A Second Chance To Get It Right

Chapter 3

3

SEPTEMBER 23, 1985— SYRACUSE, NEW YORKWell, I’ve gotten Tommy off to school. It was fortunate he knew where the bus stop was. I just followed him to it. I’ve also figured out where I’m living, which happens to be in North Syracuse, just off Route 11. Having grown up in Syracuse, I’m familiar with this side of town, and the more I think of it, I spent considerable time here as a young guy. I’m still reeling though. My whole life has been hijacked and I’ve been plopped down in a world I don’t remember with a ready-made family. I can’t deny I’m not disappointed being married to Monica. I just want my son and daughter from my other world here with me.

I walk back to the house, scratching my head trying to fit the pieces together, except there’s nothing to fit together. Everything that’s happened to me in this life before I woke up this morning is a blank canvas. Like this raised ranch house at the end of the cul-de-sac. It’s well cared for, nice yard out front, though it’s nothing I’d ever consider living in. Then I remind myself I just came from a one-bedroom hole in the wall apartment. But that’s not important right now. What is important is that I don’t remember moving here, getting married to Monica, Tommy’s birth, where I went to school, or the friends I undoubtedly have, none of it! And then, there’s the life I’ve been ripped away from. My thoughts swing back to that life I left behind. If I’m here for good, then Crystal and Ted haven’t been born yet. For that matter, I haven’t met Tiff or have I? Which means what—that I may never meet her, and that Crystal and Ted will never be born?

These thoughts are too big for me. Then again, everything right now is too big for me. I stumble back into the house, my mind spinning, trying to figure out where to go from here. I’ve never felt more paralyzed in indecision than I am right now, which is weird because in my other life I dealt with difficult decisions all the time in my career. It’s like I’m swimming in molasses.

The phone rings, and I reach in my pocket for it. It isn’t there. Right, it’s like thirty years ago—no cell phones yet. I get up and follow the ringing into the kitchen, but as I’m about to pick up the receiver, I hesitate. I have no idea who it might be, but what if it’s important? I close my eyes, hoping to hell I can stumble through whatever conversation I’m about to have, then answer.

“Hey Alan, can you swing by and pick me up for class? My ride s**t the bed this morning.”

I have no idea who this is, and I’m lost on how to answer him. “Umm…yeah, sure.” (I know. What’re you thinking numb nuts? But what would you do if you were in my shoes?) I debate asking the obvious question, but there’s no way around it. “Who’s this?”

He chuckles on the other end. “Really? You’re kidding, right?”

I roll my eyes, feeling like an i***t. Christ. “No, I’m not.”

Silence comes back, then at last, “It’s Robbie. You all right, man? You sound like you’re tripping.”

You have no idea. “Oh, Robbie, yeah.” I wonder if this is the Robbie I used to know back in the day. “Sorry. Just got up. Had a long night with the books.” (Right! Another brilliant, bullshit answer, and yes, I’ll be making a lot of them in the near future. You got a problem with that?)

“Me too. So, see you in twenty?”

“I’ll be there.” I scramble around, searching the counters, hoping to find an address book, anything that’ll give me a clue as to where Robbie lives.

“Okay, see you then. And thanks, you’re the boss.”

“Yeah, no problem.” The line goes dead, and now I’m in a bind. I rifle through the kitchen drawers, and I’m just about ready to give up when I see a little pink book stuffed under a pile of mail on the counter. Snatching it, I leaf through the pages searching for Robbie’s name, praying it’s in here, and also that there’s an addy and a number for him.

When I find Robbie’s name, I relax. If I remember right, Church Street is about a mile from here. Now if I only knew where the hell we’re going from there. One thing at a time, I tell myself, but I can just imagine the look I’ll get from Robbie if I have to ask where the hell we’re going. He’ll think I’m certifiable and he won’t be wrong either. I better figure out just what the hell I’m studying, too, and do it fast.

Five minutes later I’m, digging through the file cabinet next to a clunky Apple desktop computer like a mad man. When I find nothing there, I hunt through the house for something to give me a clue where the hell I’m going and what I’m studying. As a last resort, I try the bedroom, and lo and behold, there’s a satchel next to my side of the bed. I open it to find it stuffed with classwork. Bingo! My fingers paw through the papers, pulling them out. For a moment, I’m dumbfounded as I look at the words on the top page: “Department of Psychology at the College of Arts and Sciences at Syracuse University.” Really? I went in for this? Then I see the date: September 19, 1985.

Whoa! Well what did I expect? I sink down on the bed with a thunk and shake my head. At last I stare over at the mirror, studying the bewildered young man looking back.

“Believe me, I’m as lost as you are,” I say to him.

Finally, I throw the papers in my satchel and toss the address book in with them. I grab a set of keys from a hook on the wall and I’m out the door a minute later with what I assume are car keys. I have no idea what I’m driving other than it’s a Ford. After a quick perusal over the half-dozen cars parked in the cul-de-sac, I see a gold Gran Torino with a vinyl rooftop. No freaking way! My first car was a gold Gran Torino. I head out to it, daring to believe it might be the same “first ride” I owned all those years ago. When I get in, it’s like stepping through the looking glass.

I sit there a moment, steeped in the memory of driving around town with the Pioneer stereo system cranking out Led Zeppelin, then at last turn the key. The powerful 351 Cleveland V-8 beast roars to life, along with the radio blaring in my ear. It appears I like the volume way up in this new life. I dial it down so my ear drums can find their way back into my head and change the station to something more passable than the acid rock one that’s screaming at me. The station I settle on has a morning talk show. I put the car in gear and I’m off, listening to the radio hosts babbling about the upcoming basketball season, specifically, a young recruit named Sherman Douglas. Can he take them to the next level? If they only knew. I have to admit I’m enjoying this debate of the kid’s skills as I drive past the stores and shops. Turning off Route 11, I motor down Church Street at a crawl, spying house numbers. A minute later, I’m pulling up in front of Robbie’s house. He’s outside waiting, or at least I think that’s him. He’s a tall, lanky dude with sandy blonde hair. He’s not the Robbie I once knew, but he reminds me of him. He comes running up to the car, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and gets in.

“Hey,” he says and shuts the door.

“Hey yourself,” I answer as I pull away from the curb.

“You get through that reading?” he says, positioning his book bag between his knees.

I have no idea what reading he’s talking about. “Most of it. You?”

He takes a drag of his cigarette. Rolls his window down. “Yeah. What a snoozer. I mean, I get it, it’s important to understand evaluations on therapy outcomes, but it’s so freaking dry.”

“Right,” I say. Time for a right turn, Clyde. So what’s up with the car?”

“Starter, I think. Wouldn’t turn over. Just what I need right now,” he says, flicking ashes out the window. “You think you could slide me some rides for a bit ’til I get the damn thing running?”

“Sure, why not?” I turn onto South Bay Road and head south toward the interstate. “Mind putting that out?” I find it odd that the smell of cigarette smoke bothers me.

“Oh, sorry.” He buts his cigarette in the ashtray and I see him look at me from the corner of my eye. “You all right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. You just don’t seem like you. Everything square with Monie?”

Understatement of the century! I suddenly wonder if that’s what I call Monica. “Sure, everything’s square. Just have a lot on my mind.” Ya think?

Robbie’s quiet for a few minutes, then says, “You hit her up about heading to The West this Friday?”

The West? Where do I know that place from? “Umm…not yet.”

“Dude, come on. The Brigade’s in town.”

“I know. I’ll get with her tonight about it.”

“All right then,” he says. “It’s gonna be rad.”

“I’m sure it will be,” I say, cruising onto the interstate on-ramp. We fall silent then, listening to the radio, which is pumping out, “Money for Nothing.” Ten minutes later, we’re on campus, hunting for a parking spot. Luckily, there’s no dedicated lot for the College of Arts and Sciences, otherwise I’d look like a fool roaming the busy streets on the hill. Robbie spots a space ahead on Euclid Avenue and I park. The College is a ten-minute hike. We make it to the lecture hall five minutes early. The Hall is buzzing with students, and as we look for a seat several classmates wave to us as we pass. I know none of these people, and I have no idea how I’m going to find out their names, let alone our relationships. Thankfully the professor comes in and the room quiets down. I take a seat near the back, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible and open my satchel.

As the lecture begins, I fish a notebook out, which I assume is for this class, and look around. I feel like I’ve been dumped into a fish tank with a school of piranhas, and I’m sure before the day’s out I’m going to be chewed up and spat out in pieces, so I’m not paying a lot of attention to the man up front. What I do hear of the ongoing lecture, surprises me. I seem to comprehend exactly what he’s talking about. It’s as if someone’s plugged a flash drive into me and downloaded everything I need to know. I’m grateful, but dumbfounded at the same time. How do I know this s**t? My head’s buzzing with one question after another. By the time class is over, I’m a mess. Like where’s my next class, and when? And how do I know all this stuff the professor just rattled off, yet not know a single person around me?