You're Going to Mars!

by Rob Dircks

But the toll monitor steps in front of the car just as the light turns green. “Looks like you’re lost.” He squats down and looks over Jane’s license plate with his flashlight.

  “No sir. We know exactly where we’re headed.”

  “Awful long way from New Jersey. Sure you’re not lost?”

  “Disney. You know. Kids. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t stop taking ‘em to Disney.”

  He nods, smiling. “Sure. Sure. But Disney in Florida’s closer to you.”

  “California one has more rocket rides.” She nods over to me. “This one’s into rockets.”

  “Pop the trunk.”

  Jane turns to me with a look that says it all: she wasn’t being paranoid after all. You could make it through a hundred tolls, and all it took was one monitor like this. The one with the bird shit in his coffee. The one that could keep us here forever. He’s not just angry, he’s menacing. He wants something. Like he doesn’t care what it is, but he wants it anyway. He’s itching for it.

  Jane shout-whispers to me. “You stay put.” She gets out and strolls up to the trunk, like she doesn’t have a care in the world, and opens it for him.

  “What’s with the thing coming out of your nose, lady?”

  “It’s going into my nose. Meal-in-a-bag. It’s how I eat. I have an extra one if you want.”

  “No thanks.”

  I can’t see, the lid of the trunk’s blocking my view, but I hear the monitor’s grumbles at not finding gold bars or plastic bags bulging with Allanol or Bliss-laced mushrooms – just the mess of an old crazy hoarder lady with a tube up her nose.

  “What’s in the boxes, lady?”

  “Nothing.”

  A strange feeling arrests me. For hours and hours I desperately wanted to know what was in those stupid cardboard boxes, and just because she wouldn’t tell me, I would’ve given what was left of my hair to find out. But now I’m paralyzed by fear, by the desperate desire for no one to ever find out what’s in those stupid cardboard boxes, because it must be terrible, and I don’t want to go to jail, or find out my mother is driving around with human heads in her trunk, or have to explain to the police why our perfect little family needs ten years’ worth of prescription horse tranquilizers.

  I hear the monitor tear open the first box, then the second, then the third, then grumble again with disappointment.

  “See, sir? I told you it was nothing.”

  “Whatever. You’re clean. But do you mind telling me why you have boxes full of those stupid scarabs from You’re Going to Mars?”

  16

  Cheat

  Did he say scarabs?

  I rush out to the front, and peer into the trunk, and there they are: three boxes filled to the brim with red scarab medallions. Thousands of them.

  I don’t even have to ask.

  “It was YOU!”

  Jane glares but says calmly, “Honey, this fine young gentleman has said we’re okay to go. Let’s get into the car and let him get back to work.” She turns to the monitor and whispers, “Girl’s got mental issues.”

  Ha! I am NOT getting back in that car. Not with her. “You grifter!” I reach down into my t-shirt and rip the winning red scarab from my neck, and thrust it in her face, pressing the head. “Is this what you were looking for?” The scarab once again goes through its little routine.

  And I see the toll monitor’s eyes light up.

  Uh-oh.

  I try to fold the beetle closed quickly and tuck it away, but it’s too late. The monitor’s greedy hand shoots out and snatches it. I stand frozen as he smirks and raises it high into the air, like a trophy, proclaiming his ultimate prize, the prize that would buy him a life of ease and privilege, or at least a better life than that of a highway toll monitor. “It’s mine! Mine! Mine!” He looks down at us, eyes popping like a madman. “Do you have any idea how much I’ll ge-“

  Jane karate chops him in the throat, cutting off his little victory speech, and wrenches the scarab back from his fist as he falls to the ground. Then she hugs me – not in a good way – and shoves me into the passenger seat and slams the door. Before the stunned monitor or I can even react, she’s already in the driver’s seat, starting the engine.

  But there’s a hand in my window! The monitor’s using my door to get to his feet, frantically grabbing for my neck. He’s not going to give up his future life of ease and privilege without a fight.

  “Jane! He’s hanging on!”

  “Not for long!”

  She peels out of the toll lane, leaving a cloud of burned rubber behind us – but not the monitor. He’s still firmly attached to the car. I smack his free hand, and some primal instinct kicks in, and… I bite him. He screams and lets go momentarily, and that’s all it takes. He’s gone, rolling on the highway in our rear view mirror.

  Jane fumes. “Now why did you go and do that?”

  “Bite him? He was hanging on to the car and trying to strangle me!”

  “Not that! Why did you show him the scarab?”

  “Why did you cheat a million people out of a shot at going to Mars?! That scam was you, wasn’t it?” I smack her in the shoulder. “Stop this car! I’m getting out!”

  She jerks her head around to me, to scream something at me, and blue liquid starts running from her nose, and she starts gagging. “…the… meal-in-a-bag…help…”

  Her hands are all over the place, trying to keep the car straight while it’s shooting down the highway at eighty-five miles an hour, and simultaneously trying to pull the stupid tube out of her face. I force her hands back on the wheel… “You just drive!” …and, wincing with disgust, I gently tug the tube until it’s out of her throat, up her nose, and out. Blue food gel starts spattering everywhere. Voomvoom takes cover under his blanket. I look for a clamp or something to stanch the flow of gel, but then give up and just fling the whole mess out the window.

  “Hey! That was mine!”

  “Don’t worry, you have an extra!” I take a deep breath. “How could you?! The scam! Who are you?!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The three boxes full of scarabs! It’s kind of a giveaway!”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “Dad told me. About some scam involving a million scarabs. In cardboard boxes. Just like those! It was you! I have eyes, I can see, you know!”

  She glares over at me and points a shaking finger in my face. “You think I would CHEAT?”

  “Yes!”

  She jabs her hand over between my legs and turns a latch on a little compartment in the dashboard. “Now what can you see? You have eyes! Go ahead!”

  I pull open the compartment, still unsure whether I might find a severed human head, but instantly the wind from the open windows sucks thousands of little pieces of paper out and swirls them into a tornado, blinding all of us. Jane cackles, somehow staying on the road through the paper blizzard, and shouts, “RECEIPTS!”

  I pluck one of the pieces of paper out of the air. And another. And another. Each one is, in fact, a receipt from 7-Eleven, or Wawa, or Stein’s. I thought only the oldest of old timers still used paper receipts, but, then again, this is my mother I’m riding with. The receipts are from states up and down the East coast, and each receipt is for the purchase of just one item: a You’re Going to Mars! Entry Scarab, priced at an even one credit. I begin to think, this poor crazed woman really thought she could go to Mars, but a much more terrifying thought immediately replaces it: I did the same thing. I am her. I am turning into my mother.

  I’m afraid to ask, but can’t help myself. “What… could you possibly be looking for on Mars?”

  “Crap.”

  “‘Crap?’ That’s the last thing I’d be looking for on Mars.”

  She points to the rear view mirror. “No. Crap, that toll monitor’s on our tail.”

  17

  Hold On to Something

  Lights behind us. Gaining fast.

  “He’s going to arrest us! I can’t go t
o jail!”

  “Nobody’s going to jail! Look, he doesn’t have his flashers or siren on. He’s solo, going rogue. Looking for his treasure. I told you they think they’re above the law. What he’s doing is illegal. Buckle up.”

  “There’s no seat belt!”

  “Oh, right. Just hold on to something.”

  She swerves the car to the left, brakes hard right, and spins us around, receipts flying everywhere, until we’re facing the oncoming car, headlights ablaze, right in the middle of the highway. Voomvoom claps. “Voom voom!” I scream.

  The effect is instantaneous. The monitor’s truck auto-swerves to miss a head-on collision, but can’t correct in time afterward, instead launching off the road, barreling so fast it takes flight over the roadside ditch, landing rough but upright.

  Silence.

  Jane reaches down into the space between our seats, calmly, revealing a long steel rod. “Be back in a second. Taking my persuasion bar just in case.”

  “What in the hell is happening?” I seriously think about surrendering right then and there, and going back and kissing the ground of Fill City One, and begging forgiveness, and promising never to even think about leaving again, just to be rid of this demented woman.

  She leaves her car there, the wrong way in the middle of the road, and walks the fifty or so yards over to the monitor’s truck. He’s inside, alive but still dazed.

  She strikes the left headlight. It shatters. “No one…”

  The right headlight shatters. “… is going to stop…”

  The hood receives a significant dent. “….my daughter…”

  She flips the steel rod in her hand, revealing an end sharpened to a point, and plunges it into the left front tire. “…from going to Mars!” She pulls out the rod to a loud hiss, and smashes the hood one more time for good measure. “You hear me, clown?”

  In response, the monitor, now somewhat recovered, rolls down his window.

  And points a gun at Jane.

  She bolts back to the car, running serpentine to avoid his poorly-aimed shots. “Pepper! I mean Robin! Get ‘er ready!”

  Oh for crying out loud.

  I climb across to the driver’s seat, spin the car around – with a helpful “voom voom!” from the back seat – and throw open the passenger door. Jane lunges in and slams it shut. “Go!”

  I pound my foot to the floor, and the car takes off like a rocket. In the rear view mirror I can see the truck return to the highway, swerving to stay in control with one flat tire.

  “Steel bar versus gun? Really?”

  “Hey! I didn’t think he would kill us for that damn thing! And they’re not even supposed to have guns! That’s illegal!”

  “Really? You think he’s worried about illegal?”

  She frantically fiddles with her tablet. “Get off here. Shortcut.”

  And so our grand entrance to the city streets of Los Angeles, instead of being all smiles and relaxed and wind in our hair, is a pre-dawn car chase, with first-time-manual-driver Paper Farris driving, and my lunatic mother shouting turn-by-turn directions through the worst parts of town, and a seven-year-old kid clapping his hands at all the excitement, and all of us running from a deranged toll monitor with a gun. Someday, if I live, I will remember this and laugh.

  But first I have to live.

  We hurtle down one-way streets the wrong way, into alleys not meant for cars, hiding, making our way in the general direction of Burbank, the home of Groupie Studios’ You’re Going to Mars! In addition to the giant clock – now showing just thirty minutes, where the hell did our time go? – the live feed shows the crowd, getting more and more energized. Hundreds of fans and scalpers have descended on the area, making it their temporary home, a little tent city, and for weeks lucky winners have come forward, submitting their winning scarab to a production manager in exchange for a real-enough-looking spacesuit and helmet, and a salute, and drunken cheers. The scalpers are willing to offer, right there at the entrance gate to the show, a million credits for a winner like me to just hand the scarab over and walk away. Four of the winners, that I’ve seen, have taken the scalpers up on their offer, walking away rich and opening up the gate to the scalpers’ wealthy or celebrity clients. Zach Larson and his producers don’t seem to mind, as unethical and even illegal as it seems, because the more controversy that gets stirred up, I guess, the better for ratings and ad revenue. They’re Larson’s rules. Or more accurately, his lack of rules.

  Twenty-four of the winners have come forward. I’ll be the twenty-fifth. And the remaining five winning scarabs will decompose forever in a landfill in one of the Fill Cities.

  “Wait. Was that a… giraffe?”

  “Yes. The L.A. Zoo. Turn right up here.” The animals crane their necks and watch us zoom past. “And don’t drive so fast!”

  “We’re in a car chase!” I bank into a side street.

  “No we’re not. I think we lost him.”

  We sneak back onto a main road, then onto a highway. “Ventura Freeway. Only half a mile to go. We’re getting close, Robin! We’re home free.”

  The monitor’s truck appears, on cue, going in the opposite direction. It skids out, rumbling across the berm between lanes, and is on us in seconds.

  “Shit! Faster!”

  “You just told me not to drive so fast!”

  “Now we’re in a car chase! Now you should go faster!”

  He’s at our right moments later, desperately trying to manually override his autodrive with one tire out, and trying to aim his gun at us.

  “Oh, enough of this shit already.” Jane grabs the steering wheel and yanks it towards her, smashing us into the truck, and both cars into the guardrail, which is no match for the force being exerted on it. The truck snaps through it like it was made of popsicle sticks and roars off the freeway, plunging twenty or so feet right into the Los Angeles River.

  Jane looks back. “Whoops. I hope he’s okay.” But we see splashing in the dark, and the monitor crawling to what I suppose you could call a concrete shore, shaking his fist in the air at us, totally defeated.

  “Okay, no dead bodies. Good. Now let’s get you to the gate, so I can ditch this car before the cops show up.”

  I’m still furious with her, for everything, for never being there, and for finally showing up in my life and making me want her to disappear all over again. But the car? “You’re going to ditch your car? It’s a 2038 Honda. It’s your baby.”

  She smiles. “No. It’s a car. You’re my baby.” Turns to Voomvoom. “And you’re my baby.”

  18

  I Have Some Questions.

  I pull into the parking lot of Groupie Studios, far away near some overgrown bushes, and the three of us shuffle, like weary warriors, toward our goal. I look up at the giant clock I’ve been watching for the past sixty hours. We made it with a whopping ten minutes to spare. Voomvoom kicks a can as we walk, and I step in front of him to give it a punt, and I don’t know how, I lose my balance I guess, and both my legs swing out from under me. I crash hard on my butt and my left palm, scraping the skin off. I’m bleeding. After all this, the escape and the cross-country drive and the life-threatening car chase, I hurt myself walking the last hundred yards to the studio.

  Jane looks down and laughs. “Harlon said you were a klutz. I didn’t believe him.”

  “A little help here?”

  They lift me to my feet, and Voomvoom swats the pebbles from my palm, spits on it, then tears the lower part of one his sleeves off and wraps it around my hand. Kisses it like a mom would do.

  Jane drags us to keep moving. “No time to waste. I have some questions to ask you, Pepper.”

  “Paper. Robin. Me too.”

  “Me first. Do you know who controls virtually all fuel needs for most countries on this little dirtball we call Earth?”

  “WasteWay. My turn. Why did you leave us?”

  “Because I had a job to do. Why do you think we’ve never had a manned mission to Mars?”

&n
bsp; “I don’t know. What kind of job is so important you had to leave your husband and three daughters?”

  “The answer to both questions is WasteWay.”

  I stop and turn to her. “All right. Can we stop with the riddles?”

  She nods and takes a deep breath. Exhales. “I was a refinery engineer for WasteWay. One day – I happened to be pregnant with you three, by the way – I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. A report about a compound, containing an element. An element that’s not even on the periodic table. WasteWay is covering up something. I know it.”

  I shake my head. “Really. So you walked off in your hospital gown?”

  “Listen, Paper. I had to be outside. Tried finding things out on the inside. Too risky. Not just for me. For Harlon and you girls.”

  Oh boy. I want to believe her. I do. Believe that WasteWay is up to something more than just garden-variety greed, that it has some nefarious larger goal like taking over the world, or Mars, or both. It would make a great excuse, something I could believe other than that my mother left us because she had a skull full of loose change. It would be nice to believe her conspiracy theory. But I don’t.

  “Jane. What would any of this have to do with Mars?”

  “The element. It’s not from Earth. Has to be from Mars, it’s the only place we’ve sent missions in the past fifty years. When I saw your faces for the first time, you and your sisters, I knew. I couldn’t sit by, live my miserable life in Fill City One, and give you the same miserable life, and give the same miserable life to untold numbers of people in the future, while WasteWay hid some terrible secret, for who-knows-what terrible reasons.”

  “And have you found anything in twenty-one years? Anything?”

  I expect another excuse, another conspiracy theory, or maybe for her to cackle again and say “voom voom,” but to my stunned surprise, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a ratty old laminated sheet. “Here.”