A DIFFERENT PLACE & TIME

By

William Bungeroth

“You can look but you'd better not touch”

Lyrics from, Poison Ivy, 1959

The occupant in seat 3A, content after a successful West Coast trip, had his laptop open and was studying statistics and reviewing videos that had been compiled for his review. Over the hum of the jet engines, he barely heard the incoming ping from his Gmail account. The ringing sound, a reminder that he also had a personal life, broke his concentration, and out of curiosity, he shifted gears and programs to check the message. After hitting the keyboard and recognizing the “From,” an old high school buddy and teammate, his face relaxed into a smile, a facial look that his business associates and friends were so accustomed to seeing. At once, fond memories started to pour over him as he instinctively touched his high school graduation ring, and semi-rotated the circular band until he read the message: Jimmy Holt is dead. Hope things are well. We’ll talk soon. Johnny

Looking up, he called out to a member of the first-class flight crew, “Steward, can I have another?” as he passed his row en route to the cockpit.

Turning around, the ubiquitous inflight ambassador flashed his best headwaiter smile and said, “Finlandia on the rocks. Right?”

Nodding his head, 3A closed his laptop and put it on the empty seat next to him. First class was half full, as was the entire flight. Up till now, his trip had been exactly as planned, productive, but uneventful. He thought again about the message as he sat there slowly drumming his fingers on the armrest, the only sign that a feeling of regret was stirring within him. Patiently, he waited for the steward to return with his drink. Air travel had changed significantly compared to when he first started flying commercially, but good service was always appreciated as the steward promptly delivered his drink request. With a blank stare, he looked around the cabin, seeing but not seeing. Reaching downward, he wrapped his large hand around the cold glass and raised it to his lips, taking a long, slow sip of vodka on the rocks. He wondered how a single name could reopen such a flood of forgotten memories. Gently shaking his glass, he sat pensively listening to the collision of ice against ice. Then he threw the remainder of his drink back and set it quietly down on the tray. Engulfed in emotions that he hadn’t felt since his adolescent years, he let out a long sigh as the plane banked to its left. Leaning against the side of the cabin wall, he looked out the porthole window as light gave way to darkness. When the transformation was complete, he closed his eyes and thought beyond the clouds.

To 1963…He was a junior in high school, firmly rooted in the school’s culture, a year away from dreaming about college and his future. To his friends and family, that year, 1963, was a championship year in the truest sense: an undefeated football and basketball team, and a track team in its first year of dominance. It was a special time, where valuable life lessons, taught through the sweat of athletic competition, helped make him the man he was to become. Recalling that school year, he kept his eyes shut, searching for what was not learned through competitive sports; a very personal experience that had just been recalled from a computer ping.

Back then, the passenger in 3A was known as Richie. And Richie knew that 1963 was more than just winning sports teams; 1963 was also about a first love, friendships, and societal pressures. Unfocused at first, gradually he started to form a mental picture of a young woman, in her late teens, smiling at him just before he drifted off to a different place & time.