Chapter 208

“Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.”{br}(If I can’t move Heaven, I’ll raise Hell.){br}Virgil, Aeneid, VII, 312

“MOM! DAD! I’M ALIVE!” I shouted into my cellphone.

“I didn’t think you’d gone to Texas,” Dad said.

“Why did they say that?” Mom asked over the speaker phone. “Even if there is another Jacob Hopkins that they lost, they should have contacted parents and relatives before just blurting it out on TV.”

“I agree. I couldn’t believe Paul just announced to the world I was dead.”

“Just a minute, dear. Someone is at the door,” Mom said.

“I wonder…” Dad said.

“Can you record this, Dad?” I asked. “I think you are getting the visit.”

“I’ve got it.”

I could hear the shuffling around and voices as Mom brought two people into the living room. Dad had managed to get the video working on his phone.

“What is this about?” Dad asked.

“Mr. Hopkins, Mrs. Hopkins, I’m Dan Schaffer of the National Service and this is Chaplain Marissa Chamberlain. It’s our sad duty to inform you that your son, Jacob, has been lost serving his country in a daring rescue attempt in Texas.” I wanted to scream into the phone but also wanted to hear what kind of bullshit they were going to spew.

“Really?” Dad said. “How did that happen?”

“You are aware of the hurricane damage in Galveston, I’m sure. Your son was part of an elite group trained in survival, search, and rescue. He and his team were searching for survivors in flooded houses when he was caught in a mass of debris and washed under. His teammates could not reach him.”

“And this is why you held him without communication for the past eight weeks since he entered the service?” Mom said.

“This team’s training was the best and most rigorous the National Service has ever put together. Their training was off the grid,” the man said.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” the chaplain said. “Your son died a hero, saving the lives of others.”

“Who are you, really?” Dad demanded. “I don’t believe you are associated with the service at all.”

“Sir, I understand how upset you must be…”

“Do you understand that I’m speaking with my son on the phone right now?” Dad bellowed. “That he was never in Texas? That someone has fed you a line of bullshit in an attempt to do harm to his family?”

“That can’t be,” the chaplain said. “We have his name and address. Your names as next of kin. There’s been some kind of terrible mistake.”

“There certainly has. Jacob is not dead. Now get out of our house.”

There was shuffling and the visitors closed the door behind them.

“Dad, send me the video. We need to get this out right away. They must not have gotten the signal that my ID was active again.”

“Whatever you need, son,” Dad said. “Can we come and visit you? Just to make sure?”

“We’re at Carnegie Hall in New York Thursday night. Can you make it?”

“The schedule you sent us says Boston next weekend,” Mom said. “Why don’t we join you there?”

“That would be great, Mom. The whole family will be together.”

“Jacob, Will Forsythe would like to talk to you,” Rachel said after I’d hung up with my parents. “Here. He’s on my phone.” I put Rachel’s phone to my ear and took a deep breath.

“This is the not very dead Jacob Hopkins,” I said.

“I can’t believe they pulled that,” Will said. “Are you all right? Your family?”

“Yeah. You know they sent a chaplain to my parents? They told them I was dead!”

“My God! We’ll release a statement at once. This is all because we kept you off the grid.”

“No, it’s all because I’m out here advocating service reform. They want to muddy the water. They are going to hold up the brave deeds of the SSR team as an example of the fine things the service can do and a reason why reform isn’t needed.”

“You’re right. Unfortunately, they are going to have a shining example. That team was first to arrive and is credited with saving dozens if not hundreds of lives.”

“See if you can track them down,” I suggested. “Who sent them? I’ve got a lead on who paid for them. I’ll know more before my concert Thursday.”

“Okay, Jacob. I just wanted to make sure you were holding up okay. I promised not to interfere in your messaging or performances. You go ahead and get back to what you do and we’ll do what we can. And that includes getting some extra security for you. Ron will coordinate that with Rachel and Emily. Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

We released the video with a comment from me that ‘Jacob is not dead.’ We sent it out first to all our patrons and asked them to spread the word. By morning #Jacobisnotdead was trending. The video hit our YouTube channel at noon and we had a hundred comments before dinner, most saying ‘WTF are they trying to do?’

Remas came up with a change to our program suggesting we insert our version of the Requiem that we adapted from Glory. We would move through the instrumental part and Desi would come in toward the end. But instead of singing the Latin words, she’d simply chant ‘Jacob is not dead.’ We ran the idea by Rachel and Donna and they had an insert for the program printed with the meme as its title.

The piece came late in the first act and would be followed by a very simple rendition Cindy and I had worked on of Schubert’s Ave Maria. All I had to do next was find the right words to say.

I was sitting in bed late Wednesday night with my tablet in hand trying to find the right words. Cindy had rolled away from me, bothered by the light and slight movements as I jotted things down. I leaned my head back against the headboard, closed my eyes, and sighed. The bed shifted and a warm naked girl slid in beside me.

“What do you have, love?” Donna asked, taking my tablet from me.

“Chicken scratches,” I answered. “Nothing quite makes sense.” I held the sheet of paper that had the President’s mind-map on it. I didn’t have all the pieces filled in, but it was clear that she felt General Gerhardt had masterminded the attempt to take me out of circulation. The kidnapping. I’d drawn in another circle for SSR, the team that had trained in the mountains, become heroes rescuing people in Galveston, and then announced my death on national TV. I was convinced that Paul had been in on the whole thing from the beginning. He’d been so helpful in the restroom, getting me into clean clothes, stowing my papers, washing me, supporting me, giving me a drink. That one little detail suddenly popped out in my mind. I was sick and confused, but I’d just purged myself and after washing my face, I should have felt stronger. But instead, I’d taken that drink, bent to pick up my bags, and keeled over.

Donna finished reading my notes.

“I don’t think you can come out and accuse new national heroes of abducting you and trying to force you into their service group,” she sighed. “It would definitely backfire. I think you should praise them and apologize for the confusion about where you were.”

“Apologize?”

“Mmm. Thank them for thinking of you. Say you hope the confusion about the identity of their missing teammate is quickly resolved.”

“Praise them for fast action. Appearing on the scene of the emergency before anyone else could mobilize. Acting heroically to save lives,” I mused.

“Go Marc Antony.”

I looked at my one-time teacher. She’d led us through the exercise in rhetoric and persuasive speaking when we were sophomores. The light slowly came on.

“I come to praise SSR, not to bury them,” I whispered. My lover kissed me and I set the tablet aside so I could lose myself in her embrace.

I am so awed by the events in Galveston this past weekend and the fast action of the National Service Survival, Search, and Rescue team that I’m willing to forgive the slight confusion regarding my own survival. Apparently, that confusion went right up the chain of command at the National Service and my parents were contacted by a bereavement notification team to tell them of my death. But Jacob is not dead.

I want to dedicate tonight’s concert to this cadre of incredible people. I want to get that dedication in before there is a new “Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.” movie featuring them. Here are twelve members of the National Service who deserve recognition at the highest level. Well, eleven, since I’m dead to them. Without ever showing up on the National Service structure, organization, or occupation charts, these heroes trained in isolation, honing their skills in a complete communications blackout until the very moment a natural disaster struck. And then they appeared as if by magic to be the first on the scene in the wake of Hurricane Brendan. Their unknown leader, a manager that doesn’t show up in the organization of the National Service, deserves to be recognized and awarded some kind of medal. Whoever funded this group—because there is no record of a budget for them at the Office of Civilian Service—should be included in this honor.

And finally, I believe there is only one person who could have had the wisdom and foresight to plan for an event like this and put together a team that could respond in an emergency, make sure they were undisturbed for the duration of their training, and operate completely off the grid for weeks as they prepared to respond in the way we have witnessed this week. Major General Ralph Gerhardt, General Director of the National Service, deserves to be credited for the sudden arrival of this remarkable team.

And we hold this up, with our thanks to the General and to the SSR team, as a shining example of why National Service reform is so necessary. There is no reason a team like this should have to be created in such secrecy, with funding from outside the service, by people who don’t show up on service org charts. It is sad to think that these brave rescuers might sink back into oblivion and drop off the grid until another disaster strikes and they suddenly appear from nowhere to save the day.

Our hope is that you will vote in November—and encourage all your friends and acquaintances to vote—for candidates that support service reform, so that we can realize more of America’s ideals like the SSR team. We need to recover the dream so every youth going into service understands the potential she or he has to make a major impact on people’s lives. People can’t be chosen for such an important team by the random finger of fate or by abducting them out of a public toilet. Our youth need to know there is a potential for this kind of service and be competing for inclusion. This needs to be funded, like the rest of the National Service, by the money we pay as taxes to provide these services, and not by shady private funds that don’t show up on our budgets. These, ladies and gentlemen, are the Coast Guard of the National Service: The ones we send where God is afraid to tread.