A Man Named Dave

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