Free Time Flying by Dan Garmen Page A

something like that,” I said. The look on Powell’s face had gone from skeptical to more interested as I added in some detail, knowing what he would want. “I’d never seen him before, he seemed a little crazy. He was wearing a t-shirt that said something like ‘Flint Supply…Flint Auto Supplies…There was something added on to it right here,” I said, pointing with my left hand to a place just under my right shoulder, “peace sign and a letter ‘A’ with a circle around it.” I shrugged as if to indicate I didn’t know what that was all about, and congratulated myself on setting this clown on a path looking for hippie anarchists spilling AM General’s secrets about a new vehicle they’re designing for the military. 
    Powell was hooked now. He sat back down quickly, opening his briefcase, which held only a new, unused pad of paper , two or three pencils and a small, brown paper bag, containing something square. A sandwich, I imagined. He extracted the pad, a pencil, and using the closed briefcase as a lap desk, began writing notes. I gave him a few more made-up details, which he enthusiastically wrote down. Mr. Sawyer was visibly relieved, as was my mother, but my Dad’s eyes held some suspicion. 
    After a few more minutes, the tension in the room had lifted completely, and the security man put his notepad and pencil back into his briefcase, snapping it shut in a satisfied manner, nodding to himself at a job well done. He looked up at me, extended his right hand, and when I did the same, shook mine, warmly saying, “Rich, thank you. This helps a lot. We would really appreciate your keeping anything you may have heard from this fellow to yourself. The company is working with the Army to develop a new vehicle, and though it’s no longer classified, we would like to keep a lid on as much information as possible.” I nodded my understanding. 
    Powell then turned to Mr. Sawyer, who looked like a different person now, and said, “Ron, this obviously had nothing to do with you, but you were absolutely correct to report it. I’ll report it was all just a coincidence.”
    We all looked at Powell, then and Mr. Sawyer, who smiled weakly in reply. Powell, realizing his error, dug the hole a little deeper, “Uh…Ron is one of the project managers for the Materials Division, so…” He realized he had probably said too much, and stopped.
    “Okay, well, I’m glad we could help clear this all up,” my dad said, indicating the way out, which both Powell and Mr. Sawyer took, saying their goodbyes, Powell again thanking me. As the front door shut, and my mother watched the two men walk back toward the Sawyer’s house, and said, “Thank GOD.” She shook her head. “I thought he was from the government.”
    “He definitely wanted you to think so,” my father replied, looking over at me and saying with a small smile on his face, “Rich, I don’t know what that was, but I could tell you were bullshitting the guy. What really happened? How did you know about the…What do they call it?”
    “Humvee,” I answered.
    “Humvee, right, how did you know about it?”
    I shrugged and lied again. “Dean told me. I really didn’t want his dad to get in trouble. He didn’t tell me very much, and it never occurred to me it might be a secret.”
    My father nodded, understanding. “Yea, I get it,” he said. “It was the right thing to do. The boy’s probably scared enough he’ll keep his mouth shut about what his father does.”
    I nodded. I knew I wouldn’t make the mistake of talking about the future again, and if I’d truly learned the lesson, things several years later would have been simpler.
    Much simpler .

 
     
     
     
    FOUR
    The Road Not Taken
     
    The “Humvee” drama seemingly over, I woke up the next morning to WNAP playing the hits of 1976, got dressed and walked out of the house to find Dean and Betsy standing beside the El Camino, ready to ride to school. As surprising as it was to me, I was