What does it matter where my body happens to be? My mind goes on working all the same.” – The White Knight in Alice Through the Looking Glass

Your reality is whatever you think it is - in effect ... cogito ergo sum. So, what do you think when you run into something that couldn’t be possibly real? That was my question as a Curtiss P40E sidled up off my left wing.

I’d never encountered an ancient warbird in flight, especially something as arcane as a Warhawk. So, I gave him a friendly wave and smile. He waggled his wings and pointed toward the coast, which was visible on the western horizon. I gave the pilot a confused shrug and pointed back over my left shoulder toward my destination. He gestured again, this time very affirmatively. I gave him the finger.

The flight from the Bahamas to Lauderdale had been routine up to that point. But a thunderstorm had popped up over the destination. So, I was waiting out an ATC ground stop by moseying along on a lazy 346-degree heading, intending to turn to vector 241 when the stop was lifted.

The weather was perfect, and I was enjoying the ocean’s splendor as I cruised over the Sargasso Sea. Then cloud cover started to build in front of me and I adjusted to 14,000 feet, which was close to my ceiling. But the odd formation followed me up and I was IFR as I flew into thick fog. That was when the turbulence began.

The up-and-down shocks, and wild yaws bounced the Cherokee around like a canoe in a North Atlantic storm. My life was flashing in front of my eyes as I locked in on the altitude and pitch/bank indicators - just trying to stay pointed in the right direction. Then abruptly ... the chaos ended, the fog vanished, and I was in pristine blue air. That was when my new friend joined me.

He snap-rolled and disappeared, only to pop up above and behind me. With that, he unleashed a stream of tracers past the front of the Cherokee. I had no idea what this moron was up to. But I was pissed. I immediately banked in the direction he had pointed and began to descend. We would settle this on the ground. Maybe with an ass-kicking

I met Cat at a fraternity mixer. I wasn’t a member of that “erudite” set of budding alcoholics. I’m way too introverted to be comfortable in a seething pack of macho men. But I was an athlete, a swimmer of all things, and the frat rats love to sprinkle jocks around at their parties. It maintains the illusion that they are all clear of eye and clean of limb.

Even so, they must have been scraping the bottom of the barrel when they invited me. The guys who they usually invited played team sports like football, baseball, and basketball. That included my roommate, Todd McGonigle. He was in the middle of the room, impressing a giggling gaggle of sorority girls with inflated tales of Saturday afternoon legerdemain.

It was ironic, really ... my roomie was a typical college quarterback, at least for the era, six feet and perhaps 190 pounds. Not surprisingly, he was built like a Greek god, broad-shouldered, narrow of hip, and he played a collision sport. Todd’s dancing Irish eyes, handsome face, and full head of curly blond hair finished off the picture of the Great American Hero. It was downright sickening.

Whereas I, a humble aquatic creature, was four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier ... streamlined like a barracuda, with a shaved head, to get that extra hundredth of a second. Even worse - rather than showing off my daring-do every Saturday, I was in a solitary sport, where success is measured by how much pain you can endure getting to the pool wall first.

Thousands watched Todd, while I was lucky to have a hundred spectators, most of whom were significant others. Sadly, I had no significant other. It’s hard to hook up with a woman when you spend three excruciating hours a day, six days a week, trudging back and forth in a chlorine-laden medium.

Swimming got me into college. But there’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow for minor sports. So, I was taking full advantage of my opportunity by obtaining a substantial degree. Todd, on the other hand, was already interviewing agents.

That’s the reason why my roommate was holding forth to an adoring flock of coeds, while I was standing next to the wainscotting leaning on a completely improbable grand piano – which was plonked in the corner of the house’s cavernous lounge. To my knowledge, nobody there played the piano. But it gave the place an air of class and sophistication. College social life is all about the impression you leave.

That was when a sweet voice from somewhere near my left elbow said, “Is this as boring for you as it is for me?” I glanced down, and a pixie was leaning against the piano next to me. Was she there all along? It was dark on the party’s fringes, and she was tiny. Maybe I’d missed her.

I looked her over – naturally! It isn’t polite. But seriously!! I’m a guy. She had a gorgeous round face framed by a thick thatch of feathery blond hair, huge blue eyes, a pert little nose, and an almost lascivious mouth. Kind of ... Tinkerbell done up as a sorority chick.

She was all of five feet. Her boobs probably weren’t that big. But they looked enormous on her little body. She was in the requisite outfit for the time, a dark blue sleeveless t-shirt with a crest and Alpha Phi printed on her left tit, a pair of white short-shorts, and topsiders on the end of a couple of outstanding, well-tanned legs. I think I actually licked my chops.

I said, “I’m only here because Captain America dragged me.” I nodded toward Todd, who was currently doing the can-can with his arms thrown over the shoulders of a couple of blond cheerleaders - side-eying all the jiggling and bouncing. Show off ... I hoped he’d blow out a knee.

The pixie said in that same sweet melodic voice, “I had to come because they make all the pledges attend. But I can leave any time I want. How about buying me a burger at the Brown Jug.” Apparently, there IS a God!!

My new friend was a riot of color under the garish fluorescence of that greasy spoon - shining golden blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and bright red lipstick. I had never been in that joint with such a spectacularly beautiful woman.

We hadn’t talked much walking over. It was hard to hear her because the top of her head was below my shoulder. We conversed just enough to exchange names. She was Catherine but had always been known as Cat. She was twenty years old and a sophomore pledge at one of the sororities. The fact that she was from Grosse Pointe filled in all socioeconomic details.

That also made me nervous. My origins are deeply rustic, Howell, Michigan. So, I knew right away that I was miles out of my league, at least with respect to the social graces. That led to the obvious question. We’d just settled in the booth when I looked at her beautiful round face and said, “Do we know each other?” There had to be some rational explanation for this miracle.

She gave me a cute little smirk and said, “I attend every one of the university’s home meets.”

Okay – that explained it. Todd might look magnificent in all his padding. But you’ve got no secrets standing on the blocks in a tiny Speedo. Plus, given my size and build, I swim the distance races - 200 and 500. Hence, I was on display a lot longer than the sprinters. Apparently, she liked what she saw.

I asked her why she went to the meets. She told me it was to watch her brother. I had yet to get a last name. So, I said, “Who’s your brother?”

She smiled and said, “Brad Wilson.” It all fell into place. Brad was number two in the strokes that I competed in. So, his little sister Cat had watched me hand him his ass on a regular basis.

I said defensively, “Don’t hold that against me!!”

She smirked and said, “I just might. We’ll see.”

Holy shit!! I got the inference. There was much more to this elf than an angelic face and curvy body. I said, trying to steer the conversation back to someplace that was less likely to make me blush, “I’m in the Engin. school, civil engineering. I want to build things. What are you studying.”

Without batting an eye, she said, “Theoretical Physics.” Then she added, “Well. I’m only a sophomore. But I’m taking all of the advanced calc and linear algebra courses. I want to be an astronaut. That’s why I’m also in the Air Force ROTC detachment. I’m not on scholarship, but I serve with them.”

I just sat there with my mouth hanging open. The woman might be tiny, but there was nothing small about her. I said, “How do you fit in all the required study time with the spit and polish you need to pass muster with the military types?”

She gave a self-deprecating little shrug and said, “The math is easy, and if you stay on top of your uniform and gear, there isn’t much time required. But the PT takes a chunk out of my day. So, you have to stay disciplined.”

I went back to imitating a boated tuna fish. This little woman, a girl, really, was clearly a genius with none of the classic nerd tendencies. I’d seen the ROTC geeks running on campus in their grey t-shirts and shorts. She must have been part of that pack. And I thought I was superman by carrying a full load in engineering while competing in a Big Ten sport.

Then the woman shocked the shit out of me. She gave me a look that was anything but girlish or nerdy and said, “Let’s cut to the chase ... shall we? Thanks to Brad, you’ve been part of my life for some time, and I’ve always admired you. You don’t know me. But I can assure you that I can keep up. So, what do you think ... should we get together?”

Was she asking me what I thought she was? Once again, she was two steps in front of me. I said, “I’m an engineer, honey, not a theoretical physicist. We work in the here and now. Please explain to me what ‘get together’ means to you.

She gave me a brilliant smile and said, “You’re not that dense. I know that I’m attractive, and you’re an absolute hunk. We’d fit together, beautifully. We ought to explore that.”

Okay, this little woman had just handed me a line that most guys use to hook up. I didn’t know about the hunk part. But she was totally accurate about being attractive. In fact, she was a miniature Barbi, stunningly gorgeous in a doll-like way, with a voluptuous body. I was disturbingly sure that I could never do better than her in my life.

Of course, the fact that Cat had made all the initial moves was intimidating. But a woman with her personality and intelligence wouldn’t dawdle waiting to be swept off her feet. Pool decks are intimate places, and she had watched me for months. So, she had the advantage of knowing me, at least on the surface - how I interacted with others and what motivated me.

On the other hand, I’d known Cat for approximately an hour and a half. Still, I already knew three crucial things about her – which is all it takes if you’re a guy. She was smart, she was beautiful, and she was interested in me. There was only one other thing that I needed to know. I said, “Well, this is sudden. But I agree that we should explore it further. So, how about coming back to my place?”

She said firmly, “No, we need to go to mine. I don’t have a roommate and I’m a bit of a screamer.”

I quickly discovered that Cat was more wildcat than cat. Smart women have every one of the deep-seated desires their less intelligent sisters have. But they also have creativity, vivid imaginations, and the need to discover things, not to mention the passion of their fiery souls.

We hadn’t gotten three feet inside the door when Cat dropped my pants, fished out what she was looking for and proceeded to devour it like a popsicle on a scorching day. The sensation made standing up problematic. So, after a couple of seconds, I grabbed her under her armpits and raised her to her feet.

My dick popped out of her mouth with an audible smack. Her face was a mask of lust and frustration. I stuttered, distressed, “C-c-couch!!”

She went back to attacking my man-meat as soon as my butt landed in the plush leather cushions. The noisy moans indicated she was enjoying herself as much as I was. I wondered, “Do women actually like giving blow-jobs?” I know ... I was pretty naïve back then.

I was getting to the point where monstrous forces were about to be unleashed when she grabbed the object of her affection in order to halt what was about to take place and sat there staring at it while she loudly panted. Then she abruptly stood, and shucked her t-shirt and shorts like they were on fire.

Cat was Venus herself. Except, her hard little body with its full hips and gorgeous round breasts was better than anything Alexandros of Antioch ever chiseled up.

Then the panting got louder. Without taking her eyes off mine, Cat knee-walked her way up my bare thighs. Once she got to my shirt, she ripped it open, buttons flying. Her predatory stare told me she wasn’t afraid of anything in the sexual realm. How could I BE so lucky?!!

I grabbed her and we kissed for the first time. Her mouth opened wide, and she gave a deep groan of pure lust. She was like a woman on a mission. She momentarily fumbled between us. Then she let out a loud gasp and a cry. I felt something hot and slick envelop me. I slid up her passage as we stared into each other’s eyes. Then, her eyes rolled up, and her mouth fell open.

What followed was twenty minutes of yowling, back-scratching, and biting, evidence that Cat was indeed, a cat. It was that fabled moment in your life when you both realized this was the beginning of a lifetime of passion. There would be no going back from here.

We finished with me standing up, holding her by the butt cheeks, her naked back forced against the wall, arms and legs wrapped around me like an octopus. In the meantime, I was pounding myself toward the metaphoric light at the end of the tunnel. She had already come so many times that my only goal was getting to the finish line.

When that moment arrived, she crooned in my ear, “Come in me, baby!! Please Come!!” Then the entire universe shrank to the singularity that preceded the Big Bang - only to expand outward in a cataclysmic release. Cat made a loud cry of surprise and then went limp. I crushed her dead body to me as I finished off the unavoidable. I’d sort out later whether I’d killed her or not.

I transferred the love of my life to the couch, hanging limply, with her head lolling. She was perhaps ninety-five pounds, so it was easy to lay her gently there. Her eyes popped open, and she looked confused. Then I saw her powerful mind take control, and she said with a mischievous smile, “I’m never letting you go.” And that was the long and short of it. We would be together forever.

Our courtship was immaterial. It took a long time to get to the stage where we truly knew each other. But we enjoyed every minute of the journey, and we were inseparable. Even though our coming together was rather sudden and unexpected, at least on my part. Neither of us ever doubted the value and benefit of our choice. We had found each other.

Cat was a complex woman, brilliant, motivated, and passionate. At the same time, she could be soft, loving, and kittenish. I never questioned her devotion to me, and I tried very hard to justify her gift. The sex was spectacular. But that was the least of our relationship. We fed off our friendship. Life isn’t easy. But having a capable and trustworthy companion makes it a whole lot easier.

The next six years featured all of the usual life hoops. I was a year ahead of Cat. So, I graduated and took a job with a local construction firm. That was the point where Cat got her storybook wedding. Her parents had money. Her brother Brad was my best man. It seemed fitting since he was the one who was indirectly responsible for our getting together.

Cat went on to a doctorate in theoretical physics. That degree only took an impressive five more years. My wife was seriously smart. Her obligation to the Air Force was satisfied by a contract with NASA’s Aerospace Research Center on campus, where she did stuff involving light amplification. Please don’t ask me what it was. I’m an engineer ... not a scientist.

Life seemed perfect, and then it got even better. We had talked about children. We both loved them, but we were in the early stages of our careers. Nevertheless, once we’d both settled into the enjoyable routine of married life we decided to try for a child. Of course, my capable little wife immediately produced one.

My darling little Piper was the light of my life. She was what women call an easy baby ... beautiful like her mother and full of smiles. My daughter was walking by the time she was a year old and talking by age two. And she particularly loved her daddy.

I took her everywhere with me, even on the job, wearing a miniature yellow construction helmet on her beautiful blond curls. She wore it proudly because daddy gave it to her. I adored her in return. She and her mother were my entire existence. The only things I really cared about.

That’s why it was so especially devastating when the drunk in the gasoline tanker veered across the center line and killed them both. They were going out for ice cream – a spur-of-the-moment decision on an ordinary day. I could visualize them laughing happily and singing a little song as they drove along on that busy highway.

Witnesses said that the fireball was huge. Cat and Piper were both trapped in the twisted wreckage of our brand-new SUV. The first responders assured me my loved ones had died before the explosion. They tell you that to keep you from thinking about the alternative. The other vehicle was a semi. So, the driver was able to bail out before it happened. He didn’t have a scratch on him.

Fatal road accidents occur every day. It’s just a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Life’s random that way - and unspeakably cruel. Yet, for everybody else the world keeps turning, and their world goes on unaltered. Me? I was so distraught that they institutionalized me until I got a grip.

Cat’s family unleashed a baying pack of lawyers on the hapless owners of the company. They’d known their driver was prone to day drinking. I got almost thirty million ... most of it punitive. The haunted shell of a man sitting at the plaintiff’s table was a living argument for the jury. The driver got a twelve-year sentence for manslaughter with special circumstances. Me? I thought he deserved the chair.

Then her parents and I made the hopeless attempt to put our lives back together - lacking two of God’s best and brightest angels. We buried them side-by-side in a little cemetery. Her folks could afford a mausoleum. But the beauty of the place, right on the shores of Lake St Clair, was compelling.

It was so peaceful. I would sit with them for hours in all kinds of weather, talk to them, weep bitter tears, and beseech God, “Why THEM?? You FUCKING son-of-a-bitch!!”.

There’s no going back after unimaginable catastrophe. You’ve got no future, no hope. You just plod along with the light sucked out of the remnants of your remaining days and pray for a quick end. I was thirty years old and irretrievably broken, a dead man walking.

I had a ton of money from the settlement, and I was determined to succeed – as my way of honoring their memory. So, by behaving somewhat normally, at least on the surface, I started up an engineering firm and worked sixteen-hour days to expand the business. Sleep is just a habit - and what else did I have?

Paradoxically the company grew to the point where we were soon doing multi-million-dollar construction projects. The IPO made me extremely wealthy. But I was still shattered. No amount of money could bring back my loved ones.

Time passed. I was the nominal head of the firm. It was my money and mostly my ideas. But I was way too personally fucked up to be trusted with any practical decision making. Hence, I was given the title of “Founder and Consultant”. It was an expedient way for the shareholders to say, “Get this fruitcake into the pasture and keep him out there!”

You are utterly OCD when your world is shattered. So, you become obsessed with orderliness ... perhaps in response to the perceived chaos around you. Hence, I had the habit of dropping in on our projects to “ensure that things were done right.” Nobody wanted me there. I was deemed a nuisance. But nobody could tell me to get lost. Since I owned the company.

It was easier to get around to my various endeavors if I had my own airplane. So, I took the lessons and got the ratings – VFR, IFR, and CFI with a Complex endorsement. Flying was another one of my weird obsessions and I quickly became a master aviator.

Then, it was just me and my faithful Piper Cherokee. I’d chosen it because I liked the name of the company. It made me feel closer to my daughter. The Cherokee is a durable and tolerant machine. With its 180-hp Lycoming engine, fixed-pitch prop and trim tabs, trained baboons can operate it. Hence, flights from our home office in Miami to our Bahamas construction sites was more like a commute.

Nonetheless, this day had been particularly strange. First there was the odd weather and now there was a nut in an antique warbird forcing me to land where I didn’t want to. The guy in the Warhawk led me across the coastline and down to an actual dirt landing strip in what I presumed was Florida. It was located on the cape north of what I assumed was Port Canaveral.

I could see Quonset huts and a rudimentary tower but I had no idea what the ATC frequency was so I just circled downwind, turned into the approach leg, and landed.

If the Cherokee has any drawbacks, it’s too buoyant. The ground effect on its Hershey bar wings makes it float forever and it was a relatively short field. Of course, I never cared whether I lived or died which lets you fly without concerning yourself with crashes. In fact, I would have probably killed myself already if it weren’t for my fear of the unknown.

But still, karma has a way of fucking with me, and it seemed like I was facing another one of her curveballs. There were military vehicles scrambling out to meet me. I lowered the flaps, dropped the wheels, and eased back on the yoke and power. They chased me down the runway as the Cherokee reached gingerly for the ground.

I rolled to a stop hazardously close to the end of the strip, jumped out of the cabin door and onto the right wing ... righteously pissed off. I yelled, “What the fuck do you assholes think you’re doing forcing down a private citizen in unrestricted airspace??!!”

All I could hear was the bolting of the M1s. I froze mid tirade. A guy wearing a gold oak leaf on his collar sauntered over to where I was standing on the wing, looked me up and down and said gruffly, “Steigen Sie aus dem Flugzeug!” That was German - I think.

I said irately, “I don’t speak German. Tell me in English what the fuck is going on here?!!”

The guy gave me a probing stare and said. “Get off that aircraft Fritz, or we’ll shoot you off it!”

A half hour later I was sitting in a walled portion of a Quonset hut. My first thought was, “Where’s the air conditioning?” It was beastly hot, in there.

They’d bundled me into a staff car in between a couple of burly MPs and then driven me to what looked like a command headquarters. Not a word was said. The MPs then frog marched me into the building and shoved me, not too gently, into the room.

There was a metal table with three chairs. I didn’t think we were going to have tea. Finally, the door opened, and a couple of minions bustled in. The two gorillas followed. They took up positions by the door, arms crossed, looking like a couple of stone statues fronting a Pharo’s tomb.

The suits pulled up the two chairs opposite me and gave me an appraising glance. The older one resembled a hamster, but a somewhat kind and intelligent one. His companion was a different rodent entirely ... a weasel. I said, trying to sound sensible, “Could one of you please explain what’s going on? Why are you treating me like this? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The weasel snorted and said, like he was asking a rhetorical question, “Flying in restricted airspace isn’t wrong? Gee – maybe we ought to change the regulations. And what’s that thing you’re flying anyhow, some kind of Messerschmitt?”

I laughed uproariously and said, “That’s a Piper Cherokee, pal. I know that the model is way out of date but you should recognize the type. Now what’s the story on restricted? That looks like Port Canaveral over there,” I added, getting angrier, “There’s nothing military in that area except Cape Kennedy. How could a private aircraft flying offshore violate any of that?!!”

They both looked at each other like they were wondering what the fuck I was talking about. Then the hamster said, “Look Fritz ... You and I both know that our ICBM testing program runs out of the Cape. Were you scouting it? Can we expect a visit from your AR 234s?”

I stopped for a second and just stared at him. I was a bit of a military history buff, at least before Armageddon ended everything, and I knew that the AR 234 Blitz was a the only operational jet bomber flown during World War Two. It was one of those Nazi wonder weapons that Hitler had counted on to turn the tide against the Allies?” I said warily, “Nazi bombers, you must think this is 1944.”

The weasel snickered and said, “We wish. Maybe things would be different now.”

Okay, so this was all a charade. These had to be World War Two reenactors and I was getting very tired of their little game, so I said pissed off, “When’s now?!!”

The Hamster said, in a tone that sounded like he didn’t appreciate being messed with, “Come on Fritz!! You know it’s 1962!” A wave of angst hit me. Holy crap!! I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

At least I was smart enough to NOT blurt out that I was from sixty years in the future. But then again, maybe I wasn’t. This was obviously a distinctly separate universe ... one that was like mine but not exactly the same. Maybe the way they calculated the date was different.

I’m an engineer. I plan and act based on data. So far, the only information that I’d gotten was that the U.S. appeared to be at war with Germany. The why’s and wherefores were still a mystery. But I was beginning to get a creepy foreboding as to how I might have gotten there.

When I ran into that weird fog, I was well within the boundaries of the legendary Bermuda Triangle. In fact, I was flying on nearly the same course heading as the five TBMs that disappeared there in 1945. So, maybe the Bermuda Triangle existed after all ... as some kind of random phenomenon that pops up to occasionally gobble ships and airplanes?

I was thinking about all of that as the two bureaucrats kept pressuring me to admit that I was a German spy. I needed more information. So, I said, trying to sound reasonable, “Why would you think I was spying for the Germans?” At least that would tell me what they were thinking.

They both laughed and said, “The plane you were flying looks like a variant of an ME-108 and you were right over the place where our test missiles land. What were you doing there Fritz ... mapping it, so the Huns can recover our research?”

I said, starting to get irate, “Stop calling me Fritz. My name is Erik.”

They both nodded wisely. The Hamster said, “Good German name.”

I said, “It’s German because I was born and raised in Beloit. A lot of Germans settled around there. I own a construction company in Miami, and I was flying from Nassau to Fort Lauderdale’s executive airport before you clowns intercepted me.”

The weasel said gleefully, like I’d finally made a fatal error, “Okay wise guy, if you’re the person you say you are then give us your fingerprints and we’ll run them. And then - after we come up with nothing - you are going to tell us who you really are.”

Oh shit!! the lack of documentation would prove I wasn’t from around these parts.

I was stuck in that stifling hot room for all the time that it took to run my prints. Meanwhile my two mute friends stood by the door, looking like they expected me to momentarily bolt off to a meeting of the Bund. I was a nervous wreck.

Think about it ... How would you react if you were comfortably ensconced in one world, no matter how miserable it might be. Then you find yourself mysteriously transported into a different one – one where you were about to be shot as a spy? The emotional whiplash was brutal.

Nevertheless, it was about to get even more puzzling. The bureaucrats were deeply apologetic when they returned. The Hamster said in a much friendlier tone, “We didn’t know you were THAT guy.” Then he added, “But it says here that you’re dead.”

What’s this??!! How in the world could I have a past unless I’d actually existed here? Had a copy of me ... a doppelganger perhaps – been living my life in this world? And even worse, he was dead now!!” Oh, woe is me!! What was I going to do?!!

I was desperate to get away from these guys. Hence, my only option was to bluff ... which is my instinct anyway. I chuckled and said, as if just between us boys, “In the immortal words of Mark Twain, the reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.” They all laughed, even the guards.