A Man Named Dave (19 page)

“Aspen 31, Bandit 27,” I relayed to the waiting SR-71, using his identification call sign immediately followed by mine, “you are clear for contact!”

“Hey, boom!” the pilot in the flight deck echoed, “make Kelly Johnson proud!”

“Roger that!” I smiled. For me, it didn’t get any better than this.

Now that I was an air crew member, every day was an adventure. Every time I zipped up my flight suit, I felt like my childhood hero, Superman, out to save the world from impending doom. My green Nomex uniform was my red cape, taking me to places I had dreamed about when I was a prisoner in Mother’s war. I was appreciative that I was with a unique organization that carried a sense of honor and camaraderie. The more I became involved as a boom operator, the more I cherished my position, and a deep sense of pride was growing. I was part of a family.

My new career carried a new level of responsibility. Besides flying two, sometimes three times a week, at any hour of the day or night, my crew and I would have to spend the day before planning the most minute segments – from preflighting the aircraft before takeoff to engine shutdown after landing. I quickly learned the seriousness of the job. If there was a major political or military situation anywhere in the world, the Blackbird would be deployed to collect real-time photographs of a hot spot that could be in the hands of the President, if needed, in a period of twenty-four hours. The Q model KC-135 Stratotanker was the tanker that fed precious, one-of-a-kind JP-7 fuel to the Blackbird, enabling the SR-71 to accomplish its mission. There was a sense of excitement knowing that my bags were packed and that I could be called upon to fly off into the sunset at a moment’s notice.

Because I never slept the evening prior to a flight, there were times after a late-night mission that I would be so exhausted, I’d collapse at the pool of my apartment complex. Yet still I’d be smiling. I’d gaze up at the stars that hours ago seemed close enough to cup in my hand.

I lived a grand life. I had my own apartment,
my home,
where no one could kick me out or make me feel unwanted. I could go to bed as early as I wanted without being disturbed, as I had been when I was an airman living in a dormitory. I kept my tiny one-bedroom home apartment sparkling clean. Financially, I was barely getting by, but what I was losing in salary was easily made up for in peace of mind. I was proud that my first home was fully furnished and paid for from my years of saving. My life also included two close friends that I had met as a foster child, Dave Howard and J. D. Thorn. They still lived in the Bay Area, and I’d drive down to goof off with them during the weekends whenever possible. I kept close tabs with Alice and Harold as well by calling them several times a week. I felt I had more than anyone could ask for.

Although I was feeling good about myself, something continued to gnaw at, me. During my rare time off at the apartment complex, whenever I would go down to the pool, I could not relax like my neighbors – working on a tan, drinking beer, swimming, or celebrating that they had survived another week of work. I was known only as “Fly Boy”: a skinny, pasty white geek in shorts and a tank top; a bookworm who absorbed mounds of technical flight manuals. Unlike the majority of those by the poolside, I was not smooth, cool, or a tough-guy with endless tattoos. I didn’t drink until I passed out, smoke like a chimney, use drugs daily to escape my pain, or rant nonstop about how someone or something did me wrong. Nor was I on federal aid. Yet I didn’t even feel good enough about myself to be among “them”.

It was at the pool where I first met Patsy. Even though she hung out with a wild group of friends, she seemed different. She wasn’t as rowdy or aimless as the others. I felt awkward, as I studied my work, whenever we’d make eye contact, but flattered that she would even look at me. Since I could never hold a gaze, I’d immediately snap my head back down to my papers. Within days we were greeting each other with a quick hello. One Friday afternoon, in passing, I told Patsy I was going to the Bay Area. Her eyes lit up. “San Francisco? Can I come?”

I hesitated. No woman had ever asked to be with me. “Well …” I stammered, “I’m not going to the city, but …”

“You’d be doing me a favor. These guys are driving me crazy.” Patsy pointed at the small herd in the pool thrashing around, screeching at the top of their lungs. “I’m not like them. Really,” she gently added.

“Okay,” I finally answered, “let’s go.”

The next day Patsy joined me as I drove west to see the Turnboughs. I could not believe how easy it was to talk to her. Whatever apprehension I had evaporated within minutes. She even fed off my humor, laughing at whatever spilled from my mouth. In the midst of my chattering, I realized how lonely I had become. Beyond small talk, I could hardly get over how she appeared to be
interested in me.
“So,” Patsy asked when my mouth was still for a brief moment, “what is it you do?”

“I’m a boomer,” I automatically replied.

“A what?”

“Oh, excuse me,” I said, translating, “sometimes I get ahead of myself. I’m a boom operator … I midair-refuel jets for the air force.”

“Oh, yeah, I get it.” Patsy politely nodded, but by the look on her face I knew she did not understand. “So what’s with that green overall thing I see you in?”

“It’s a flight suit.”

“Well … it’s just,” she said, “well, some of us were trying to figure you out. You know, you don’t go out. The word is out: you don’t
party.
I don’t know anyone who reads or writes that much.” I began to imagine the word
dweeb
etched on my forehead as Patsy continued. “You come and go at all hours. You’re always alone. The only time I’ve seen you with anyone else is when you’re with those other guys in those green overalls. It’s just, well, some of us thought you were … you know.”

Not understanding, I shook my head. “What are you getting at?”

“Oh, shit!” Patsy covered her mouth. “I didn’t mean to … it’s just, well, some of us, not me, have had a hard time figuring you out.”

I was stunned by the thought that if I didn’t party, or if I spent my time alone applying myself, that I was considered so abnormal. “Those guys you see me with are some of the men I fly with.”

I could tell Patsy was embarrassed. She in no way meant to hurt my feelings. I could only assume that in her world I was quite the outsider, and for years, strangely enough, I had been curious to discover what it would be like to fit in.

Several quiet miles passed between us until I relieved the tension by trying to make small talk again. Even after I apologized for putting her in an odd position, I felt Patsy thought badly of me. Even as we regained momentum in our conversation, I discovered that Patsy, as kind as she was to me, gave no thought to the happenings of the world, politics, her local surroundings, or anything beyond the latest Indiana Jones film or the pop group Duran Duran’s newest album.

A couple of hours later, when Alice saw me with Patsy, her eyes lit up. As she hugged me, Alice whispered, “Thank God you’re finally dating. I was getting worried about you.” Still holding my hand, she spun around toward Patsy. “So, how long have you two been going together?”

Patsy stepped back. “Oh, we just met.”

I suddenly felt like a complete idiot, bringing a woman I barely knew over to my parents’ place and it wasn’t even a date. Alice, who continued to radiate happiness, plopped down between Patsy and me, snapping her head left and right to keep the conversation going. Every time she turned toward me, she would smirk and raise her eyebrows. I felt like an awkward teenager, trying to be kind to my mother while protecting Patsy from total boredom. I could only pray Alice didn’t slip up and tell Patsy something from my past. After some small talk I excused myself to spend time with Harold. Though I had seen him a few months ago, Harold suddenly looked years older. He appeared so frail, and he struggled to make simple conversation. His eyes were distant, while he did his best to hide his trembling hands. After a few minutes, I gave up and cupped his hands in mine. We spent the remainder of our time in silence. In the back of my mind, the memory of my biological father suffering came back in full force.

When Patsy and I were leaving, I whispered to Alice as I hugged her good-bye, “What’s with Pop?”

Her eyes darted toward the floor. “Oh, it’s nothing. Harold’s just got a touch of the flu. He’s been working too hard lately. He’s got an appointment to see the doctor next week. Listen,” she said, “don’t you fret, you two have fun. And I tell you something else.” Alice looked at both Patsy and me. “You two look good together.”

“It’s not what you think,” I again whispered. “We just met a few days ago, okay?”

“Well,” Mom said, “if you ask me, I’ve got a good feeling about you two.”

“You’ll have to forgive my mom,” I said to Patsy as we pulled away, “I think she’s playing matchmaker.” I did not want Patsy to get the wrong impression. “Besides,” I added in a Yiddish voice, “I think she’s seen
Fiddler on the Roof too
many times.” I was making a reference to the movie’s persistent matchmaker, but I could see Patsy did not get the joke.

“So,” Patsy asked, “are they your real parents?”

“Well, yeah,” I immediately responded. But after a few moments of silence, I exhaled, saying, “They are to me. They’re my foster parents. My mother, my real mom, well, she had a drinking problem and sometimes used to, you know, go off on me. Sometimes …” I trailed off, hoping not to scare Patsy off. I had no intention of telling her about my former life. I clutched the steering wheel, afraid Patsy would suddenly fling open the car door and bail out. I had never exposed my childhood to anyone like this before, let alone the magnitude of my mother’s twisted sickness.

For some time now I had been resigned to the fact that my past would probably keep me from being with someone. Even at age twenty-three, with all I had been fortunate enough to accomplish on my own, against the odds, I had the self-esteem of an ant. I was deathly afraid of women. I felt unworthy even of looking at them for more than a few quick seconds, let alone talking with one. That’s why I was so overwhelmed, confused, and yet enchanted by Patsy’s interest in me.

I found myself rambling about how I came into foster care. At least I had sense enough to graze the surface. Since my past was so mired in lies and deceit, I valued honesty above everything else. I believed that if I was to have a relationship with anyone, it was important to me to be as truthful as possible, yet at the same time maintain a veil to protect that person from whatever pain or embarrassment that came from being with me. I knew I was walking a fine line and in doing so was now living a true lie. I had been doing so for some time in the air force, especially during the extensive psychological evaluations that I had to undertake to become an air crew member. I had simply deflected what I felt necessary in order to protect my security clearance. I could only pray someday it didn’t backfire on me or on anyone else. The last thing I wanted was to cause anyone any pain whatsoever.

“I know what it’s like … I was the black sheep of my family,” Patsy confessed.

She went on to explain that she was picked on as a child, felt out of place among her siblings, had trouble getting along with her overbearing mother, and as a teenager felt the only way to escape was to run away. “I hooked up with some guy. We both worked to get by, partied a lot, ya know.” As Patsy opened up, not only could I relate to her feelings of being alienated, but to me everything seemed to fall into place on how she carried herself and why she hung out with that rambunctious crowd. I felt that Patsy, too, was looking for acceptance. “But,” she sighed, “when my father passed away, Mom had to sell the house and move into an apartment. I moved back in to help out; no one else will lift a finger. Hell, I’m sleeping on the couch. As much as she drives me crazy, I’m the only one who will take care of her.”

Even though I picked up on her slight resentment, I knew Patsy was grazing the surface, too. “I am sorry,” I said. “I truly am. No one deserves to be treated bad.” I stopped for a moment. “My real father passed away, too –”

Patsy jumped in before I could complete my thought. “What the hell. Shit happens! That’s my motto.”

Without thinking I let out a laugh. I had never heard that expression before. And I picked up on Patsy’s subliminal message of brushing off whatever problems came her way.

During the drive back home, both Patsy and I gabbed nonstop. I had never been with a woman for such an extended time in my life. I didn’t want our time together to end. Late into the evening, at my apartment, I proudly showed off my new home. Patsy was the first person to step into my world. We sat down on the couch, sipping wine while listening to acoustical jazz. My mind swam between saying good night and wanting to talk longer. Without warning, Patsy leaned forward. I flinched as she wrapped her arms around my neck before kissing me. Neither of us had any premonitions. We both seemed surprised that we had fallen for each other.

The next few weeks became a whirlwind. Of all people, I had a girlfriend. I had everything going for me. I was enthralled with my job, and for the first time I had someone who wanted to be with me, someone who cared about me. The sensation of coming home after an exhausting flight to spend time with Patsy was beyond elation. Patsy blew me away when she would cook dinner or leave me notes inside my lunch bag that I’d discover when I’d fly. I adored the attention. I felt complete.

When I had to fly overseas for weeks at a time, Patsy volunteered to watch my place, watering my plants and feeding Chuck, my box turtle. I was slightly apprehensive because I was overly cautious and felt things were happening way too fast. I knew I was caught up with her, and yet I could hardly control myself. I had always been alone. No one had ever wanted me, let alone found me attractive enough to give me the time of day. I gave Patsy an extra key, on the condition that she simply watch over my apartment.

Weeks later when I returned home, Patsy met me at the door. As I unpacked, I noticed my closet space had been taken over by her clothes and the bathroom countertop was filled with her makeup items. As I stood at the entrance to the bedroom, Patsy rushed over, hugging me and crying, “It’s not what you think! I didn’t plan to, but my mom’s driving me crazy! We got into a huge argument. I’m tired of being under her thumb. You know what it’s like. Besides, I’m here almost all the time anyway. I missed you so much. You’re not like the others. What are we waiting for? You know how I feel about you. Please?” she sobbed.