by Dave Pelzer
A towering black gentleman rose from behind his gray metal desk. He maintained a thin smile as his eyes ran up my pressed uniform. “Take a seat. So,” the captain paused, “we have a situation?”
“Sir?”
“You still want to be a crew member?”
I wasn’t sure what he was asking. “Well, I do . . . I mean, I did, but that’s no longer—”
“The bottom line is,” he interjected, “the way your submission was processed, the air force made a mistake. I have a problem with that,” the captain stated with pride. “So, I have a proposition for you. The air force is willing to grant an extension on your enlistment. You can use it to resubmit your paperwork. If you get accepted as a crew member, you reenlist. If you don’t, you can out-process, then get out. Understand, just by getting an extension in no way means getting a slot as a crew dawg. But,” he said with a sly grin, “you’ll be able to track your paperwork along the way. You’ll be jumping through a lot of hoops, and in the end there are no guarantees, but this is a square offer.”
I had just pulled an ace out of thin air. “I’ll take the deal!”
Dashing to my supervisors, I informed them of my luck. Without hesitation, they varied my work schedule so I could indeed oversee the necessary paperwork, which had to start from scratch. The next several weeks flew by as I literally ran around the entire base collecting the right forms, dropping them off at the appropriate office or, if I was lucky, hovering over them as I collected either signatures, initials, or boxes properly checked off. Then I had to collect additional forms that required further verification, again in the proper sequence, until, finally, I returned to the captain’s office with a perfectly completed package.
“Got a whiff from Sergeant Blue,” the officer began, “the guy who handles your specialty request. Says he may have some slots open pretty soon.” This time he broke into a wide smile. “I’ll Q.C.—quality control—the paperwork, give it my blessing, and send it up the pike. You maintain tabs, and within a week you should be getting a call from Sergeant Blue.”
“Thanks . . . Cap,” I saluted.
He returned the gesture. “Like I said, air force made a mistake. I had a problem with that.”
Weeks dragged by with no word. I desperately wanted to call the sergeant, but feared that pestering him would blow my opportunity. I kept myself busy any way I could, fighting to keep my mind off the package. After another week I caved in and phoned. “Been expecting your call,” Sergeant Blue nonchalantly began. “We had a problem . . .” I exhaled, waiting for the sky to come crashing down. “You’re not going to believe this, but it seems the paperwork ended up in the hands of ground refueling again.” As he paused, I wondered, What did I have to do? After all I had been through, I was not going to roll over and quit. “Anyways, like I said, we had a problem,” Sergeant Blue went on.
“Say again?” I asked, catching his emphasis on the word had.
“Let me just say this: they’ve been educated on the errors of their ways. I got the paperwork in time. Now,” he added, “we have another problem.” My stomach turned. Clearing his throat, Sergeant Blue stammered, “It—it seems I won’t be able to grant you your base request.”
I quickly saw my opening. “I’ll take anything you have. Anything! Even Minot!” I thundered, knowing that Minot Air Force Base was located in the far region of North Dakota and was infamous for its extreme arctic-like winters.
“No can do,” he informed me.
In my head I calculated. I would never have a chance of resubmitting another package. I had run out of time. There were no other options. Suddenly, I thought of a different tactic. “What do you have?”
“Well, the best I could do is . . .”—I could sense Sergeant Blue’s restrained excitement, and the hairs on my arms began to rise—“. . . this base out in California, west of the Sierra Nevadas.”
“Beale!” I shouted.
“Home of the Sled. Congratulations. Once you’ve earned your crew wings, you’ll be an in-flight boom operator for the SR-71—known to crew dawgs as the Sled. I was just waiting for your call.”
In a swirl of emotions I profusely thanked Sergeant Blue. Hanging up the phone, I clasped my hands together. Calming down, I began praying, thanking God.
Ten months later, in the summer of 1984, an SR-71 Blackbird stabilized in a hovering state, flying ten feet below and forty feet behind a KC-135 Q model refueling tanker, waiting on me—a recently certified crew member—to fulfill my part of the mission. Staring out of the glass that not only protected me at an altitude of twenty-five thousand feet, but gave me an unlimited view of everything within hundreds of miles, I drew in a deep breath to collect myself. I felt the unique sensation of needing to merely reach out through the glass and touch the Blackbird, as both planes made their way south at speeds exceeding five hundred miles per hour on a specialized refueling track above Idaho’s aqua blue Salmon River. It wasn’t the heavenly scenery or being lucky enough to be a part of a distinctive air force program that was important to me, but that it was my first solo flight. I was fulfilling a childhood dream. I was no longer confined to a dark, torturous environment, hopelessly wishing I could “fly away” from danger. After years of sacrifice, my life had made a turn for the better. For the first time in my life, I began to feel good about myself. I always knew as a child, deep down inside, I could make it if I had the chance. And now my entire life was on track. I no longer wore a mantle of shame. I was becoming a real person. I could lower my guard, relax, and live life.
“Aspen 31, Bandit 27,” I relayed to the waiting SR-71, using his identification call sign immediately followed by mine, “you are clear for contact!”
“Hey, boom!” the pilot in the flight deck echoed, “make Kelly Johnson proud!”
“Roger that!” I smiled. For me, it didn’t get any better than this.
Now that I was an air crew member, every day was an adventure. Every time I zipped up my flight suit, I felt like my childhood hero, Superman, out to save the world from impending doom. My green Nomex uniform was my red cape, taking me to places I had dreamed about when I was a prisoner in Mother’s war. I was appreciative that I was with a unique organization that carried a sense of honor and camaraderie. The more I became involved as a boom operator, the more I cherished my position, and a deep sense of pride was growing. I was part of a family.
My new career carried a new level of responsibility. Besides flying two, sometimes three times a week, at any hour of the day or night, my crew and I would have to spend the day before planning the most minute segments—from preflighting the aircraft before takeoff to engine shutdown after landing. I quickly learned the seriousness of the job. If there was a major political or military situation anywhere in the world, the Blackbird would be deployed to collect real-time photographs of a hot spot that could be in the hands of the President, if needed, in a period of twenty-four hours. The Q model KC-135 Stratotanker was the tanker that fed precious, one-of-a-kind JP-7 fuel to the Blackbird, enabling the SR-71 to accomplish its mission. There was a sense of excitement knowing that my bags were packed and that I could be called upon to fly off into the sunset at a moment’s notice.
Because I never slept the evening prior to a flight, there were times after a late-night mission that I would be so exhausted, I’d collapse at the pool of my apartment complex. Yet still I’d be smiling. I’d gaze up at the stars that hours ago seemed close enough to cup in my hand.
I lived a grand life. I had my own apartment, my home, where no one could kick me out or make me feel unwanted. I could go to bed as early as I wanted without being disturbed, as I had been when I was an airman living in a dormitory. I kept my tiny one-bedroom home apartment sparkling clean. Financially, I was barely getting by, but what I was losing in salary was easily made up for in peace of mind. I was proud that my first home was fully furnished and paid for from my years of saving. My life also included two close friends that I had met as a foster child, Dave Howard and J. D. Thom. T
hey still lived in the Bay Area, and I’d drive down to goof off with them during the weekends whenever possible. I kept close tabs with Alice and Harold as well by calling them several times a week. I felt I had more than anyone could ask for.
Although I was feeling good about myself, something continued to gnaw at me. During my rare time off at the apartment complex, whenever I would go down to the pool, I could not relax like my neighbors—working on a tan, drinking beer, swimming, or celebrating that they had survived another week of work. I was known only as “Fly Boy”: a skinny, pasty white geek in shorts and a tank top; a bookworm who absorbed mounds of technical flight manuals. Unlike the majority of those by the poolside, I was not smooth, cool, or a tough-guy with endless tattoos. I didn’t drink until I passed out, smoke like a chimney, use drugs daily to escape my pain, or rant nonstop about how someone or something did me wrong. Nor was I on federal aid. Yet I didn’t even feel good enough about myself to be among “them.”
It was at the pool where I first met Patsy. Even though she hung out with a wild group of friends, she seemed different. She wasn’t as rowdy or aimless as the others. I felt awkward, as I studied my work, whenever we’d make eye contact, but flattered that she would even look at me. Since I could never hold a gaze, I’d immediately snap my head back down to my papers. Within days we were greeting each other with a quick hello. One Friday afternoon, in passing, I told Patsy I was going to the Bay Area. Her eyes lit up. “San Francisco? Can I come?”
I hesitated. No woman had ever asked to be with me. “Well . . .” I stammered, “I’m not going to the city, but . . .”
“You’d be doing me a favor. These guys are driving me crazy.” Patsy pointed at the small herd in the pool thrashing around, screeching at the top of their lungs. “I’m not like them. Really,” she gently added.
“Okay,” I finally answered, “let’s go.”
The next day Patsy joined me as I drove west to see the Turnboughs. I could not believe how easy it was to talk to her. Whatever apprehension I had evaporated within minutes. She even fed off my humor, laughing at whatever spilled from my mouth. In the midst of my chattering, I realized how lonely I had become. Beyond small talk, I could hardly get over how she appeared to be interested in me. “So,” Patsy asked when my mouth was still for a brief moment, “what is it you do?”
“I’m a boomer,” I automatically replied.
“A what?”
“Oh, excuse me,” I said, translating, “sometimes I get ahead of myself. I’m a boom operator. . . . I midair-refuel jets for the air force.”
“Oh, yeah, I get it.” Patsy politely nodded, but by the look on her face I knew she did not understand. “So what’s with that green overall thing I see you in?”
“It’s a flight suit.”
“Well . . . it’s just,” she said, “well, some of us were trying to figure you out. You know, you don’t go out. The word is out: you don’t party. I don’t know anyone who reads or writes that much.” I began to imagine the word dweeb etched on my forehead as Patsy continued. “You come and go at all hours. You’re always alone. The only time I’ve seen you with anyone else is when you’re with those other guys in those green overalls. It’s just, well, some of us thought you were . . . you know.”
Not understanding, I shook my head. “What are you getting at?”
“Oh, shit!” Patsy covered her mouth. “I didn’t mean to . . . it’s just, well, some of us, not me, have had a hard time figuring you out.”
I was stunned by the thought that if I didn’t party, or if I spent my time alone applying myself, that I was considered so abnormal. “Those guys you see me with are some of the men I fly with.”
I could tell Patsy was embarrassed. She in no way meant to hurt my feelings. I could only assume that in her world I was quite the outsider, and for years, strangely enough, I had been curious to discover what it would be like to fit in.
Several quiet miles passed between us until I relieved the tension by trying to make small talk again. Even after I apologized for putting her in an odd position, I felt Patsy thought badly of me. Even as we regained momentum in our conversation, I discovered that Patsy, as kind as she was to me, gave no thought to the happenings of the world, politics, her local surroundings, or anything beyond the latest Indiana Jones film or the pop group Duran Duran’s newest album. A couple of hours later, when Alice saw me with Patsy, her eyes lit up. As she hugged me, Alice whispered, “Thank God you’re finally dating. I was getting worried about you.” Still holding my hand, she spun around toward Patsy. “So, how long have you two been going together?”
Patsy stepped back. “Oh, we just met.”
I suddenly felt like a complete idiot, bringing a woman I barely knew over to my parents’ place and it wasn’t even a date. Alice, who continued to radiate happiness, plopped down between Patsy and me, snapping her head left and right to keep the conversation going. Every time she turned toward me, she would smirk and raise her eyebrows. I felt like an awkward teenager, trying to be kind to my mother while protecting Patsy from total boredom. I could only pray Alice didn’t slip up and tell Patsy something from my past. After some small talk I excused myself to spend time with Harold. Though I had seen him a few months ago, Harold suddenly looked years older. He appeared so frail, and he struggled to make simple conversation. His eyes were distant, while he did his best to hide his trembling hands. After a few minutes, I gave up and cupped his hands in mine. We spent the remainder of our time in silence. In the back of my mind, the memory of my biological father suffering came back in full force.
When Patsy and I were leaving, I whispered to Alice as I hugged her good-bye, “What’s with Pop?”
Her eyes darted toward the floor. “Oh, it’s nothing. Harold’s just got a touch of the flu. He’s been working too hard lately. He’s got an appointment to see the doctor next week. Listen,” she said, “don’t you fret, you two have fun. And I tell you something else.” Alice looked at both Patsy and me. “You two look good together.”
“It’s not what you think,” I again whispered. “We just met a few days ago, okay?”
“Well,” Mom said, “if you ask me, I’ve got a good feeling about you two.”
“You’ll have to forgive my mom,” I said to Patsy as we pulled away, “I think she’s playing matchmaker.” I did not want Patsy to get the wrong impression. “Besides,” I added in a Yiddish voice, “I think she’s seen Fiddler on the Roof too many times.” I was making a reference to the movie’s persistent matchmaker, but I could see Patsy did not get the joke.
“So,” Patsy asked, “are they your real parents?”
“Well, yeah,” I immediately responded. But after a few moments of silence, I exhaled, saying, “They are to me. They’re my foster parents. My mother, my real mom, well, she had a drinking problem and sometimes used to, you know, go off on me. Sometimes . . .” I trailed off, hoping not to scare Patsy off. I had no intention of telling her about my former life. I clutched the steering wheel, afraid Patsy would suddenly fling open the car door and bail out. I had never exposed my childhood to anyone like this before, let alone the magnitude of my mother’s twisted sickness.
For some time now I had been resigned to the fact that my past would probably keep me from being with someone. Even at age twenty-three, with all I had been fortunate enough to accomplish on my own, against the odds, I had the self-esteem of an ant. I was deathly afraid of women. I felt unworthy even of looking at them for more than a few quick seconds, let alone talking with one. That’s why I was so overwhelmed, confused, and yet enchanted by Patsy’s interest in me.
I found myself rambling about how I came into foster care. At least I had sense enough to graze the surface. Since my past was so mired in lies and deceit, I valued honesty above everything else. I believed that if I was to have a relationship with anyone, it was important to me to be truthful as possible, yet at the same time maintain a veil to protect that person from whatever pain or embarrassment that came from
being with me. I knew I was walking a fine line and in doing so was now living a true lie. I had been doing so for some time in the air force, especially during the extensive psychological evaluations that I had to undertake to become an air crew member. I had simply deflected what I felt necessary in order to protect my security clearance. I could only pray someday it didn’t backfire on me or on anyone else. The last thing I wanted was to cause anyone any pain whatsoever.
“I know what it’s like . . . I was the black sheep of my family,” Patsy confessed.
She went on to explain that she was picked on as a child, felt out of place among her siblings, had trouble getting along with her overbearing mother, and as a teenager felt the only way to escape was to run away. “I hooked up with some guy. We both worked to get by, partied a lot, ya know.” As Patsy opened up, not only could I relate to her feelings of being alienated, but to me everything seemed to fall into place on how she carried herself and why she hung out with that rambunctious crowd. I felt that Patsy, too, was looking for acceptance. “But,” she sighed, “when my father passed away, Mom had to sell the house and move into an apartment. I moved back in to help out; no one else will lift a finger. Hell, I’m sleeping on the couch. As much as she drives me crazy, I’m the only one who will take care of her.”
Even though I picked up on her slight resentment, I knew Patsy was grazing the surface, too. “I am sorry,” I said. “I truly am. No one deserves to be treated bad.” I stopped for a moment. “My real father passed away, too—”
