by Dan Garmen
In truth, I relied on my future knowledge, which included, among other things, knowing how Michael Jordan managed to do all the things he'd done. As the story went, Jordan had been cut from the team as a sophomore, and realized he would have to work much harder than everyone else, and did. So, I followed the example of the now thirteen year old MJ, a boy living in North Carolina who hadn’t even learned the lesson he taught me yet, and worked harder than anyone else I knew even dreamed of working.
Stretching done, on my third circuit running along the bleachers at the top of the gym, the sweat that started rolling down my face went from cool to clammy, I slowed a couple steps before the pain struck. And God, what pain! A cold, sharp icicle from nowhere that seemed to impale me. My legs gave way, and I sagged, stumbling, reaching out with my right arm to catch myself, somehow managing to keep from tumbling down the 30 rows of bleachers. I eased myself down to the wooden bench bleacher seats, dimly aware of a sound coming from inside me, an agonized moan, before everything exploded in a flash of white energy, and the top of the gym became a gray textured surface a few inches from my face. A cacophony of noises and voices rang in my ears, and I smelled smoke mixed with what seemed to be burning rubber. One voice seemed louder than the others.
“Sir? Can you hear me sir?”
The source of these words, agitated and excited, his voice sounding unnaturally high and reedy, was nearby, but out of sight. I knew the words were directed at me, but I had no idea how to respond, and couldn't even begin to do all that was necessary to talk to him. I blinked, and he must have taken that to mean I had understood him, because he then said, “We're going to get you out of there. Just hang in.”
Moving wasn’t possible, a crushing pressure pushed me down into whatever lay underneath me, so the only response available to me involved shifting my eyes left toward where the voice seemed to be coming from. When I did, a young, thin man with close-cropped brown hair, round wire frame glasses and a white shirt with some sort of logo patch rolled into my frame of vision. The insignia floated right in front of me, but I couldn't make sense of the writing it contained. The man turned his head and shouted to someone out of my field of vision “Jalen, JAWS!”
His eyes came back to lock with mine, with a reassuring smile not quite reaching his eyes starting to form. Something attracted his attention though, and the smile left his face as quickly as it had arrived. His gaze shifted focus and he opened his mouth to say something, but before any sound came out, everything was gone, and I found myself face down again on the bleacher, my heart pounding as if trying to escape from my chest. But I was back.
Whoa, what the hell was THAT, I wondered, the noise and smoke gone, replaced by the cool silence of the gymnasium.
I rolled into a sitting position on a bleacher seat, and looking around the gym, confirmed, to my relief, I was alone. One of the custodial staff must be somewhere in the building, I knew, since another car sat in the parking lot and one of the doors to the gym had been unlocked, when I arrived, but it was apparent whoever was here must be in another part of the building. My breathing returned to normal and I carefully stood and stretched, making sure I hadn't injured anything in the unexpected fall. I felt fine, my heartbeat returning to normal. After a couple minutes, I started walking down the row of bleachers again, after a few steps accelerating to the jogging pace I'd been at when the pain had hit. After what I considered a close call, I ran more carefully than before. My fall could have been much, much worse, I knew, and it left a darkness hanging over my thoughts. Though I’d recovered quickly, the episode brought back the unreality of this whole experience, not that I'd ever started feeling completely normal. Life had taken on a routine, but thoughts of its artificiality never strayed far from my thoughts.
The most unsettling thing about the fall and finding myself suddenly helpless, was that for those brief, fleeting seconds, being trapped in what I realized was my wrecked car in Cincinnati was real, and everything here, some figment of my imagination. The smoke and burning rubber and guy in the shirt and round glasses were all real, and the gym, and 1976 were not. As strange as the thought was, with my legs pounding on the wooden bleacher seats as I ran down from the top of the gym to the bottom, taking a row at a time, and then back up, two rows at a time, easier than it had been last week, my comfort with this experience again had become unbalanced. The sweat ran down all over my body, fatigue teasing my quads, and the air rushing in and out of my 17 year old lungs, but those few seconds pinned into a frightening, dangerous situation, seemed more real than this.
So I kept running, longer than my regimen called for, figuring maybe, if I made my body hurt, it would help reassert all this as real. By the time I finished running, 9am had come and gone. I sat down on the court to do some more stretching, deciding not to do any weight training for the day. I had been working low weight, high repetition lifting to build endurance and strength more than bulk, so missing a day wouldn’t hurt. I grabbed a ball from the rolling rack at the end of the floor by the stage and slowly walked downcourt, dribbling hand to hand, and between my legs, thinking about the pain and the weird moments trapped in my Pacifica in 2007. Had to be.
I reached the end of the court and sat down, my back against the huge pad designed to protect players from running into the wall a couple steps past the baseline. I rested my head back against the pad and closed my eyes.
I heard footsteps enter the gym, the soft tennis shoe footfalls giving their owner away as female a second or two before the scent of Taboo reached me, and I somehow managed to keep my eyes shut and my body immobile, even though heart leapt into my throat. Grateful I was already hot and sweaty, I doubted she would be able to detect how much my face flushed as she arrived.
“Hi Richie,” Amanda said
A smile appeared on my face of its own initiative, but my eyes were still closed.
I guess I need to tell you about Amanda Tully.
What is it about someone that makes you love them from the first time you see them, and never stop? When Amanda first attracted my attention in the 7th grade, I assumed that every boy had the same experience I had, thinking THAT is perfection. All those new people and faces from the several elementary schools feeding into Washington Junior High School and the only one I would remember at home that night was Amanda Tully. I didn’t even know her name for the first week, since the school created the homeroom rosters alphabetically, so for two years, those closest to me had last names starting with “E," “F," “G” or “H.” “T” for Tully wasn’t part of my immediate world. I learned Amanda's name from a friend I had played basketball against elementary school, and even at 13 years old, she took my breath away. Over the next few years, the parade of boyfriends straggled by, with me just a friend. I had crushes on other girls from time to time, even one on her best friend for a year or so, but nothing close to how I felt about Amanda. Everyone I dated was my second choice, and though I didn’t think much about it then, over the years I regretted doing that to the other girls. There is not a single thing I did in High School that I’m embarrassed about (involving girls, anyway) and I never treated any of them with anything less than complete respect, but they were all runners-up, and a teenaged girl shouldn’t have to feel that way. Amanda and I had different interests, but there always seemed to be one or two things going on we had in common. Student council, musicals (she acted and danced, while I played piano in the pit orchestra) and the Yearbook staff had kept us in pretty close proximity through most of our 3 years of high school up to this point.
In the weeks I’d been living in my own past, I had played out our entire history in my mind, time and time again. Last fall, we had found ourselves alone during a rehearsal for a musical review 'The Roaring 20s.' Late in the evening they were rehearsing a portion of the show requiring neither of us, so in a short hallway between the orchestra and choir practice studios, we waited, talking while the orchestra's brass section, who had been giving the director fits for weeks, were being “wood-shedded
” and working on their part in the Eddie Cantor song Makin' Whoopee. We could hear them playing a section over and over again and as we talked, I had sensed Amanda edging closer and closer, until half an arm's length separated I was talking about something, and noticed her singing the portion of the song filtering in through the door, as the brass players rehearsed.
Mid-phrase Amanda cocked her head to one side, gave me a small, somewhat evil grin and asked, “You know what makin' whoopee is?'’
I stopped and shrugged, “Yea, sure.”
The horns had started up again, and this time, she sang softly and clearly, looking me in the eye and punctuating each syllable with a light poke in the chest:
He's washin' dishes and baby clothes,
He's so ambitious, he even sews
But don't forget folks, that's what you gets folks
For makin' whoopee…
I couldn't speak. I must have been standing there, a stupid smile on my face, and though I don't specifically recall, had to have had more hormones coursing through my body than in all the moments since, combined. Looking back with the life experience I have accumulated, as well as my clinical way of looking at the world, I realize now if anything more than a kiss had happened, I may well have found myself smack dab in the middle of what that song speaks of.
In the end, however, I did nothing. Amanda stood after her performance, looking into my eyes, a subtle, knowing and I must admit, slightly scary smile on her face. I gazed back at her, and we stayed that way for a minute, but I didn't touch her. I have relived the moment a thousand times, and whatever reason I had for not leaning forward the necessary few inches and kissing her remains a mystery to me. Of all the moments I had with Amanda Tully over the years, that's one of two I would give anything to do over again. I am certain if the one in the music hallway had gone differently, the second moment, almost two years later, would have happened as it should have, and…Well, things would have been different.
Events unfolded as they did though, and but at this point, in the summer of my second trip through 1976, I had a chance to reroute things. As far as I knew, I had a wife and a child, both of whom I loved adored waiting for me in 2007, but I had no idea if I would ever again get to be with them. Would the only road to 2007 be living a day at a time?
The only thing I new for sure, was Amanda Tully was right here, right now, standing beside me and despite the fact this whole thing seemed more or less unreal, I was in the experience. I wouldn't meet Molly for years.
I opened my eyes, looked up at her and said, “Hi, Amanda.”
She regarded me as if she knew every single damn thing I was thinking. Amanda's tied her thick and somewhat frizzy back in a thick ponytail, and she was dressed in the knit top and shorts the drill team wore for rehearsals, her reason for being at school on this day. The huge Ben Davis High School Marching Band, for which Amanda served as Drill Team Captain had started their practice season, getting ready for the Indiana State Fair Band Competition. She stood far enough away from me to be modest enough, but closer than casual acquaintances would stand. She was even more breathtaking than my 30 years of memories had retained, but consider too, I inhabited a 17 year old body, which must account for something.
“You're here every day. You must like it,” she said, kicking me lightly with her white sneakered foot.
“I do.”
“How's your leg?” She asked, sitting down beside me on the floor.
“Fine, how's yours?” I asked, turning to give her a sidelong glance and noticed she was sitting startlingly close.
In response, she leaned in, bumping me. “I guess if you were hurting, you wouldn't be such a smartass.”
I chuckled, looking into her eyes. Those blue eyes always seemed to draw my own into them, surrounded by the faintest laugh lines and sitting beneath a forehead with much more character than the normal teenager’s face ever hoped to contain, and they locked mine in again. I couldn’t have broken contact if my life had depended on it. “I guess not,” I said in reply. “But then, if I hurt, maybe I’d be MORE of a smartass.”
Those eyes. My whole world had shrunk to a sphere that didn’t extend much beyond them. Framed against the pale blue irises, her easily seen pupils dilated, growing bigger. As did I.
For some reason, I said, “Where’s your boyfriend?” Whether out of habit, the sense it wasn’t the right time, or because 17 or 47, I’m the biggest pussy in the world, I played true to form and passed on the right course of action.
She didn't say anything for a couple seconds, and I sensed her moving away from me, if not physically, then emotionally. Probably the best thing to do. We were in an empty gym, with at least three empty locker rooms, no one expecting us anywhere in the next thirty minutes or so, and neither of us were wearing much clothing.
“He's coming to play with you guys tonight” Amanda said, the mood broken.
“Really,” I said, more a statement than a question. So Steve was coming, finally. I figured some of the guys who had graduated would be coming to work out with those of us still around, but since I hadn't set foot in the gym during my first tour of 1976, I had no idea if Steve Collins had done so. Every night we played, running full-court, I had looked for my old friend, hoping he'd show, but at the same time, afraid he would. Knowing he was coming tonight, I realized why I had been laying back a little during the scrimmages, not playing as hard as I could. The regimen I'd been pursuing made the scrimmages a bit easier for me than for the other guys, who were enjoying the summer, rather than working hard. I put my playing at 80% down to not wanting to overdo it too soon and hurt myself again, but now, with the knowledge Steve would be playing tonight, I knew what I'd been doing, and why.
My relationship Steve Collins had begun to sour by the time I had gotten hurt, and nothing that happened after my accident took us back anywhere close to the friendliness we'd once had. Events about a year in the future from this point would cause the final break, and I was startled to realize I could change those events. Interesting, I thought.
Tonight, Steve and I, coming from different stages in our relationship with each other, would meet again,and right in the middle of this sat this woman, my first true love, whose 17 year old self sat next to me on this gym floor. I again opened my eyes and turned to look at her. Amanda's eyes returned the gaze with the same subtle smile that had seen on her face after she had finished singing “Makin' Whoopee” to me. Her blue eyes looked straight into mine, causing me to for the millionth time in my life to imagine what having her all to myself would be like, somehow knowing, as weird as it sounds, she was what the universe wanted for me.
”I haven't seen him in a while,” I said. “Be nice to.”
Amanda nodded, her smile broader now. She raised her eyebrows in agreement. We talked for a few minutes, about the summer, what the band was doing, the musicals coming up this school year. Her laugh, erupting in response to a comment I made about one of our teachers, a spinster named Miss Goering (like the famous Nazi), gave me a slight sensation of vertigo, because it seemed to come flying out at me from the past. Maybe, I thought, I should just tell her now. Not wait around until the summer after we're out of high school to attempt, in my 1969 Plymouth Fury on the way back to my family's lake cottage, to tell her I loved her, I had always loved her and WILL always love her. I had failed in the summer of 1977, weak in body, mind and lacking the confidence to tell her the simple truth. I sure as hell wasn't weak now though. Why wait? The way things are going, if I'm even still here a year from now, my path, already so different from my first time through 1976 could easily be different enough and include no hour-long car trips back and forth to the summer musical theatre camp we would be attending together, while staying at the lake with my family.
Once again, however, I played true to form and said nothing.
After a few minutes, her distracting work done, Amanda pushed herself up off the floor, and turned to look down on me while she distractedly ran her majorette’s baton through h
er fingers. My eyes met hers again and I made a concerted effort to keep them there, ignoring the slightly more interesting view my vantage point offered.
“See you later, Richie,” Amanda said, her small smile back.
“Seeya.”
After Amanda left, I stood, stretched my arms out to the side, shaking off the tightness from sitting. Putting my feet together, I bent double at the waist, grabbing my ankles and stretching my hamstrings. Amazing what time does to our bodies, so slowly, a day at a time, so little we barely notice. But then, it's all back and you realize how far you'd gone from this. I reached down and slapped the leather basketball, and when it bounced up, I hit it again. A few repetitions, and in a few strokes, I had the ball in a normal dribble. Down the court, through my moving legs a few times, around the back both ways, and then at the top of the key, I accelerated toward the basket until a couple steps past the free-throw line I took one more dribble with my left hand, transferring the ball to my right as I jumped. The rim hit my arm a good four inches below my wrist, and I slammed the ball through the hoop, catching the rim in my right hand and hanging on for a brief second before letting go to land back on both feet.
I'm just a shade over six foot three. At my best, first time through the 70s, I couldn't come close to doing what I had just done, but now, not quite four months since arriving back here, I had, gotten strong enough to dunk off the dribble, quite easily. The path I followed this trip through the decade was beginning to bend further and further away from the original. I left the ball bouncing as I picked up my gym bag and walked toward the doors to the parking lot, wondering if it were possible to bridge those two paths now, even if I wanted to.