Chapter 2 - 1983
"One story dominates the free world news media tonight. The killing of two hundred and sixty nine innocent people aboard a Korean jumbo jet drifted into Soviet territory. Tomorrow's headlines are screaming with outrage of the attack on flight 007…"
Gru had heard this story repeated to him all day, but hearing it again brought out a sickness in his stomach he didn't want to feel. He put his left hand on the volume knob, turning down the volume, with his right hand still on the steering wheel. He tried to eject his thoughts about the headline from his brain, and focus on the road ahead. The Cold War had been happening all his life after all, and he was still alive. Not that it hadn't affected his life though. He looked around the road, reading any road signs he could to occupy his mind. He could only see the signs when they reflected the light from his headlights, as there were no street lights in this part of town. It was late, and Gru looked forward to getting some quality sleep before his big day tomorrow.
He was driving a Ford Escort, a reliable, functional car. It got him from point A to point B, that's all that mattered to him. A set of traffic lights changed from green to red just as he was approaching them. He reluctantly put his foot on the brakes, slowed down and stopped at the red light. He sat at the red light, with only the sound of the engine humming as company. With nothing better to do, he opened up the can of worms that was his anxiety and delved deep into thought.
This news couldn't have come at a worse time. The interview was tomorrow. Everything he had been working for his whole life was going to pay-off tomorrow. He needed this job more than he needed oxygen. Ever since that day back in 1969, he has been focused on this one goal. If his ethnicity got in the way of things, he didn't know what he would do. They wouldn't reject him because of the Cold War, would they? Like mortality, it was a difficult concept to comprehend, so he tried to shrug it off.
He looked around and noticed a sign that said "Dulles International Airport, 3/4 miles". Seeing this brought back memories of his days in the US Air Force. He had the same concerns back then too, but to his surprise they let him in despite his ethnicity. He had put in the work, trained to be a pilot, and been accepted. All while gaining the respect of his peers and the US government. Considering this, there was no reason NASA would think he was some deep cover Russian spy. Putting it like that, the notion sounded ridiculous. Of course he was going to get in. His plan hadn't failed him so far, it would not fail him now.
The lights went from red to amber, then amber to green. With his drive restored, he put his foot back on the accelerator and got going again. He was back to his calm, focused self. Like he had all these years, he reminded himself about the end result. How he would feel once this dream of his had been achieved. Now was no time for politics to get in the way. Nothing was going to get in his way, not when he was so close.
He indicated right, and then drove into his driveway. He parked on the left side, leaving room on the right side for another car. He stepped out of his car and gently closed the door behind him.
He unlocked the trunk of the car, and took out a shopping bag. He had the bag in one hand and his car keys in the other. The car's headlights illuminated the driveway, a smooth, light gray surface with a set of tyre marks to the right of the car.
The brake lights illuminated the front lawn, and it clearly hadn't been well taken care of. Wild flowers had started growing, and weeds were infiltrating the flowerbeds. Gru had made a mental note to deal with the lawn yesterday, but couldn't muster up the effort. Instead he just made another mental note telling himself to do it tomorrow.
He reached the door and put his keys in the lock. On his first attempt, the key did not turn properly. He took the key out and tried again, pushing the key further in this time. Again, the key did not turn. This agitated Gru, so he tried to force the key to turn, a burst of emotion clouding his logical thought process. Then, he calmed down and took the key out. He put his key in for the third time, and gave it a calm, deliberate turn. The door finally opened.
Gru walked through the front door and threw his keys into a small basket. The front door led straight into the dining room and kitchen, so he opened up the fridge and took out a "hot pocket". This modern delicacy was quick and efficient, prioritizing haste over taste, which was just what Gru needed. Gru didn't have time to waste cooking, and quickly unpacked and placed the meal in the microwave. He shut the door, set the time to 2 minutes and pressed the green button. The microwave made a loud piercing beep sound, followed by a droning humming sound which filled in the silence in Gru's empty home.
With 2 minutes to wait, Gru went to his bedroom and placed his shopping bag on his bed. He then returned to the kitchen to check on his dinner. He looked into the microwave. The meal rotated on the disk as the waves of electromagnetic radiation descended upon it. Gru then turned his attention to his house, looking around his dining room. There was a photo of himself on the wall, posing awkwardly in front of a massive rocket with a bluish red blob.
He was smiling in the photo, but when Gru looked at this photo he felt a sharp sting in his heart. That sinking feeling returned, pulling him down into the depths once again. He felt like an anchor had been tied to his feet, dragging him below the surface of the ocean. This feeling was familiar, but was one he had been repressing successfully for some time now. He tried to stop his thoughts from spiraling out of control, but the maelstrom had already been opened. Gru was sinking. It was only a matter of time…The microwave beeped loudly like the sirens of an ambulance. He could breathe again. The cringe subsided, and a wave of clarity washed over his brain. Gru opened the microwave door, took out the hot pocket, and walked towards his desk.
He placed the nuclear disaster he called dinner on the desk to cool down. Then he picked up a sheet of paper and started to read it, murmuring under his breath. The sheet had every possible question he thought NASA would ask him, and he had been practicing his prepared answers every night before bed, adding more questions just in case. Questions included "Why do you want to work at NASA?", "What is the working principle of a rocket?" and "Where do you see yourself in 5 years?". He went through all his answers one more time, rehearsing them as if he were an actor. But he was not pretending. These answers were genuine, even though they were written word for word. He just wanted to leave nothing to chance, as this interview was not something he could afford to fail.
He ate his hot pocket as he read the questions, muttering his answers under the sound of his own chewing. Once dinner was done, he took the plate to the sink, washed it clean of the nuclear juices the hot pocket had left behind, and went to his bedroom. As he stepped through his bedroom door, the first thing he noticed was a great thick wooden plaque, on it wrote: "University of Washington, William E Boeing Department of Aeronautics and Astronautics, Presented to Dr Felonius Gru, PHD in Aerospace Engineering"
Gru had planned out everything from the start. The minimum requirements for working as an astronaut in NASA were a PHD in a relevant subject, at least 1000 hours flying experience, be a US citizen and meet the anthropometric requirements to fit the spacesuits. By now Gru had met all of these standard requirements. The hard part was over, now he just had to sound good tomorrow. Seeing this plaque reminded Gru of how far he had come, and how close he was to his goal. If his life was a marathon, tomorrow was the last stretch, that final sprint to the finish line.
This was not new information, and the odds were very much in Gru's favor considering how much effort he had put in. However, fear and self doubt often clouded his thoughts, causing him to overthink himself into a corner. "What if flight 007 causes them to change their minds because I'm Russian? What if they just don't like me?" What if this, What if that, What if Reagan accidentally sat on his big red button and killed us all? It didn't matter, and seeing this plaque brought Gru back to Earth, and back to his determined self.
Gru put his hand in the shopping bag that was on his bed. Out came a suit and tie, which he proceeded to wear. He looked at the mirror, posing in a proper fashion to see how he would appear to the interviewee. The suit was a dark Navy Blue, seemingly black, and had a chest pocket on his right side. It was made from 100% pure wool, giving it a soft, luxurious look. It had a checkered pattern, with thin red lines separating dark blue squares like the De Stijl artistic movement. The suit had two smooth horn buttons, made from buffalo horns. They had a wavy pattern which had bony textures and colors, giving them a visual graininess. The tie that came with it had an inverse color scheme, thin blue lines separating thick red lines. Behind it all was a basic white shirt, unremarkable but functional since it was hidden behind the suit.
Gru had never owned a suit this valuable, and still hadn't, as he was renting it out just for the interview. Gru liked what he saw in the mirror. He felt like the suit gave him a certain legitimacy, a certain level of respect he had wanted his whole life. It gave him a sense of validation, but it felt hollow. At the same time, there was discomfort, as if the suit didn't fit him, as if it belonged to someone else (which it did). He felt like an imposter, like he was taking someone else's place, someone who was more deserving of the suit than him.
Gru took off the suit and opened his closet. He hung up the suit on one of his cheap metal wire coat hangers, and slid half his clothes to one side to make room for it. As he did this he noticed a green, patriotic uniform still hanging in his closet. There was a set of striking v-shapes stacked on top of each other, with a star in the middle of the bottom one, all on the shoulder of the uniform. Seeing this brought Gru back to his US Air Force days, perhaps the hardest challenge he had faced up to this point. The PHD came naturally to him, being an academic genius, but flying planes was far out of his comfort zone. If he could fly fighter jets for 2 years then being asked questions about dream job would be comparably easier. Gru's imposter syndrome faded, as he placed the suit neatly in his closet, where it belonged.
Gru closed the closet doors, and got into bed. Alone in his bed he sat, with only the deafening sounds of silence to accompany him. With nothing to distract his mind, he stepped once again into the maelstrom of spiraling negative thoughts. The whole day had been a back and forth, a battle for Gru's soul. Self doubt vs self confidence. Will I or won't I? Do I deserve it, or am I a worthless disappointment like mother used to say? The pit in his heart was reopened, and it could no longer be covered up with wooden sticks and mud. He finally processed the news reports he had been hearing all day, really taking in the implications. 269 was a difficult number to comprehend, especially when talking about fatalities caused by the Soviet Union. He thought about every soul that inhabited the plane, and about what they must have thought and felt when the missile hit. The terror, the shock, the hopelessness. Maybe it was over fast, and no pain was felt. Regardless, this battle of the cultures had cost so much for so many, and it infuriated Gru that it still continued after all these years. After detente, which was an all time high in US-USSR relations, we were still arch enemies.
Now all this was out of sight, not out of mind, but far far away from Washington DC. However, the threat of losing his dream job was not. Would they even hire a Russian for an astronaut, even if he was a 3rd generation immigrant? Self doubt was grinding Gru's self confidence into a bloody pulp, until…Gru brought out his secret weapon, his tried and tested method of washing out the depression. He reached into his drawer, and pulled out his bedside flask of vodka. He took a big, long swig before putting it back in the drawer. He made sure he drank a few seconds more than yesterday, so that the vodka would be more effective. It felt like he had just swallowed a test tube filled with hydrochloric acid, melting away at his esophagus. The taste itself reset his thoughts, being as repulsive as it is, but what followed did the trick. After a minute or two, it kicked in. Gru went from sinking below the depths of despair to wobbling around on the deck of a small boat. His thought process was non-existent, logic was a joke, and sleep was a lot easier. He felt a warm rush blush over his face, and a foggy void where his brain used to be. The numbness was comforting, so comforting that he fell unconscious soon after.
Gru dreamed about what would follow after the interview. He would be welcomed into NASA, meet his heroes, and be a part of the team. Everyday he would park in the NASA car park, hopefully one space next to Niel Armstrong. He would walk up the NASA stairs, and into his state of the art Rocket Science lab, where he could finally make the rocket he had been designing since he was 11. Gru was lost in his own world, feeling like he was actually there, and did not want to wake up. Soon, he thought, he would not have to wake up, as he would just to shape the world in his image. Reality would not be reality for long.