Views from the Cockpit: The Journey of a Son

By J. Ross Victory and Ross Victory

Views from the Cockpit: The Journey of a Son is a memoir born from pain. Page by page, year by year, tender father-son memories of airplane watching transform into nightmarish, turbulent family drama.  

Upon the discovery that his father had been the victim of severe elder abuse as his health was rapidly deteriorati

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Ross Victory
• Release date: Jun 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780578471631

J. Ross Victory

Ross Victory is a cross-disciplinary writer, music creator, and educator originating from Los Angeles, California, USA.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 - LOW VISIBILITY

NOW BOARDING

Dried diarrhea and urine were splotched across the carpet of the bedroom floor. Sections of bed sheets were stained in indistinguishable yellow marks and unknown fluids. The final stages of his disease were in full bloom. Bowls of half-eaten split pea soup, days-old Cream of Wheat, and withered apple cores lay abandoned throughout the room. A crusty, half-full, portable urinal with traces of blood crowded his side table. The room was stale and reeked of body odors. This is how I found him—in a crime scene of filth and neglect.

He had been living for nearly six months in a home nestled in the hills of Northern California. He rented two rooms in the home of an Iranian used-car salesman. Serene views of San Francisco Bay illuminated the backyard patio every night. The home was encircled in blooming shrub roses, in shades of yellows and ruby reds, with an overgrown tomato garden along the property border. A giant oak tree and three dusty used cars greeted visitors as they approached the large double doors. The double doors unveiled a living room with a cream-colored chaise lounge and matching love seat. Oversized Persian paintings leaned graciously against the white-washed walls. A tangerine sunset sparkled off the bay and beamed through the pane glass doors of the lavish, unused living room. The smell of Persian spices and beef kebab filled the home. Mysterious gray soup bubbled in the kitchen next to large bags of rice, plates of Chinese pan-fried pancakes, and frozen bags of what appeared to be thawing chunks of flesh-colored meat.

I walked down a narrow, dimly lit hallway that connected his room to the living room and bathroom. Shoes and blankets tumbled peacefully in the dryer. A ray of light flickered from underneath the bathroom door.

Dad?

Ross, he said. Give me a moment. Don’t come in here.

I crept closer. I stepped on a squeaky hardwood floorboard.

Do NOT come in here. His tone was much stronger now and more aggressive.

He and Vee bickered in broken English and Mandarin. "Wait, Vee! Dung tai, Dung tai!"

The toilet flushed. A key clanked. Subtle rustling ensued. The door creaked open as my dad exited the bathroom. He inched down the hallway with a walker. Our eyes met. The last time I’d seen my dad was on New Year’s Day, three months earlier.

A walker? I thought.

Shame and helplessness filled his eyes as the hallway lights revealed his thin, shriveled body. Panic entered my gut as I reached out to hug him. He smelled spoiled. He was disheveled. He pulled away as I came closer. He closed his eyes as if he were too ashamed to hug me.

Good to see you, son.

We embraced.

Vee loitered behind him, awkwardly waiting for a greeting. I extended one arm to her. I patted her on the back several times.

Hi, Vee.

Ross, you father! she said in broken English, frowning and shaking her head in disgust.

This was only the fourth time I had seen Vee in the past five years. She looked mostly the same but she had acquired a new case of RBF, or resting bitch face. Vee was five feet tall, nearly five feet two when she wore platform sandals—the black ones with cheap Velcro-like straps. She scrambled around like a roach caught by kitchen light. She spoke with agitation and darted around with no purpose or destination. When she spoke English, she had an intonation that made her words sound combative and flat. My first instinct was to ask if she was okay or if she needed some water. Her face was clammy and glistened like moist jello. She sold imported Chinese face products from her bedroom when she wasn’t driving for Uber or working for Door Dash. She had black-turned-purplish, thinly penciled, quarter-moon-shaped eyebrows. She often wore ethnic hairpieces—afro puffs or long, black, half-wig curls, depending on her mood. She had a decent smile despite the subtle brown and black rings of decay around her teeth.

Not so rough! he scolded.

Vee recklessly adjusted Dad’s underwear to pull up his pants. His pants had gotten stuck on a protruding, now visible, hip bone. Vee flopped my dad up and down on the bed until his pants complied.

You strong enough to do yoursef!

She stormed out of his room and slammed the door.

We made eye contact again. My cheeks began to quiver as I reached for words—any words. Torment exploded through my body like a volcano beginning to awaken. I wailed. My heart sank into the floor, blaring in pain from what I had just seen. I fell out of my chair and onto the filthy carpet, trying to catch my breath.

Don’t cry, he was barely able to utter, until his heart shattered and met mine on the floor.

We sobbed together, father and son.

My dad had relocated to the Bay Area. He had been living there for two years after the divorce, and after returning from his last missionary trip to China. He was raised in the Bay Area but had lived over fifty years in Los Angeles, where I was born and raised. During the few years he had lived in the Bay Area, we kept in touch by phone, text, and e-mail. I went to visit him a few times a year. Before he relocated to the Bay, we were fairly close. We shared many similar interests and were more compatible as father and son than many of my friends and their fathers. As a young boy he called me his copilot, which I felt I had actually been until I began college. I was shocked to discover that his health was unravelling—seemingly by the minute. He could no longer keep it secret.

I kneeled at the edge of my father’s bed, covered in tears, trying to ignore the taste of salt that met my lips. I was a puddle on the floor, unable to sit up and take form, sobbing, sniffling, and trying to comprehend. I searched for hope in the details of the bedroom—some sign, any sign, that everything was not what it seemed. I tried not to make eye contact with my father, who appeared to be dying. I felt helpless.

Let it out, son, let it out; this is Dad now. He paused. Man, these radiation treatments are something else, he continued.

Why is she being so rough with you? I looked into his eyes. Is Vee hitting you, Dad?

He smacked his lips with annoyance. We sat in silence. His skeletal hands rested calmly on his lap. He stared at the ceiling, searching for a response like he had been caught.

You need to tell me if she’s hitting you.

Extreme anger began to fill my body as I contemplated Vee striking my elderly father. My stance widened. My face snarled like I had been taunted. His wife, who was only thirty-seven-years old, seven years older than me, was allowing him to live like this.

We could hear Vee speaking on the phone through the wall.

My dad banged on the wall with his cane to signal her to be quiet. "An jing! An jing! Be quiet! He rolled his eyes in disgust. She was a mistake."

Dad, your carpet—why haven’t your sheets been washed? Why haven’t you changed your clothes? I began to take inventory of everything in the room.

Lift up this pillow…

He could not conjure up the strength to lift his upper body.

I go on Tuesdays and Thursdays for radiation—for back pain. Can you take me tomorrow?

Of course. Who normally takes you? I asked.

Sometimes Vee drops me off, or I Uber.

I sat in disbelief. Uber?

Dad, what is going on!? I demanded again and again, with no full answer.

I was frozen, shell shocked—sinking in fathomless thought. My first urge was to choke Vee for allowing my father to live like a sick dog. I wanted to hold my fingertips deep in her larynx as her eyes bulged from their sockets and fogged over with my breath, calmly watching her gasp, struggling and begging for mercy. Words would not suffice as I attempted to piece together what was happening. I quickly aborted this expanding demonic fantasy.

Was his environment an exercise in humility from all of the poverty he had seen as a missionary? Perhaps he was so convicted by the missionary lifestyle that he had voluntarily recreated it. Was he choosing to live like this and just being cheap? Did he gamble his savings and property away? I explored every possibility.

My dad’s net worth hovered just under one million dollars at the time. He had had a long, stable career in law enforcement, devoted his life to rehabilitating prisoners, and had mentored young men who had lost their way and had been labeled as felons and delinquents of society. Many people across the world referred to him as Dad. He was someone whom I admired despite his flaws. We contemplated life and intellectualized everything together—why wouldn’t we – he was my dad, and a good one. Surely, he was worth more than a disgusting room in a used-car salesman’s home. He had owned multiple homes and invested throughout his life. He inherited a church property from my grandma that had been in the family for almost seventy years. He was a man consumed by wanderlust; he had travelled hundreds of thousands of miles around the world with a servant’s heart. He inspired others to serve or to at least write big checks to people who desired to serve. Something did not make sense.

We sat in silence. I stared at him.

Ya know, Ross, sometimes I wonder whether God forgot about me. He paused. You don’t have to say anything, he cautioned. He softly sipped his water, gazing at the hypnotic blades of the ceiling fan.

Several moments went by. I did not respond. I could not respond to that statement. If this room was any indication, yes, God had surely forgotten about my dad—who thought of himself as a soldier and servant. God had forgotten about someone who sacrificed so much in pursuit of godly favor. But this is far from the case. God, by way of organized religion, is part of this story, but the condition of his bedroom was not a result of godly abandonment. Abuse and greed had quietly latched on to my father, like a freshwater leech. The discovery of this was quickly becoming my wrong to right. I was being called to stand up for my dad in a remarkable way.

You didn’t answer, Dad. Is Vee hitting you or not? My fist clenched again.

No, she—

Vee stormed back into the room. The door banged against the wall. My fist unclenched.

Vee, you’re too loud! I shouldn’t be able to hear you. I’m with my son. Who were you talkin’ to? he demanded.

Yvonne Tran call me to ask about you.

Yvonne? Yvonne Tran?

A bolt of strength went through his body. He sat upright. His soul was ablaze, knocking at the door of his pupils.

Do not speak to Yvonne Tran—ever!

Silence lingered. His face remained motionless. His eyes widened as he glared at Vee.

I you wife, I know how to protect you, Vee began to respond.

"Not ever! Don’t you ever speak to her again—EVER!"

She called me—I know how to protect you.

Vee began to cry. She quickly exited the room and slammed the door.

Hand me my phone, Ross.

Yvonne Tran was a real estate developer from Vietnam. Five years prior, around the same time my dad met Vee in China, he loaned a six-figure amount of money to Yvonne to fund a multi-home development called Roselake Homes. The project had never gotten off the ground. The loan was nearly five years past due. No significant payment had been recorded. He was angry that Vee was speaking to Yvonne directly because Yvonne did not know that he was ill. He began to text Yvonne.

Yvonne, DO NOT CONTACT VEE!! You speak to me or my son ONLY!! he texted.

He threw his phone across the room onto the crowded side table. He looked over the rims of his grocery-store-bought reading glasses to me. The fire in his eyes subsided.

You’re going to have to deal with this. With Regina, too.

Regina? Isn’t that the lady in Tiffany Church? What’s happened?

He removed his glasses.

Sit down.

"Did you bring a notebook? Listen very carefully; write down everything I’m sayin’. I’m done with both of these bitches."

Within hours, I had scheduled a carpet cleaning service to clean the stained carpets. Vee was cooperating by washing his sheets and organizing the mountain of loose clothes and papers. Within hours, his room was taking form, but I was too late. Everyone who truly cared about him was too late. No one else had seen him in this room yet, except for Vee. I was being shown this for a reason: to accept in order to fight. I was being called out as a son. My dad needed to see if I could armor up for him in his darkest moments. I needed to see if I could withstand an inferno of someone else’s misjudgments.

I want to take you on a journey. This journey will explore a son’s obligation to his father. My intention is to tell a story about how bonds are created between sons and fathers. I