual conversations, fine dining, and an appreciation of the culture and artistry. But just at the crest was trouble, for Muerto waited patiently.
Now, away from the solid anchor of Acoba, I returned to Amsterdam. I sat in a smoked filled hashish cafe considering the challenges that might soon confront me on a plane. There was a continually growing part of me that wanted to go over the edge, to see exactly what Muerto had in store. In some ways I cut lose: disengaging from recognizing the blessing of life I had been granted.
Soon I would be forced to go back. I was extremely anxious to see Cristiano, I had missed him dearly. On the flight home I fantasized that one day, when he was a grown man we could come back to relive these events. Well, maybe not all of them. Pamplona certainly would always have a significance in my life.
Sitti
ng aboard a KLM 747, I wanted wholeheartedly to return home with strong motivation for my studies. I needed to show the airline, Barry Lane in particular, that the company's resources were being wisely used. There was also the opportunity to return to the crew team enjoying vigorous workouts that settled my troubled soul.
No one at the airline knew what was going on with me. I had kept the specifics of my contract with the company secret. I said not a word about it to my parents. They asked no questions. They were a bit fearful to know what ensued. It was all so confusing. Eddy was here one day and gone the next.
“Limbo,” I whispered to myself at 35,000', At Our Lady of Talpa School in Boyle Heights, the sisters taught us early on about Limbo.
“Limbo is where the innocent go when they die but never had the opportunity to be baptized.” It really was a smart move by the airline. I had become unstable and by isolating me from my strongest support, other crew-members, I could not infect them with revelations of a messy situation. There was the added danger that I was volatile and could possibly lose it. It was best that such an occurrence happen nowhere near Avion Dr. On paper, the opportunities and benefits looked like a single man's dream. Unfortunately, it came with skeletons and demons attached. “Yes, I had to be in Limbo.”
Arriving at LAX I rushed over to Terminal 5. I noticed a more buoyant attitude amongst company employees. It cheered me to see how the airline had rebounded. I entered the lounge and was struck by the number of new uniformed crew-members that were about. Many F/A classes had been conducted since my exile and the faces of the new hires reminded me of that initial feeling of invulnerability.
“I am gonna fly, high, fast and with just a tad sense of irresponsibility. I am going to enjoy every second of it.” I remembered the feeling. Where was that joy now? I hurried along to my company mail box. There were no personal letters. My paycheck sat alone inside the tray.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 57