Well, the picture is changing
Now you’re part of a crowd
They’re laughing at something
And the music’s loud
A girl comes towards you
You once used to know
You reach out your hand
But you’re all alone
In these time passages
- Al Stewart, Time Passages
Thelma’s story had hit me hard. 30 years. Holy shit, what if I’m back here for 30 years? Or more? I’d always figured I’d be out of here and back to 2005 in a matter of days, weeks at most. What had happened in the gym that morning reinforced that idea, made 2005 just a breath away.
But 30 years? That’s a long damn time. The thought of spending the next three decades living the 70s, 80s and 90s all over again wasn’t as exciting as it might have been, especially knowing that it could all end any second. But then that’s how we live our lives, expecting it to go on for a long, long time, but knowing, deep down, that it could all end at any moment.
By the time I got back to the gym just after 6pm, there were already at least 12 guys split into two groups at opposite ends of the court. Several basketballs were bouncing and being shot as everyone casually warmed up. Generally, the teams tended to split naturally by whatever end of the court players found themselves on. I saw Billy Saunders shooting at the far basket, so I walked toward that end of the court. As I tossed my gym bag onto the courtside bleachers, I saw that Tammy was sitting down in the bleachers a few rows up from courtside. She saw me right after I noticed her, and she smiled with a little smile. I waved back, turned and saw Billy looking at Tammy, then me. I nodded at him, and Billy threw me a ball. Catching it, I put down one dribble and shot a 22 footer that slipped through the hoop without touching the rim. Several of the guys exclaimed their appreciation, and one of them, Doug Worland, another friend since 7th grade smiled and snapped the ball back to me.
Doug, tall and skinny, had to be 6′4″ by then, but I’d have been shocked if he weighed more than about 160. I caught it again, didn’t bother dribbling this time, but spun the ball in my hand so I could see the “Spaulding” trademark. I then set both feet and let loose another jump shot that sailed through the basket once again. It was going to be a good night. I could just feel it.
I turned to look behind me, and saw that the other “team” was slowly moving our way. Billy softly punched the ball out of Doug’s hands and bounced it a couple times before saying “make it, take it. Girrard shoots,” and snapped the ball to me. I caught the ball, and saw that the other team was fairly heavy with guys who had graduated in the past couple years, including Mark Daniels, Paul Dumont and, exactly as Tammy had promised, Steve Collins, who was dribbling a ball and seemed to be pointedly not looking at me. I was standing at the top of the key. Again, I didn’t take a dribble, but instead just popped a jumper, hardly leaving my feet and again the ball swished, not touching the rim.
The tradition was, hit the shot and your team gets the ball, but plays skins. There were plenty of reversible jerseys in the equipment room, but wearing them would be evidence that the team was practicing outside of the IHSAA rules and so we went “shirts and skins.” I didn’t mind. I was in much better shape than I’d been a few months ago, and it was a fairly hot and humid night. I’d be cooler without a shirt.
We had 7 on our side of the court, so Doug and Larry Tompkins took it upon themselves to sit down while our opponents discussed who to start the scrimmage with. The five that stayed out on the court to play us were Steve, who had graduated in May, Paul and Mark, who along with Jimmy Harkins had graduated two years before and Jerry Jamisson, another senior, like Billy and me. On the bench were Ned Conner, an incoming Junior and Nicky Collins, Steve’s brother, who was going to be a sophomore this year. Nicky was huge, a slightly chubby kid who was already 6′2″. Nicky idolized his brother Steve, and was considered by just about everybody, an arrogant ass. I hadn’t kept in touch with any of these guys after I left high school, not even Billy, and had a moment of regret over that, as while we were walking back from depositing our shirts on the bleacher by my gym bag. Billy, who was four inches shorter than me, pointed at my chest and said “yech, what’s that?”
I looked down, only to have him run his bent finger up and over my nose. That was Billy. “HA! Every time, Girrard. God, you’ll never learn,” he laughed as he shoved me toward our basket, and went the other way to get the inbound pass and start walking the ball up the court.
On our team, besides Billy and me, we had Rick Glazer, a solid 6′5″ center, Tom Porter and the only black guy on our team Phil Moore. Phil was going to be a Junior, was about the same height as me, and actually went on to play college ball for a Big Ten school. He was good in high school, but grew another 4 inches by the time he graduated, and did really well in college. He didn’t make it pro, but his scholarship paid for a degree and he was able to go to med school, eventually becaming an orthopedic surgeon. Back in my original timeline a few years after my accident, I’d looked Phil up to get a consultation about my leg. In reality, I’d been hoping that a new doctor who had been a friend and teammate would be an easy mark for painkillers. I’d been wrong, and seeing him here today, even though none of that had happened in 1976, it made me feel a little guilty that I’d tried to use him that way.
Jerry Jamisson met Billy at half-court, theatrically crouched on defense. Even though Jerry was a complete and unabashed ass, half the time I kind of liked him. Unfortunately, he insisted on constantly aggravating Billy though, and I was never sure what the deal was between those two. They were friends, but there were many times when we had to pull one off of the other. It was always a little tense.
I circled behind Billy and moved to the baseline on the right, with Paul picking me up and guarding me. Steve went to cover Phil, and Rick, being the biggest guy on the court, sauntered down the middle to a post position. Billy head-faked Jerry to the left, then crossover dribbled to the right, just as I pressed into Dumont clumsily, then rolled around and backdoored him to the hoop. Billy and I did this all the time, but no one ever learned. He lobbed the ball to me as Rick drew his man out away from the basket, and I had an easy layup. It was on.
The game went back and forth pretty evenly, though no one kept score. The normal course of events was that we’d run for an hour or so, then break, shoot for new teams and go another hour. When you got a bit tired, you’d sit down and let whoever was on the bench have some playing time. It was pretty loose, and remarkably fair. Thought I never thought much about it the first time through this part of my life, it worked pretty well. As I considered how this was the case, I realized that the lack of score-keeping was what made the whole thing work. When there was no overall win/loss, only a series of short-term goals we were working for, fairness became the best strategy. Only when bragging rights, won/loss records and state championships mattered did how many minutes you got to play become an issue. My trip back to my past was full of interesting surprises and revelations that I wasn’t experienced or observant enough to pick up on the first time. There’s so much going on around us when we’re young that we participate in and take advantage of, but aren’t even aware of. Much like my relationship back then with Steve Collins.
I’d gotten a lot of attention from Tammy in the past few months, and clearly she was staying close, even though Steve was her boyfriend. I had been almost completely oblivious to it all my first time here, but age and experience made me more in tune with the games she played. I can only imagine what she did on the other side of the triangle with Steve to keep him off-balance. I realized that even though he was my rival with Tammy, because he had her, Steve had the most to lose. I admitted to myself that given the situation, I’d probably have a less than positive attitude toward him if the situation were reversed. But this evening, it was just basketball.
My tolerance of Steve and his delicate position came to an abrupt end 40 minutes or so into our scrimmage, and it wasn’t pretty.
Phil Moore and I had been running some baseline pick and roll stuff, designed to confuse the defenders and free one of us up near the basket. Normally, when you’re on defense and you find yourself being picked (or blocked), the standard defensive play is to call “switch” and have your teammate take over guarding your man and you take his. So, from time to time, I would find myself guarded by Steve. After one of these plays, Steve was on me, and Phil had gotten the ball, taken the shot, but missed. The rebound was coming straight at Steve and me, but Steve had the better position, having blocked me out pretty well. We both went up, but he came down with the ball, holding it in both hands after landing. Seeing he securely had the ball, I pulled both my hands back to avoid fouling him by reaching around him with both hands, but Steve swung his arms around to the right, elbows extended. His right elbow connected with my jaw. Hard.
The impact shocked me, and my legs just disappeared from underneath me as I hit the floor. My vision swam, and I heard a number of voices exclaim “ooooooooo,” as they had seen the elbow thrown and me stagger backward, finally crashing down. In my first trip through 1976, I would have been up and at Steve like a shot, but years of experience and a cooler head made me stop, feel my jaw for broken bones while still lying on the floor, and just catch my breath. Not that I wasn’t pissed, mind you. I’d been disrespected by this guy for more years than at this point in history we’d been alive, and now he’s throwing elbows at me on the basketball court? The heat on the simmering stove that represented the relationship I had with Steve Collins had just been cranked up and it was going to boil over, I just didn’t want it to boil over so that it did nothing but scald me. I wanted the effect to mean something, and as I lay there, I knew exactly what I was going to do.
I rose with an arm up from Jamisson, humiliated that I’d been decked and laid out by Steve, and looked up to see Tammy, now with a couple of her friends sitting with her in the bleachers. To her left, several yards away, sat Coach MacLaren, looking straight at me. His eyes, underneath the perfect flattop crewcut, were unreadable through the heavy black-framed glasses. My guess was that he was a little mystified that I didn’t jump up and go after Steve. Looking around, I could tell everyone else was surprised, too. I then saw Steve, his back turned to me, walking away dribbling slowly. No apology or even a hand up.
What an ass.
As I nodded my thanks to Jerry, he turned his head slightly and stage-whipered “I’d kick his ass, Richie.”
I smiled slightly at him, lifted my eyebrows and said “we’ll see,” then to everyone else “no harm, no foul. Shirt ball,” before turning and trotting down toward their basket. I turned to look at Tammy, whose friend Terri was sitting to her left and in the middle of telling her something of apparent importance, but it was clear that she was much more interested in what was going on on the court than whatever Terri was saying. She smiled at me, and grimaced slightly, showing me she knew that the shot I’d taken had hurt.
I smiled and winked at her.
Phil came jogging over from his side of the court and asked “you alright?”
“I’m fine,” I replied. “Switch with me, OK? I want to cover Steve.”
“Sure, but watch out man, Coach is here…”
“I know,” I said.
Phil stayed on that side, and when Dumont came down, a few feet ahead of the ball, he began guarding him. On the left side, I waited for Steve. When he came down to his corner a few seconds later, Steve’s eyes met mine, a slightly unsettled look in them.
“Hey, Stevie…I’m on you now. No more chickenshit elbows, OK?”
He looked away, apparently dismissing the thought as unworthy of response. Two passes, and the ball came to Steve. Always a fundamentally good player – he knew how to do everything necessary to get the job done, but lacked that special something, that creativity and ability to really play in the moment. That was what made a good player a great one – the ability to feel what you should do, rather than think it. Steve started moving with the ball to his right, but I quickly blocked that route. He did what a predictably basic player did every time then, and turned, protecting the ball with his body and started dribbling to the left. That was my opportunity. I let him get a half a step on me and then I moved. I started to follow him around, but cut the route in half so that I could do something I always had an almost sixth-sense talent for, poking the ball away and starting a fast break.
Billy was again ready for me to make this move. Just as Steve began to think he’d gotten that step on me, he pushed the ball down to the floor in a dribble with his left hand. By the time his hand was ready for it to return, the ball had disappeared. It took a fraction of a second for him to realize that I had reached in from behind and poked the ball toward Billy Saunders. Billy, knowing it was coming, grabbed it, and shot off with it toward our basket. I was several steps ahead though, and before he got to the top of the key, Billy passed me the ball and I only had time for one quick dribble before going up from one foot and easily laying the ball in, rolling it off the ends of my fingers. I could have dunked, but thought I’d wait a little longer for that. Technically, the poke move was “reaching in”, a foul, but refs only called that about half the time, depending on if there was any contact made. There was no way, especially after the elbow he threw a few minutes before, that Steve was going to make a call like that.
Running back down the floor, I flicked my eyebrows up at a smiling Billy Saunders, who smiled back, then as he passed Steve, shifted his face to a look of mock-surprise, his mouth an “o”. At that moment I regretted that I hadn’t kept in touch with him, and I have no idea what had become of him after high school.
Steve was seriously pissed. I glanced again at Tammy, and though Terri was again talking to her, she was watching everything happening on the floor. Tammy was ready for me to look at her again, and met my glance with another, this time a bigger, smile. She held my gaze for half a second, and then dropped it, looking toward Terri and laughing.
Steve got the ball a couple more times in the next few minutes, but I was on him pretty tight, and he really had no opening. If it had looked like I could have pulled the poke-and-run on him again, I would have, but he didn’t seem willing to try and move the ball. The third time he took a pass, I again got up on him tight, making it tough for him to find somewhere to get the ball to. Finally, it looked like Jerry Jamisson was going to pop free of Billy, but it was a ruse. Steve, looking relieved to finally see someone to take the ball from him, telegraphed his pass and despite Jerry’s moving toward the ball to grab it, Billy quickly jumped in and got it instead, put the ball on the floor and accelerated toward our basket. I took off too, but Steve, the first one of us who knew Billy was going to be in possession of the ball, was headed down court as well, and had 3 or 4 steps on me.
Unfortunately, I was too far behind them to take part in an effective 2 on 1 fast break, so Billy pulled up with the ball at the top of the key, circled to the right and let the other players catch up. Steve stayed on me this time, and I went deeper into the left baseline corner as the play set up. The ball was on the right side of the court, so Steve sagged in toward the lane, keeping an occasional eye on me. Billy threw the ball into the right corner to Doug Worland, now in the game, and Doug held it above his head, looking for Rick in the pivot. He was pretty well covered, so Doug passed the ball back to Billy, who saw that I had edged up closer to the lane that I’d been and cross-courted the ball quickly to me. I was already moving when I caught the ball, and cut immediately toward the basket, putting the ball on the floor.
It was time.
I was in the perfect position for something spectacular, but what happened next made it even better than that. Steve had sagged in a bit too much, expecting Doug to get the ball to Rick, so he was too far under the basket, giving me a clear lane to the hoop. Billy’s pass was sharp and came right to me. Steve saw what was happening and that it was his fault that I had the open lane. He wasn’t going to let me make him look bad again, so he pushed off his left leg to make sure I didn’t get the ball to the basket. He only had two steps to get in position to jump, and later, both Billy and Doug told me it was clear to them that Steve was looking to hack me hard to keep me from scoring. By the time he jumped, I had taken off from both feet, the ball in my right hand, my body turned slightly to the right. My angle was sharper, and my jump had much more energy in it, while Steve was jumping more vertically, not as high and with less energy.
He didn’t have a chance. Physics saw to that.
I hit Steve hard on my way to the basket, but the collision didn’t slow me down much at all. I had more than enough energy to get above the rim. Steve wasn’t so lucky. He spun off me to the right, folding as he went down hard on his right side. I slammed the ball through the hoop, my momentum keeping me flying toward the backboard. To keep my head from hitting it, I held on to the rim, swinging back toward the foul line and then letting go.
The other players cut loose with shock and laughing admiration. The one voice I heard, distinctly was Billy’s, shouting “HO-LEE SHIIIIIIIT!!!”
I looked down, and let myself swing back toward the baseline a little bit, to avoid coming down on Steve, who was lying on the floor. I finally landed as the noise of the response to my move and dunk resounded. I realized that I’d never made a play like that, nor would I probably ever be able to do it again. These guys would be talking about this day for a long time.
The game had stopped, and everyone was looking down on Steve, who was starting to get up now, murder in his eyes.
“All right, that’s ENOUGH!” Coach MacLaren’s voice boomed, startling us. “Game’s over. Clear out, gentlemen.” I’d known Bob MacLaren for a long time, and knew that he was not happy. Everybody went quiet, and in response to the Coach’s order, started for their gear and the door.
* * *
“Mr. Collins,” Coach MacLaren finally said, after a few seconds of silence with the three of us in his office. “That elbow was unnecessary. You played for me for three years, and I never saw you do something like that. What was the reason for it?”
I watched, amazed. It was wonderful, in a way, watching Steve catch hell for slugging me. I felt vindicated for the years he snubbed and disrespected me. Years, I ironically noted to myself, that were almost all in his future, but in my past. At the same time, I also knew that my turn was coming, or I wouldn’t be in here. Also, watching Steve here was interesting because he didn’t have to take this. He’d graduated last year, was going to a small liberal arts college and to my knowledge, didn’t plan to play ball. In short, he didn’t need Coach MacLaren at all anymore, but the weight of the Coach’s authority and power apparently still held us even after we graduated. Both Steve and I were over six feet tall, but here was a man about 50 years old, maybe 5′10″, sitting down behind a desk and we both felt about an inch high.
“Sorry, Coach,” was all Steve said. The 47 year old student of human behavior in me noticed though, that he was looking off to the side, rather than down at his shoes. That spoke volumes. Maybe MacLaren’s authority wasn’t still absolute to him. Off to the side means I’m taking this, but I’m not sure I really have to.
“Alright. I don’t have a problem with you boys who have graduated coming back to play ball in the summer, but I want no more of that nonsense,” MacLaren said. “Anything like that again, and I’ll have to insist you stay away.”
Silence, but a small nod.
“See you again soon, Collins.” Oh crap, I thought, he’s forgiven. That was easy.
Part of me chuckled at myself, though. Here I was, 47 years old, living 30 years in my past, being called on the carpet by my old (and in my time, dead) high school basketball coach. I was totally immersed in this insane fantasy, which despite what Thelma had told me a couple hours ago, couldn’t possibly be real. I was hooked. I inwardly sighed and said to myself well, let’s just see where this goes.
I didn’t have to wait long. As soon as Steve left the room and we heard his footsteps fade as he left the gym, Coach MacLaren started in on me.
“First of all, Mr. Girrard,” he began, “if I ever catch you hanging on one of my rims again, you’ll be running bleachers until you have grandchildren, and then they’ll take over.” It was all I could do not to smile at that. It was the kind of MacLaren-ism that once uttered by him, would never be forgotten by us.
“Secondly, when you’re playing basketball in my program, and by the way, just because we’re not officially in season and officially practicing, when you’re playing on my court with my ball, you’re in my program, you will play basketball, not chase cheerleaders around.”
Ah, now we were getting down to it.
We stared at each other for a few seconds, eye to eye, Coach’s eyes again getting that slightly puzzled look that suggested to me he knew there was something not quite right with me, something he hadn’t experienced with a student or player before. Boy, if he only knew. I would never have been able to go toe to toe with Coach like this when I was 17 for the first time, and he somehow knew that, even though there was no way he could know what the truth was. Or at least what I thought the truth to be.
His voice softened. “Sit down, Rich.” I sat.
“You’ve been working very hard. A lot harder than you’ve ever worked before. I’ve noticed that. Even if you hadn’t done what you did out there tonight, I figured you could.” Coach paused and chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds, then continued. “What’s brought this on?”
I shrugged. “Coach, I missed most of last season, and I decided I needed to make up for lost time. I got serious.” Again, I shrugged.
He wasn’t buying it. Shaking his head, he said “Well, I’m happy to hear that. It’s the right answer, but I don’t think it’s the whole answer.”
I looked off to the right, away from his face, and pretended to study the books in the case beside his desk. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him that in 2005 I took a road trip to Belton, Indiana and met an old lady who gave me a letter from my Grandfather that said I’d travel back to 1933, and then had a car accident the next day and woke up back here in 1976, a teenager for the second time. I wanted to tell him that I’d been busting my ass because I let my injury from last year derail me the first time I’d lived through the late 70s, keep me away from basketball and eventually get me hooked on painkillers. It screwed up a good portion of my life, and given a second chance, I wasn’t about to let that happen again. Beating the pain without drugs turned out to be easier than I’d ever imagined it could be, once I applied the experience of 30 years. I wanted to tell him that he needed to get to a cardiologist, fix his diet, or cholesterol or stress or whatever, because in four years he was going to die from a major heart attack not 30 feet from this very spot, in the locker room just before a game.
But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I said “Coach, I had a little taste of failure and a short descent into self-pity. Fortunately, it didn’t last. I decided I was going to work harder than I’d ever worked before.” I held my breath, wondering if he was going to buy it. If that didn’t work, I had nothing in between telling him I was, in reality, a time traveler and the bullshit answer that I’d read the Dr. Wayne Dyer’s current (in 1976) best-seller “Your Erroneous Zones” and found a new approach to life.
Silence. And then more silence.
“About the cheerleader.”
“Tammy’s not a cheerleader, Coach. She’s Captain of the Band Drill Team.”
“She’s also Collins’ girlfriend,” Coach MacLaren unnecessarily pointed out.
“Yea, well, she’s only 17…Coach,” I replied, softening the sharpness of my tone at the end.
“So are you.” Coach MacLaren again studied me through the heavy black glasses. “I’m not going to presume to go over the birds and the bees material your Dad’s undoubtedly covered with you, but I will tell you it’s not a time for distraction for you, Rich.”
“Yea, I got that talk, Coach.” In reality I hadn’t. I’d kind of figured things out several years ago from even 1976, thanks to resourceful, knowledgeable friends and my parents’ purchase of the entire World Book Encyclopedia Set. The temptation to spill everything at that moment was intense. I could have burnt his ears up with my “birds and bees” stories. I’d been to both college, and lived the single life in California in the early 80s.
“Well,” Coach MacLaren said, “with what I’ve seen from you this summer, one good senior year and you’ll be pretty strongly recruited. Purdue, maybe Indiana. Definitely Ball State, Butler and Indiana State.” Coach paused, letting that sink in.
Then, “a girl like that…”
“Like what, Coach?” I was getting a little angry now. This whole thing was no longer so sweetly nostalgic.
MacLaren held up a hand in surrender “Not what I meant. I’m just talking about a pretty girl. Miss Sorenson is most certainly, that. I just don’t want your head turned away from what’s important to you right now, Rich.”
My heat eased off. “I know, Coach. Don’t worry. Tammy won’t get in the way.”
MacLaren, clearly unimpressed, but not willing to take the fight further, relented, for now anyway. “Fine,” he said. And that was that.
As we walked out of his office into the hallway, he slapped me on the back, looked up and down the passageway to make sure no one was in earshot and said, chuckling “that was a hell of a move, by the way.” He smiled, his eyes bright with amusement. I’m not sure I ever remember seeing Bob MacLaren smile quite like that. “Hell of a move,” he repeated, now laughing as he turned and walked back into his office. “You put Steve on his ass.”
And that was it. I left the gym, heading toward my car, and as I fished the keys out of my gym bag, I stopped short 20 feet from the El Camino. Leaning on the hood was a figure. I paused for just a couple seconds and then continued walking through the twilight toward my car and Tammy Sorenson.
* * *
Predictably, Tammy had taken the heat for what had happened that night on the court. Steve had apparently (and not surprisingly) caught the looks between us, and that, combined with his embarrassing performance, put him in a pretty foul mood. Tammy told me they’d argued in the parking lot, and she had told him to “get lost.” I suspected the actual words she’d used were different, but all I had to go on was Tammy’s account of the conversation. Steve had sped out of the parking lot, leaving Tammy to rely on me for a ride home. I, of course, was more than happy to oblige.
Because Coach MacLaren had cut the night’s scrimmaging short, it was still early and we decided to stop at my house so I could change and then we’d go out for pizza. It was friday night, so no band rehearsal for Tammy, and obviously I didn’t have any plans. We walked in while my mother was taking Kristi up for a bath, and my dad settling in for M*A*S*H and then either Hawaii Five-O or The Rockford Files, depending on which rerun he hadn’t seen. Tammy politely declined the offer of something to drink and sat down in the sunken family room in front of the television with my Dad while Mom took Kristi upstairs and I went up to quickly shower and change clothes.
12 minutes later, I was walking downstairs to Tammy’s distinctive laughter from the family room. My Dad, always the charmer, was telling Tammy about his time in the Army in France and Germany between Korea and Vietnam, just as M*A*S*H was coming on. He’d had a commission from college ROTC and I had to admit he had some pretty funny stories from those days. Listening to them the first time through the 70s, I’d always thought they were mostly bullshit, but several years later, he hosted a reunion of some of the other officers and non-comms he’d served with in those days, and I heard the stories again from those guys. He’d been pretty accurate in his telling of them, or else they’d all gotten together and standardized the tales. Either way, it was pretty impressive.
Tammy looked up as I came into the room and gave me a smile that I swear lit up the room, at least for me. Seeing her do that still felt as if a hand reached into my body and grabbed my stomach, giving it a quick twist. She was so beautiful, and those eyes looking at me, not in a sultry way, but in a familiar and intimate, yet innocent way, lit a glow in me that I hadn’t felt in years, on either side of my shift back here from 2005. If nothing else good happened through this experience, that one moment was worth the whole thing. Everything.
“You two have fun,” my Dad called after us as we were leaving. “Don’t keep her out too late, Richie” he then said.
“I won’t,” I replied, smiling at Tammy, who returned the favor. Such a smile.
“Bye, Mr. Girrard,” Tammy said as the front door was closing behind us.
We drove to Noble Roman’s Pizza on 10th Street, parked and went in. Being Friday night, it was busy with both kids our age and families finishing up late dinners. We didn’t have to wait though, and got a table for two in the corner of the restaurant. Our waitress, a familiar looking girl named Denise, happened to be Tammy’s older sister’s roomate at Indiana University. As she and Tammy chatted, I began to vaguely recall her, and we all three talked for a couple minutes while she took our order. Finally, Denise left to put the order in, and we looked across the table at each other.
“We’ve never done this,” I said after a few seconds.
“Nope,” Tammy replied, that impossibly radiant smile back.
“You know, I’m going to be honest with you, I’m really sorry about that. I should have asked you out long ago and let you shoot me down.” This time, it was my turn to smile.
Tammy wrinkled her forehead with a smirk and said “why would I shoot you down?”
“There was always someone else. Ever since we were in Junior High. Scott Reynolds, then Danny Walters, then Scott again…” We laughed together.
“And then Steve,” I said, turning serious. “That one’s going to stick, isn’t it?” I looked at her, the laughing gone, but with a slight smile I didn’t really feel.
Tammy nodded. “Probably.”
“It will,” I added. “Count on it.”
“How do you know?” She asked, a sly smile on her lips.
“I know lots of things. I’m pretty smart to begin with, and of course, very wise for my years,” I teased.
“Really?” She asked, eyebrows arched mock-innocently. Show me how wise you are.” Tammy folded her arms defiantly and leaned forward on the table.
“I know that I’ve missed a couple opportunities to say some things I’ve wanted to say,” I began, “and that if I don’t change things, I’ll miss a couple more and then it’ll be too late to ever say them. I know that I didn’t say them, because I was afraid, but I’m not afraid anymore.” I paused. Tammy was listening and watching me intently, her head tilted to the right as I talked.
“I know that if things go on as they are now, next summer in August, I think, you’ll be spending the week at our lake cottage while we work on a musical together. We’ll be in my car driving back after rehearsals and I’ll desperately want to tell you something, but I won’t be able to. Steve will pick you up the next morning after you two have a fight on the phone and that’ll be the last we see each other for a long, long time.”
Tammy’s expression now was one of surprise. She didn’t expect something like that, but was still listening. A few seconds taking it all in, then she said “you’re so wise you can predict something like that?”
“Yes, I can.” I quickly replied, but before I could continue, Denise brought our Cokes, dropped them off and chatted with Tammy about what Kelly was doing over the summer. Kelly, 3 years older than Tammy, was in Paris for a summer semester abroad, and not due back for another several weeks. Denise then left, saying our pizza would be up in a couple minutes.
Tammy took a drink through the straw in her Coke and then sat back, smiling. “So, you were telling me how you can tell the future.”
But the interuption had taken my momentum away, and I backed off from spilling something I knew damn well I had no business telling her, the truth about what was going on, and how it my second time living through 1976. That didn’t mean I was going to let the moment completely pass, though. “It’s not too hard to project what’s going to happen, if you apply a little experience and creativity,” I began. “If you think about it, you know what your future holds, right?”
Tammy pondered this for a second and then said “Maybe. I think I want to be surprised, though. Don’t you?”
“Tammy,” I said, lowering my voice for effect. “I don’t think it’s possible for me to surprise myself anymore.” I shrugged, and let a few seconds pass. She nodded, thinking about something I couldn’t begin to guess.
“But here goes,” I continued suddenly, and I started into it. As I talked, Tammy didn’t say a word. She was speechless. A part of me, the observer part that all of us have, that part that watches everything we do in a strange, detached way and often comments on how stupid this was, or how brilliant that was, was speechless, too. My observer just sat for once, with his goddamned mouth shut, and listened. To be honest, I don’t think he knew what to say.
In short, I told Tammy that I’d loved her from the first moment I saw her in 7th grade, and pretty much every day since, but that I never thought I was good enough or handsome enough or popular enough for her. I told her that she is and will always be the benchmark to which I compare all women, and that all of them I’ll meet will come up short. I told her that I love the way she smiles, the way she laughs, and that even though we won’t have a life together, she’ll be the one who will never be far from my thoughts. It felt like I talked for an hour. I didn’t falter, I didn’t hesitate, I just said the things that my heart had been feeling for 35 years. Apparently, that heart had been having pretty regular discussions with my head, too, because though I couldn’t possibly remember exactly what I said, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it was the most eloquent monologue I’d ever delivered. In those few, fleeting minutes, I gained a huge measure of respect for the depth and subtlety of the human emotional heart. I now know that what makes us truly human, is our ability to so profoundly feel a connection with another person, and then when it’s most necessary, fully articulate just what that means. The brain’s a pretty cool organ, but in terms of the art of being human, the heart so kicks its ass, it’s not even funny.
Now, while I was saying all of this, delivering this emotional download that I’d been writing in my head for over three decades, I understood that when I finished, Tammy would probably excuse herself to go to the ladies room, but instead stop off at the pay-phone and call someone to come and get her. Probably Steve. I realized that the words I’d used talking to Tammy, though they were coming out of the mouth of a 17 year old, expressed the experiences of someone 30 years older, someone who has had time to think about it, and was interested only in finally telling the truth, not getting into her pants. I never for a moment considered that she’d take this in any way other than confusion and probably some fear. But you know what? I had to say it. All of it, and I wanted her to hear it, regardless of the probably embarrassing outcome.
But, I was wrong about Tammy Sorenson, because apparently she was much wiser and more mature than I ever thought. While I was talking, leaning forward on the table between us, my own arms folded to keep my hands from shaking, she was listening intently. When I finished, I think with the part about her never being far from my thoughts, two or three seconds passed, and she leaned in, half stood up from the chair she was sitting in, reached out to me, grasping my arms where my elbows met the table, drew herself in and kissed me.
Believe me, it wasn’t a friendly, social peck, either. It was a full-on, passionate, open mouth kiss that I never expected to get from someone sitting across the table in a family pizza restaurant. It seemed to last about a day and a half. Figuring in for a penny, in for a pound, I kissed her back and while it went on, (and on) I am somewhat surprised and fascinated to say that, just like in the movies and romance novels, the rest of the world just seemed to fade away and this one kiss became my entire existence.
It hadn’t been the first time I’d been kissed, even at this point the first time through. Though I have to admit that I’d started a little late, Connie Garrison, Penny Wilson and Leslie Taylor had all preceded Tammy in that activity, but none of those kisses had been like the one that ended when I became aware of someone standing beside the table. It was Denise, with our pizza and a small, wry smile on her face. Looking around, I saw that we’d become the floor show, too. As I said, that kiss wasn’t something you usually received (let alone saw) at Noble Roman’s on a week night, but fortunately, I wasn’t really 17 anymore, so realizing I was the evening’s entertainment didn’t really affect me that much. Tammy’s face blushed even redder than it was, and she demurely grimmaced, leaning back and putting her hands in her lap.
Denise, her eyebrows theatrically raised, placed the pizza in the middle of the table and quietly said “Don’t make me have to turn the hose on you two.” She laughed as she left, and our audience turned their attentions away, back into their dinner conversation. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw for a brief instant, a hulking figure disappearing out the front door of the restaurant. Though I couldn’t be sure, I had the sinking feeling that I’d just seen Nicky Collins leaving. That wasn’t good.
Tammy’s face was still red, as I looked back at her, a small smile on her face as she took a bite of her pizza. I did the same, and we ate in silence for a couple minutes. Finally, she looked up at me, took a drink of her Coke and calmly said “I had no idea you felt that way.”
I felt a lopsided smile form on my face and I shrugged. “I know what you mean.” Then, my eyes meeting hers, I asked, looking conspiratorially toward the other people in the restaurant, “Where did that kiss come from? I sure didn’t expect THAT.”
Tammy returned my gaze without blinking. After a few seconds, she began to slowly shake her head. “You know, for somebody so smart, somebody who can tell the future, you don’t pay a lot of attention to the present, do you?” Her smile grew, and I knew I was being played with.
I shifted my attention back to my pizza, and smiled slightly. “Oh, I pay attention, Tammy. You just don’t seem to realize what a force of nature you are. Believe me, I get it.”
Her gaze softened a bit, and we lapsed back into silence for a minute or two. Then suddenly, a spark of inspiration hit me and I asked “what are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Going out with Steve…Well, I was,” she replied.
“Break it. Let’s go out. For real. A date.” I was done dancing around this thing.
The thought of it seemed to set Tammy back a little. Which, in retrospect was odd. I mean, a few minutes ago, we were in a lip-lock she instigated, and now the thought of breaking a date with the boyfriend who ditched her in the high school parking lot made her stop for a moment. But only for a moment. “Sure. Pick me up at 7?”
“You bet. Movie?” I asked.
“Why not?”
We finished our pizza, I took her home, got a brief kiss on the lips at the door and that was that. Driving home, the excitement of what had happened was intense. I had spent 30 years regretting not saying the things I had said tonight at Noble Roman’s, and look how it had turned out. My God, what a waste of those years, I thought. But as soon as I’d formed that thought in my mind, I flashed on Molly and Samantha and the life I had built in the years leading up to 2005. An intense wave of guilt suddenly washed over me, and I choked up a little, missing them. But I wasn’t the me they knew. I was, in my mind of course, but this body, this person living in 1976 was a different individual altogether. I just happened to be carrying their Rich Girrard around in my head. Molly was 12 years old right now, and Samantha wouldn’t be born for another 16 years. She didn’t even exist in this world, and that made me incredibly sad.
I was sad about it, but I knew from my episode on the bleacher this morning that 2005 was close by, all the time. I could almost reach out and touch it.
But at that moment, I didn’t want to. Not just yet.
