A Man Named Dave

perhaps some black hole from Mommy’s past had caught hold and sucked in all the goodness and any chance for her to relive her childhood. As a boy sleeping on an army cot, I had always prayed for “Mommy” to come back and rescue me from “The Mother”. I truly believed that “Mommy” would someday wake up, and once she did, all of us would forever live our lives as one perfect, happy family.
    In some peculiar sense, I began to feel a certain pity for Mother. Did she, I wonder, have a happy childhood? Was Mother resentful toward Grandmother because of the way she was raised? If so, perhaps Mother became a hateful person because she had not dealt with her unresolved issues? Maybe Mother turned her back on her past, while hoping for the best in her future. Barely in my twenties, I already knew that unless a drastic change is made, the way a person is raised will most likely be the way that person will raise their children. For me it was not a matter of placing blame on Mother, or pointing the finger at my grandparents, but to ensure my freedom to live a life free of misery and despair. And I had to make certain whatever pushed Mommy into the abyss would not suck me in, too. I was still confused and, strangely enough, I still craved Mother’s acceptance. For now, all I could do was take Aunt Jane’s advice and get on with my life.
    After more than two years of being a field cook, I was reassigned to the training section of the squadron, enabling me to work a basic eight-to-five schedule. No longer having to get up at three a.m. to put in ten to fourteen hours a day, let alone the hour drive to the work site each way, I welcomed the opportunity. The timing of my assignment was perfect. Since I desperately wanted to become an air crew member, I needed to take college classes. As a field cook, there was no way I could take time off even to register. But now I had all the time I needed.
    Attempting to better myself through college courses after normal duty hours was frustrating. I had never taken anything beyond basic math while in high school before I dropped out, so fundamental algebra was way beyond my comprehension. Even one of the simplest rules — negative plus a negative equals a positive — was too hard for me to grasp; I could not understand the logic. Even after the instructor explained, “It just is,” like a broken record, the equation still did not add up for me. Because I could not apply the most basic of rules, I would spend hours trying to solve a single problem until I would literally bang my head against the desk.
    Because I’d still mispronounce words at times and stutter when I became nervous, I’d spend hours in front of the mirror, studying the way I formed my lips as the sound came out. Due to my low self-esteem, I was terrified of girls, and had a complete lack of any social finesse, so I hardly ever went out with friends. I had always known the kind of person I was and where I fit in. It was as it had always been for me: break down the situation, analyze the different scenarios, make a decision about the problem at hand, and cut my losses the moment the issue looked hopeless. My life was black and white.
    I got so far behind in class that the only thing I learned was how to curse myself for my stupidity. Part of me felt as if I were trying to become someone that I knew in my heart I wasn’t. I thought college classes were the big leagues. While everyone else seemed to pick up on the material, I became completely lost. I had always prided myself on knowing my limitations, and now I was in way over my head. Late one evening I asked myself out loud, “Who am I kidding?” I threw the math book against the wall and quit the class.
    Initially, I was relieved. I was free of the mind-numbing pressures from the class. I spent my free evenings consuming books like Operation Overflight, written by the U-2 pilot Gary Powers, who was shot down over Russia. The U-2 was the product of the same engineer who designed the SR-71, Kelly Johnson. As I studied other books that pertained to unique jets constructed by this famed aeronautical wizard – Johnson formed his own division dubbed Skunk Works – I realized that in order to have even a remote chance of becoming an air crew member, I needed to return to college. To reaffirm this, I phoned an air crew boom operator who in midair refueled the SR-71 Blackbird, Sergeant D. K. Smith, who, told me straight out that not only did the air force require advance courses in