It is possible to travel on a time machine.
Let me set the stage: Fifty years ago this past April 1, I landed in Germany and was soon assigned to the 596th Maintenance Co. near Schweinfurt.
Oops. Need to back up. My wife and I got married between my junior and senior years of college. I hadn’t yet turned 21 so my parents had to sign the application for our marriage license. Her parent’s didn’t since she was 19. Funny rules. But I digress.
Hence, when I was drafted after graduating from Ball State in May 1972, she joined me in Virginia for my advanced training and by the time I landed in Germany in 1973, we were expecting our first child. I hurriedly secured an off-base apartment and she joined me sometime in June.
So, 50 years ago I was working as a “stock control and accounting specialist” with a group of other guys, managing a parts warehouse that served a tank battalion. At some point, I think soon after my wife had settled in, I started bringing guys home on Saturdays. I’d go in for mail call late in the morning and come home with two, three or more. Two things: she welcomed the chance to speak English with someone besides me; the guys got some home-cooked meals and escaped the barracks. We had some good times.
About 10 years ago, one of those guys found me and its been convenient a couple times a year to see each other as he migrates between Northwest New York state and Northwest New Mexico. As we reminisced and poked around the internet, we found two others of that group. We had brief conversations and emails about getting together but that’s as far as it went — just talking about it.
As this April Fools Day approached and the 50th-year thing occurred to me, I reached out with a what-if scenario. One grew up and still lives south of Houston, one lives in Dallas. What if, when the New-Mexico guy is migrating, he swings by Dallas, Kathy and I could fly down and the Houston guy — his nickname was Bubba of course — and his wife drove up?
So that’s exactly what we did a week or so ago. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that there’s at least one daily direct flight from Fort Wayne to Dallas and back. The Dallas guy, Jim, made the arrangements, finding a nice hotel and nearby restaurants. Ski — short for Jarzyniecki, a name I have to type three times before I get it right — took two days to drive over. The West, it is hard to comprehend, is quite vast. It was “only” a five-hour drive for Bubba which turned out to be about equal to our travel time.
By the way, when I first contacted him though Facebook, I asked “Are you the Bubba that served in the 596th in ’73 and ’74?” His wife was amazed. “Who’s Bubba?” she asked. “Dwight” (who’s that?) had not gone by that nickname since getting out of the Army.
It was amazing. We picked up right where we’d left off. Although I couldn’t believe how much older they looked (not so much me, of course) their mannerisms and accents and gestures … I just had to chuckle so many times. The years — 50 of them — truly melted away.
We’re all retired from our chosen careers, some more than others as my wife pointed out, but Jim still dabbles a bit in his as well. He had earned a degree in hotel management at the University of Nevada Las Vegas before he got his draft notice. He wanted to return to his beloved “Vegas” at some point but his initial goal was to get back to his native Southern California and into managing a country club.
“If you hang around rich people I figure some of it will rub off,” he often said. And that’s exactly what he did after his discharge but his hospitality-business career eventually took him away from the country clubs and into managing high-end restaurants in Los Angeles and Las Vegas, and then Virginia and eventually to retire in Dallas close to family.
“I escaped the insane asylum 25 years ago,” he told us, referring to getting out of California, “and I don’t intend to go back.”
Best story: Jim was managing a restaurant in Los Angeles, where many of his waiters and waitresses were aspiring actors. One day, one of the guys came in for his scheduled lunch shift but told his boss that he may have to leave. He had just talked to his agent and he may get an audition for a part on short notice.
“Wait a minute,” he recalls asking him. “You might just disappear during the lunch rush? Just up and leave?” Jim mentioned at this point that the fellow had not been a very good waiter and they’d already had a few issues.
“Well, yeah,” the young man replied. “You don’t understand. I’m not a waiter, I’m an actor. I’m just waiting for my big break.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Jim told him — and this fit exactly into my recollections of his sense of humor and approach to life I’d gotten to know 50 years ago — “for the next four hours, I need you to act like a waiter.”
He didn’t get the call, and wasn’t a waiter for much longer either.
Jim’s retirement includes not acting, but actually being a waiter at a very nice upscale dinner club in Dallas a couple days a week, at which he graciously hosted us that Friday evening. It is called “Table 13,” and has a 1950s and ‘60s “Rat Pack” theme. Kind of a time machine.
Very fitting.
miller@news-banner.com
