by C.L. Bunnell
of the vessel.
The pod this hatch was attached to, was ash white at the tip where re-entry into this, dense atmosphere around Earth, had burned off the paint. The rest was a dark gray—the color of the bottom of a storm cloud. A storm cloud that holds a massive amount of electrical energy. Spaceman chose this color because he claimed that when you saw the rocket coming, best to take cover--`cause all hell was about to break out!
Spaceman—now standing at the hatch—ran his hands over the gray pigment.
The heavy, pot-metal-bullet had seen multiple layers of paint. Now –he found it was sticky to the touch, and that was the way he liked it. He smiled as looked at the gray that was now on his hands. Then he wiped them on the shorts he was wearing. The beach-shorts which showed an array of colors and some gray wouldn’t be noticed.
Stacy smiled as she saw this as Spaceman was always thinking. And perhaps he was when he purchased the shorts. Perhaps he saw the colors as being stain proof … perhaps.
He took the sunglasses which were resting on top his head, he gave them to Stacy. She put them in her front, shirt pocket, then quickly took control of his hair.
Spaceman—he opened the hatch and climbed in. He wiggled around until he was settled.
Behind his seat was a titanium tube, round, the size of a toilet, drain pipe. Stacy gently threaded his hair into it; now it was controlled as it will be during flight.
So now he sat there in the only chair that was in this small capsule, and his back—it was to the earth, the way it would be upon take off. Spaceman never looked behind, never looked back—there was no point in that. The only thing that held his interest was what was ahead, or where he was going. Looking back was for losers or those who wanted to admit mistakes and the only way to live without making errors was to not do anything at all.
No … he has no time for the past, just like an old doctor has no use for medical schools. Plenty studied history, let them do the looking. The studying. Let them tell the people all that was done wrong …. And while they were pointing out flaws—Spaceman would be looking out over the horizon. The first to step foot on our soon-to-be new world.
He would be saving mankind.
But that was in the future, as for now, he looked out the three-inch thick plate glass windshield which was tempered and bullet proof. And the opening was no more than three inches wide by twelve inches long.
Stacy thought it looked like the lens on her father’s welding helmet.
The glass in this windshield showed scratches which ran in all directions. Damage caused by satellites and other man-made debris that was destroyed as Spaceman Dan refused to give the right-of-way to space trash. His capsule pushed it aside like snow at the mercy of a snow plow. Like a bug smashed on a car windshield. Or a cow that stands on the train tracks. So it was getting hard to see, but Spaceman didn’t care, there wasn’t much out there to look at anyhow.
If asked, he would say space was overrated. That time exhausted in an underground cave would be time better spent.
“Why do you do it?” Stacy asked as she looked down at her boss. Spaceman sat there as though he was in some kind of trance.
Finally, he looked up at her. “Do what?”
“Take such risks.”
Spaceman thought a moment. “Well … I do get three paid sick days—that’s nice. And there’s the holiday pay—gotta love that. Then, of course, I’ve got workman’s comp, which I suppose I could do without.”
“Why’s that?”
“ --well—after I returned from my last trip to Venus, there was a slight pressure problem in the capsule. Yeah—I wound up with that diver's disease … what’s It called--?”
“—the bends--?”
“Yeah—As it turned out, I had too much nitrogen in my system, so I had to spend a night in a decompression chamber. Then, I wasn’t allowed to leave the hospital until they found out my workers comp. Insurance wasn’t going to pay. Once that happened—it was like they couldn’t get me out fast enough.”
“I don’t understand, why wouldn’t your worker’s comp. pay?”
“They said I didn’t pass the drug test …. That I had too much Nitrogen in my blood and had no prescription for it.”
Stacy thought a moment. “But—wasn’t the job you were doing the reason you had the nitrogen in your system in the first place?”
“Suppose.”
“That makes no sense!”
“That’s what I thought, so I contested the insurance companies decision.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t pretty … I mean they bugged my phone, had me followed, watched, and videotaped my every move. They called my mother, asking her if she knew about my drug problem. Told her an intervention would be wise and then wanted to know if they could film it.”
“But Nitrogen isn’t a drug …? I mean it’s air with no oxygen. That’s all.”
“Tell them that.”
“So what happened.”
“The President called—he asked if I would do him a solid, and let it go. He said he owed them `cause they were good to him at election time. Said I would be doing him a personal favor.”
“So you did? You let it go? I mean time spent in a decompression chamber’s expensive.”
“Yeah … It cost me around twelve grand I guess …. But hey—don’t forget—the President now owes me a solid!”
“You think he’s gonna come through for you? I mean when the time comes?”
“He sort of already has … I mean through his service to the Country … and just by taking the time to call …!”
“Ya mean he called to see how you were doing?”
Spaceman thought a moment. “No—he didn’t ask how I was doing. He just wanted me to drop my case.”
“What about your personal health insurance, they wouldn’t help?”
“Naw—they said it was a workman’s comp case.”
“That sucks.”
“Well,” Spaceman said, he looked out the windshield as though he was already in space. “You have to look at the whole picture …. I mean—I'm on salary—twenty–five large a year. I have health Insurance that although doesn’t cover much, I can get for seven hundred a month. And I know that seems steep, and it is—but I’d sure hate to see what that would cost if the ole, job wasn’t paying half.”
“It would cost fourteen hundred a month.”
“Really—that much?”
“Yeah, you said you paid seven hundred a month, and the job covers the other half—that’d be fourteen hundred dollars a month.”
“Man—I’d never be able to afford that. I’d have to raise my deductible.”
“What’s it now?”
“Ten grand.”
Stacy let out a whistle and then said: “Man—seven hundred a month, with a ten thousand dollar deductible … why so much?”
“They say it’s `cause I have a high-risk job.”
“I suppose that’s true …. So have you ever used it? I mean this Insurance?”
“Are you kidding! I ain’t got no ten-thousand dollars!”
“Why have it then?”
“`Cause it’s the law—silly!”
Stacy—confused, shook her head. “What about retirement? Do you get a pension?”
“Ooh--almost forgot—that’s another benefit—I’ve got my 401k money. That’ll come in handy.”
“I thought you lost that during the recession; you know the bailout.”
“What bail out?”
“When the stocks plunged, and we gave all that cash to the banks.”
“We did?”
“You must have been in flight. Everyone knows about it.”
“Why would we give money to the banks? Were we paying off loans or something?”
“No, they made some mistakes and needed cash.”
“So what’d they do … put up collateral—ya know—maybe a couple of those big, New York buildings they own?”
“No�
�they didn’t put nothing up. They pretty much just took it. And we weren’t allowed to tell them what to do with it either.”
“So they got it then?”
“Yeah.”
“Just like that? I mean, none of them farmers who lost their land to em. They didn’t come asking for it back? They didn’t say a tit-for-a-tat?”
“Like I said, that wasn’t an option.”
“Really? So what did they do with the money?”
“They gave it to the people they fired for getting them in the position to where they had to borrow money.”
Spaceman looked confused, and Stacy knew he was. “ … well …” he finally mumbled, “I suppose they have lent us plenty of cash. Would only be right to return the favor. At least I still have Social Security to fall back on.”
“--Well--” Stacy stopped there. There was no point in dragging the Spaceman down any farther. No point in telling him about Social Security. She was well aware, there was fat chance he would live long enough to collect anyway.
So instead, she stuck her head inside the capsule and looked around, “Spaceman,” she asked, “what are all those marks?”
Among what appeared to be a thousand switches, dials, levers, and gauges, there were red crayon marks.
“Well,” Spaceman said, “you see these here with a circle and a question mark?”
“Yeah.”
“I never figured out what they do. And these--the ones with a circled “X”—they don’t work no more.”
“Shouldn’t you fix them?”
“I don’t know how.”
Stacy suddenly pulled away—the smell of vomit, feces, and urine was pungent. Overwhelming …. She turned, then gagged, but she did so in a way, Spaceman didn’t notice. He didn’t need to see it.
She pulled a handkerchief from her shirt pocket and wiped