Time Flying (26 page)

About an hour later, in the Squadron's ready room, the Landing Signal Officer, or “LSO” came by to give us the grade for Pat's landing. To call Commander Garret Tolleson “brutally honest” was like calling the sun “fairly bright.” If he found something to criticize, Tolleson would find it. On our last WESTPAC cruise on
Ranger
, I overheard him grading Commander Coleson on a pretty good trap under tough conditions.The stiff breeze had been shifting all day, requiring
Ranger
to change course at least three times so her aircraft could land into the wind. The seas were rough, too, with swells pitching the deck of the ship up and down each time by more than 10 feet. Coleson had caught the number three wire, and had done so without resorting to diving on the deck. Still, Tolleson had a list of at least five things the Squadron Commander could have done better, and told him so, as if our C.O. had been a brand-new pilot on his first deployment. They were friends, but that fact didn’t protect Coleson from a brutal critique.

I expected a similar diatribe from Tolleson this day, but found myself dumfounded when he came into the room, opened his metal clipboard, pulled a single sheet of paper from out, reviewed it, then signed and handed it to Pat.

“Pass.”

That stunned even Pat, who for the first time since I met him, found himself speechless. A few silent seconds passed as we looked at each other, amazed, and then the moment ended. Life on the ship returned to normal.

Two pilots from the squadron came in the room, laughing at something I couldn't quite make out, mainly because my attention had been captured by the small television mounted high in the corner of the compartment, opposite the hatch. CNN, captured by one of
Ranger
's many satellite receivers, ran 24/7 these days, and oddly enough, served as our best source of information about the coming conflict. The anchor, a beautiful girl in her mid 20s with long, wavy chestnut hair read the news, a video loop playing showing Marines disembarking from a C5 transport, other soldiers milling around in freshly sprouted camps in the desert and then a quick shot of
Ranger
steaming out in the middle of the ocean, a single F14 Tomcat on approach. A small, ironic cheer went up in the room. The reaction small, because there were only seven or eight of us in the room, and ironic because we had seen the same video loop about a hundred times in the past couple days.

“Hey, there's your girlfriend!” Pat teased, shoving my left shoulder as my eyes stayed locked on the broadcast. “My girlfriend” had earned her nickname the first week of the cruise, when one of the other B/Ns commented that I seemed “awfully interested in that particular news honey.” So, the anchor had been assigned the “handle” of “Wax's News Honey,” since they didn't remember her name.

I remembered her name, though. The CNN reporter who had sat in the anchor's chair during the conflict that would be come to known as the “First Gulf War,” was a 24 year old from Chicago, by the name of Molly Wallace.

Yea,
my
Molly, at least in another timeline, one in which she had given up the entry-level TV reporter's job in Atlanta at the fledgling start-up network to move to San Diego for an opportunity with a local TV station and a boyfriend who didn't really deserve her.

Me
.

ELEVEN

In Harm's Way

The crew of
Ranger
had a busy life, settling into deployed life. We all had a lot to do as we prepared for what most of my shipmates hoped, and I knew, would be our entry into the fight.

As we worked our way to the Persian Gulf,
Ranger
and her crew spent Christmas at sea, with a subdued Squadron party, which included a presentation for the Air Wing of a video production made up of photos and videos of family members wishing us all a Merry Christmas, and asking us to come home safely. When a clip appeared of Amanda and the boys waving, the three of them holding a sign that read, “VA-145 - We Love You Daddy!” flashed on the screen, raising a cheer in our section of the hanger, the squadron’s Executive Officer, Tim Darlington, who was sitting behind me leaned forward and a little too loudly for a whisper, said, “Well, that does narrow it down a bit.”

“Respectfully, XO,” Pat answered in a voice, just a notch louder than Darlington's, “Fuck you.” The squadron cracked up, as did several people within earshot. Darlington's wife, Cara, had organized the production of the video, which we were all grateful for.

Whether or not individuals had family in the video, and I think pretty much everyone did, not a single dry eye remained in the darkened hanger, so the lights took a long time to come back up. All in all, for a Christmas away from home, this one on
Ranger
was pretty good.

The New Year celebration was an unabashed blast. We celebrated the arrival of 1991 in the Philippines, docking at Subic Bay, many of us allowed 24 hour shore leave. First order of business, at least for Pat and me being to call home from a pay phone at the base. Pat spent time talking with Candace and their girls, and I got to talk with Amanda and the boys, amazed at how much older Aaron sounded.

“Please be careful, Rich,” Amanda said, after I had talked with Michael. “I’m worried sick. The stuff we're seeing on TV…”

“Sweetheart,” I said, trying to sound as less concerned than I felt. “Read the notebooks. It's all happened before, and will happen again.” In San Diego I had told Amanda to read my “future histories” in the hope she would be convinced I wasn't crazy, and that everything would be okay, at least until 2007, when I had the accident.

“No
Ranger
A6 BNs get killed, and only one gets shot down, and he's in VA-155,” I had written in the last notebook, confident my memory served me well. I wanted to tell her an Intruder would be shot down, the crew never found, but they would be from another ship. I dared not say anything over an unsecured, or secured for that matter, phone. I would not want to have to explain those words to Navy Intel, especially after the event happens.

“Okay.” I could hear Amanda trying hard to not cry and upset the boys, who I knew were right next to her.

“Read the notebooks, Amanda,” I repeated. “It'll all happen again, just like last time.”

But of course, I had no way of being sure history would repeat itself. The notebooks contained nothing about me, so there was no way to be sure how my actions in the coming fight would change things. The notebooks Amanda found in my desk at home are histories of a time when I was trying to get off the drugs, trying hard not to think about the “Vike” I needed so much, gritting my teeth while flushing a couple stray Vicodin I'd found in a forgotten stash in the credit card slot of an old wallet, and having almost constant arguments with myself after going to the dentist for a root canal and carrying the resulting Oxycodone prescription around in my wallet for a week, comforted that it was there, but making sure I didn’t drive past a drug store, where I would be tempted to fill the prescription.

Even though I didn't fall so far in my addiction that I ruined any lives, I did hurt some relationships I had with people on the periphery of my life. One shrink I'd gone to had tried to tell me because I hadn't gone to excessive, self-destructive lengths to get Vicodin, clinically, I wasn’t “addicted,” but rather “physically dependent.”

What bullshit
that
all was. I needed the Vicodin not to get high, but to get “normal,” and function. Whether you call it “addiction” or “dependence,” the truth of the matter is, it hurts you, as well as those you love.

I had thought about my
Vike
constantly, could have told you ten places I had pills stashed, and how many I had in the prescription bottle I carried with me at all times. I decided to get off the stuff when I met Molly. In the fall of 1989, my band played several weekend gigs at Croce's in the Gas lamp District in San Diego. We were pretty bad, part of the backlash against the glitz in music, fashion and the hairstyles of the 80s, playing dark, pessimistic songs about loss, and dreams unfulfilled. One weekend, Molly was on vacation with a couple girlfriends, spending the evening clubbing. The sight of the bearded idiots playing out of tune in front of the big sketched picture of Jim Croce must have been a strange one. But, we chatted during a break, and ended up spending the next couple days running around San Diego together. I knew something about Molly was different that first evening after the gig, when I realized I hadn't thought of popping a Vicodin until I started to sweat and feel nauseous, the beginnings of detox.

That marked the beginning of my recovery. We got married a year later, Molly moving from Atlanta to join KUSI TV in San Diego.

In this timeline, on a couple of occasions, I've been tempted. On my first WESTPAC, I slipped while descending on a ladder and cracked a bone in my wrist, not a terribly debilitating injury, even though it kept me off the flight schedule for a couple weeks, but a painful one. The ship's doctors kept trying to push Percocet, but I passed, preferring to use Ibuprofen or Acetaminophen, Advil and Tylenol. The irony of pain relief medication is, a great deal of the effectiveness in Vicodin or Percocet (Hydrocodone and Oxycodone, respectively) is from what's thrown in to boost the pain-relieving properties, most often Acetaminophen, known to the world as good-old
Tylenol
. The rest is good old-fashioned opium, long revered by mankind as something best used to make life on earth tolerable.

I've always been grateful to Molly for changing my life, and trading her dreams for my survival. I can't say for sure she knew what she was doing, but whatever her intentions, she saved me.

It was a quiet night on the sea and in the sky as I leaned against the rail
Ranger’s
fantail, looking at the luminescent wake the ship made as she sped toward the war. The sounds of the ship floated out to me, the rhythm of the machinery, the occasional voice raised in laughter, and as I closed my eyes, I could hear music. Listening closer, I identified Joshua Kadison, singing “Jessie.” Someone missed home. As I looked at the faintly glowing water behind the ship, glow caused by the microscopic organisms stirred up and excited by roiling water
Ranger
's huge propellers churned up, I realized these lives I've lived haven't been driven entirely by selfishness.

This trip through the timeline I spent with Amanda so far, carried with it a subtle background noise that felt a lot like guilt. My assumption has always been this time, I've taken the tougher road, done things I avoided the first time, worked harder and lived a life designed by an older, wiser me, all at Molly’s expense. The Milky Way cut a swath across the night sky, and shone, reflected in the calm ocean the ship moved through. Confronted with such enormous grandeur, I laughed out loud at myself, and the absurdity of that idea. Molly, crying into her pillow every night because she doesn't have Richard Girrard in her life? In 2007, Katie Couric sat at the top of the TV news business. From my unique perspective, I knew she had become the breakout star of the first Gulf War only because Molly had given up her job at CNN to move to be with me in San Diego. A lot could happen between now and 2007, I thought, but knew deep down in my gut Molly would be the first woman to anchor a network nightly news broadcast, not Katie Couric.

The relief this epiphany brought was enormous, coming in a rush, my senses clearer, the sounds sharper, reminding me of my first day back in 1976, when everything sounded a bit louder, almost metallic in their clarity. The salt air smelled fresher, more invigorating when it hit my lungs.

I now knew I had done the right thing by following this path, it was the right decision for everyone. The hole in my stomach was still present when I thought of Samantha, but I knew she lived in the other timeline, and I'd see her again. When I died here, hopefully many years in the future, I would return to my old timeline and life, and I would be with Molly and Samantha again, the Molly who had given up here dreams for me, but in the process acquired other dreams, which I'm confident she would consider better ones.

And Amanda
.

Following this path benefited Amanda in ways that made whatever sacrifice I had to make worth it. Through all the soul searching I’ve done as a result of what happened to me, I’ve never wasted a moment, wondering if the sacrifice I made to be with Amanda was the right decision, it simply
was.

In September of 1975, as a Junior at Ben Davis High School, since I didn't play football, and Basketball practice didn't start until early October, I worked after school and weekends for my father's construction company. The work usually meant doing clean-up on almost-finished houses, before the interior painters and flooring people came in to put the finishing touches on the structures, turning them into homes. On one particular Saturday morning, I found myself on the roof, helping install a metal chimney housing on a large split-level.

The man who usually did this job was AWOL, not an uncommon event for this particular worker, because Fridays were a drinking night for Delmer, a functioning alcoholic who couldn’t seem to get it together most Saturdays.  So I had climbed up the ladder and worked on the roof that day.

The foreman, working to trim the metal faux chimney surround dropped his metal shears, which slid down the slope of the roof, the friction of the asphalt roofing shingles slowing and finally stopping them three feet from the edge. Carl nodded at the shears and I started down the roof's slope to retrieve them. I'd gotten four or five steps when a roofing square gave way, and I slipped, falling backwards on my butt, rapidly sliding toward the edge of the roof. My fall had been abrupt and hard, and my tennis shoe clad feet flailed in the air, not touching the roof until it was too late to stop my slide.

My left foot caught on the rain gutter, spinning me as I fell off the roof. The force of my falling pulled my foot out of the shoe, not slowing me at all. Although a jumble of panic at the time, the other crew members, working on the ground watched me fall from the 20 foot height head first, sure I would break my neck. Fortunately, the spinning instigated by my foot catching on the gutter brought me around to a position so my left leg to first make contact with the ground. The rest of my body, out of position to help cushion the fall, meant my left leg took the full measure of the impact.