Time Flying

by Dan Garmen

  By the time Amanda and I graduated from college in 1981, she in the spring on time and me the following winter (basketball cost me some time, despite my doing a couple summer sessions), I had come to accept if this life proved real, I would be here awhile, since Thelma told me she spent 30 years in her past. If I ended up staying here for that long, I figured so be it. I would live this life as the only one I had. And so I did.

  Amanda and I got engaged a month after I graduated, just before Valentine's Day, 1982. She taught Ballet at a dance school in Indy while I worked for an Engineering firm supporting various divisions of General Motors. We had gone to Amanda's parents' house for dinner the night before Valentine's Day and when Amanda's father, Frank and I found ourselves along for a few minutes, I asked him if I could ask Amanda to marry me. He smiled, shook his head, and said, “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to ask, Rich.” He held out his hand, which I grasped as he shook mine vigorously. “Absolutely,” he replied.

  I told him I planned to take Amanda to dinner the next night and propose, which Frank Tully thought sounded like a great idea. He even insisted on paying for dinner.

  Amanda and her sister still lived with their parents, so after dinner and some conversation, she walked me to my car, the same Plymouth Fury I had owned the first time I lived these days. I leaned against the passenger door of the car, parked on the street outside the Tully’s house on the West side of Indianapolis, and Amanda slipped into my arms, tucking her head under my chin as I pulled her in close. We stood that way for a minute or so. The weather, unseasonably warm, but still chilly, so Amanda's arms snuggled underneath my open coat, wrapped around me. I closed my eyes, drew in the scent of her, a little musky, since she had come home straight from teaching three dance classes in a row, but with the remnants of Taboo mixed in. To say it stirred my interest is an understatement, and I began to feel the effects of her being close by, and we hadn’t been able to spend much time together in the past week.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said.

  Amanda looked up at me, the same predatory look in her eyes I had first seen in the music hallway in high school several years before, as she sang “Makin' Whoopee” to me. Oh, for God's sake, I thought. I've got to derail this, because there is no way…

  Still looking up at me, Amanda pressed in closer, dropping her hands to my butt and pulled me to her, causing some parts of me to make more direct contact with her. “Hmmm,” she said, looking down, “what in the world…”

  “Amanda, can I ask you a question?”

  She stopped, relaxed a little and again looked up at me. “Sure,” she said, “what?”

  “Well, I love you. And I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”

  The look on her face remains, to this day, burned into my mind, priceless, in all its cliched, open mouthed glory. Never before had I, or anyone I knew of, seen Amanda Tully at a loss for words. I guess for everything, there is a first time, though and my quickly expanding parts forgotten, her arms moved to around my neck, she pulled herself up, reaching for my mouth with hers, and I got my answer.

  Gene still paid for dinner the next night.

  I entered AOCS (Aviation Officer Candidate School) in June of 1982, and we married in July of the next year. By 1990, we were the proud parents of two children, both boys, a rarity among Naval Aviators, who for some reason, most often produced female children — something to do with the electromagnetic fields, high g-forces, or some other environmental influence we were exposed to while flying. In 1990, Aaron was five years old and Michael turned three. Navy life and living in Washington State proved comfortable and enjoyable. Amanda owned a small dance studio in Bellingham where she taught Ballet, Tap and Modern Dance, and I flew in Intruders, keeping the world safe for Democracy. Entire weeks would go by without my thinking of 2007, and then would be at home in the den of our small bungalow and glance at my Macintosh computer and it would all flood back in. Or, there would be something on television about the World Trade Center towers and the past/future would take over my thoughts. For the most part though, I lived without constant reminders that from my perspective, I lived in the past. In 1990, news didn't come at you like water gushing from a high-pressure firehose as in 2007. The News aired at 6pm and 10pm, CNN was on cable, but didn’t resemble what the network had become by 2007. MSNBC had not launched yet, nor had Fox News or CNBC. I think if all of those outlets had existed, I would have been reminded constantly that I had seen all of this before, but because what I experienced, for the most part, stayed local in nature, life appeared to be all new. I could almost forget the truth of my life in this time period.

  Among my squadron mates, I alone knew we were preparing to go to war in the Middle East in the next few months. Everyone in VA-145 was aware of the possibility, and several were certain shots would be fired and we would be among those doing the shooting, but I was the only one who knew. My flying partner, A-6E pilot Lieutenant Commander (like me) Patrick Maney one of the certain ones, and about as gung ho as they come, ready to deliver ordinance to Saddam Hussein, and make him sign the receipt. Pat, 5 feet 8 inches of irritatingly cocky Navy combat-air jock, was no fan of the rich Arabs of Kuwait, but he had a serious dislike for Saddam. As odd as it sounds, I think the dictator's habit of wearing uniforms and medals he hadn't earned was what truly irked Pat, who had worked hard to earn his uniform and “chest candy” and didn't like pretend-warriors. I would listen to his harangues at least once a week, which ran the gamut from simple anger over oppressors in general, to, to passionately and often funny, all depending on the news out of the Gulf that day. To most people, military included, the Iraqi dictator appeared somewhat “squared away” in his uniforms, whether he was addressing the government leaders of Iraq or shooting a rifle into the air from a balcony, Pat insisted Hussein looked like 'a bag of ass.'

  When he got spooled up, the motivation to describe to Pat the scene of his nemesis being pulled out of a hole in the ground in Iraq in 2003 was tremendous. I looked forward to witnessing Pat’s satisfaction as he viewed the news accounts of Saddam being pulled out of his rat-hole, looking like Howard Hughes’ crazy uncle.

  I pushed myself out of the pool, having once again extracted myself from the Dunker, and watched as the contraption slowly climbed back up the rails to the locked top position, ready for another rider. A couple more dunks and we'd be done with this nostalgic little program revisiting some of the experiences of our early training, designed to, as much as anything, give us a sense of all we've accomplished. I had to admit, the project did give me an interesting sense of the depth of my experience in the service. But, once the nostalgia wore off after the first couple weeks, the time in Pensacola became tedious, being away from family and our normal routines. The irony of this not lost on me, this experience similar to what I had bee going through for the past 15 years with my time travel. Sure, the nostalgia was interesting at first, but I realized early on I would need to do things different this time, or I would die of boredom watching the same reruns of Barney Miller and MAS*H, not to mention getting messed up again on painkillers.

  But, the Navy didn't give us much opportunity to be creative with these training exercises, so in the end, they just bored us. Of course, my enjoying the process wasn’t the objective. They had training and bio-mechanical experts watching us, evaluating how experienced officers handled the tasks they spent a lot of money and effort training recruits to do. Like all things in Government service, somewhere in all this there existed a point which usually need a little digging to uncover.

  A couple hours later, dressed in service khakis, Pat and I relaxed in the Officer's Mess having dinner, not interested in spending our last night in Pensacola in town with a bunch of rowdy junior officers, and I wondered if they watched and recorded that, too. We held transport passes to go back to Whidbey the next day, both of us eager to get back to our families. I'd been away from Amanda and the boys for 3 weeks, since they had flown back to Washington after a week-long visit he
re to the sunshine. Pat's wife and twins hadn't been able to come, caught up in work and school.

  We talked, as usual, about the upcoming deployment and as I insisted Saddam would set his oil fields on fire, an officer, a full Commander, walking through the room about 10 yards away from us, caught my eye. As he passed from behind a table, my eyes dropped reflexively to his feet. He wore black navy oxfords, not the brown oxfords of an aviator. From my vantage point, I couldn't quite see his warfare badge, but he was so familiar. Where had I served with this guy? Then it hit me.

  “Walter Steinberg!” I shouted, drawing the attention of a small group of officers at the next table, and causing the black-shoed officer to stop and identify the source of the voice calling him. I had gotten up, advancing on the puzzled Commander, who I now could tell wore a Medical Corps warfare badge on the left side of his chest. Not quite as tall as me, but thinner, with older style black framed glasses and the beginnings of grey through his slightly longish (for a naval officer) hair. He stared for a few seconds, then recognizing me, his faced broke into a huge smile and his hand extended.

  “Rich Girrard!” he said as I pumped his hand.

  I dropped his hand, nodding at the epaulets on his uniform, “Holy shit, Doc, pardon my language, sir, you're running away from me. You go get a Surface badge and you'll be driving my boat!”

  A wry smile from Steinberg. “I don't think so. They keep promoting us to keep us out of private practice. But Jesus, who needs to have to buy malpractice insurance?” he asked. Almost 5 years had passed since Walter and I met at our 10th High School class reunion. He'd gone to college, graduated in 3 years. The Navy put him through Medical School, counting on him to be a Neurologist for Uncle Sam when he finished, which he did. Apparently, from the number of accommodations on his chest, and the gold eagles on his shoulders, he was a good one. I’ve known Walt Steinberg in both timelines, and I can attest to the fact he’s not a master politician. A very nice, sincere genius, but he tells people what he thinks and believes, not what will get him promoted.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, meaning Pensacola, not the Officer's Mess.

  “They brought in some doctors to listen to me talk about brain trauma, early treatment, blah, blah, blah. They have made the grievous error of believing I know something about all that stuff.” The only time I Walt Steinberg fudged the truth was when talking about himself, but never to appear better or smarter, only more normal. Without this character flaw, I would probably have been talking with an officer with Admiral stars on his shoulders, rather than the eagles of a Full Commander.

  “What are you doing here?” He asked. “Are you stationed in Pensacola now?”

  “Hell, no, I’m just here for the shirtless volleyball,” I answered, straight-faced, bringing a puzzled look from Walter lasting about a second, before he got the Top Gun reference and threw his head back and laughed. Humor was the only area in which I could stay a half-step ahead of Walter Steinberg. In truth, I always believed he evaluated a joke he heard for humor, evaluated how strong a response the humorous anecdote required, and then executed his response. Ever since high school, he was the brainiest guy I'd ever known. One of the only Jewish kids in a midwestern high school, he learned to evaluate humor in the way he did, because so many jokes had been at his expense.

  “Hey, join us. You got a few minutes?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Sure!” Walter answered, pointing the way to our table, where Pat waited.

  “Commander Walter Steinberg,” I said, introducing a good friend from the past to my best friend today, “Lieutenant Pat Maney, my parter. He turns the airplane on and I tell him where to go.”

  “HA!” Pat answered, standing and shaking Walter's hand, our bit well-worn. “He's 'Goose,’ and I'm Tom Cruise, only taller.”

  “Not by much,” I added. All this earned an easy laugh from Walter.

  Nodding at Steinberg's medical badge, Pat said, “So, I take it you're the Doctor who forged this guy's psych evaluation so he could get in the Navy?”

  This put a perplexed expression on Walter’s face, erased by Pat's quick “Kidding.”

  “Oh!” Another big laugh as we all sat down.

  “So, what YOU think about Saddam, Commander?” Pat asked Walter, saying the dictator’s name the way President Bush did, emphasizing the first syllable, “SADdam”. Some language experts said Bush said it in this way, since the word translated to “shoeshine boy” in the form of Aramaic the Iraqis spoke.

  Steinberg shrugged, considering Pat’s question. “It's easy to say he's insane, but when you consider the environment in which he grew up, what the social structures in the Middle East are like, it's easy to understand how men like him are created. Culturally, that part of the world tends to line up behind dictators easily, and there’s never a shortage of thugs interested in leading the parade. Government in those countries often becomes a kind of mafia with uniforms. Expecting our brand of democracy to simply take hold in a place like that is naive, but I believe we have to try.”

  Pat and I both nodded, Walter’s eyes moving between us for a couple seconds before he asked, “What do you think of him?” Steinberg leaned forward, interested in hearing our thoughts.

  “I think he’s a fucking crazy, insane maniac,” Pat answered.

  I chuckled under my breath, watching Walter, eager to hear Pat’s reasoned response, parse his overly simplistic opinion. As the seconds ticked off, he realized Pat had pretty much delivered his complete opinion.

  Walter waited a few more seconds out of courtesy, and as Pat took a drink of his soda, continued. “I served with a doctor a few years ago who had been part of a liaison mission to Iraq when Saddam was a friend of ours, during the Iran-Iraq war. He said his time there was like being in an alternate universe, where a time traveler had gathered up a bunch of technology and gone back in time, so you had crowds publicly humiliating women for letting too much of their face show, while people shot video of the scene with their camcorders. He said the experience was…a disjointed one.”

  Time traveler. Hearing those words from Steinberg cause a chill to hit my gut, and I looked closely at Walter. Was he delivering a message? Did he know something? He seemed oblivious to my sudden spike in attention, and he continued. “The next few months should prove quite interesting.”

  For me, the next few months will certainly be interesting, and for the second time.

  The topic turned to internal Navy stuff, postings, friends and acquaintances we all had in common. Put two Navy people together and before long, they are traveling the “find the friends in common” road, and it never fails to amaze no matter how long you’ve served, just how small the service is. Fortunately, there were no more references to time travel, however, and I began to relax a little, still thinking about it.

  As it turned out Walter had orders sending him to Whidbey Island, booked on the same flight Pat and I the next day. The Naval Air Station at Whidbey was the next stop for his little head trauma dog and pony show, since most of the aircrews stationed at Whidbey were scheduled for the coming deployment, and they expected more than the usual supply of training accidents in the next few months, I guess. The flight the next day was an all-day Friday affair, so Walter didn't have anything on his schedule until Monday afternoon. I talked him into a barbecue on Saturday at the house. Sensitive about intruding on a reunited family post-deployment, he and graciously refused the offer to stay at our place, insisting the BOQ (Bachelor Officers Quarters) on base were among the best, and he'd been wanting to hike Deception Pass State Park.

  After a few more minutes we parted, planning to meet again on the plane to Whidbey the next day. It felt good connecting with an old friend, even if I still had a little wariness about the circumstances and timing. I shrugged the worry off, though, and realized I wanted to have some time with Walter this weekend to discuss my “problem.”l. There was a good chance my experience was neurological, and I believed I could trust him with at least part of my situation wit
hout getting my flight privileges yanked in the process.

  SEVEN

  Altitude

  Autumn, 1990 on Whidbey Island proved to be beautiful, with unseasonably warm and dry conditions, perfect for both flying and family life. Walter Steinberg, Pat’s family, Amanda, my boys and I got to enjoy a late season barbecue the first week of October. I sat with a long neck in my hand, next to Walter on the picnic table in my backyard watching Pat handle the burgers and steaks, with occasional helpful advice from Amanda. Aaron and Michael were playing with the Maney kids, Jerry and Allison, 8 year old twins who were miniature versions of Pat and Candice. Walter clearly loved this.

  “Oh no, I am way too busy for a family right now,” he replied when Amanda had asked about his love life. Only when driving home from the base after we landed and telling my wife who was coming over next day, did it occur to me while she knew Walter from High School, too. Two lives we have, the Navy and the one before the Navy, and it is odd when they intersect.

  When Walter explained about being too busy right now, Amanda wanted to scrunch up her eyes, making the worry lines on her forehead pop out, and say, “Well, when won't you be too busy?” She didn’t say it, but trust me, she was thinking it. But, ever the gracious hostess, Amanda nodded in a non-enthusiastic way, smiled, and said nothing. She excused herself and went back to harass Pat some more about his grilling.

  Walter turned to me and said, “This is super, Rich. You've got a such wonderful family.” Still smiling and flicking his eyebrows up, he added, “You and Amanda Tully. Nicely done, my friend.”