Not nearly as many of us have elected to watch the towback, I realize when I climb onto the bus. It’s a smaller bus than the one we rode out to the Shuttle Landing Facility this morning, and not nearly as luxurious. I also soon realize that I am the only person on the bus without cameras, tripods, and bags of other equipment. This is, apparently, a photo op, but not an event print journalists feel the need to view in person. It makes sense, I suppose—there will probably be a live feed of the towback on closed-circuit TV that one can watch from the air-conditioned comfort of the News Center, and seeing with one’s own eyes the sight of Atlantis being towed back to the hangar from the runway would not in any way add to the veracity or detail of the stories most of the journalists are writing. I feel self-conscious finding a seat on the bus carrying only my notebook. I am also the only woman here.
As the bus grinds through its gears, I realize that it is something like the converted school bus that Norman Mailer rode for Apollo 11. Rather than being completely un-air-conditioned, as Mailer complained his was, this bus does have air-conditioning—at least it boasts air-conditioning vents—but the system seems to lack the wherewithal to stand up to fifty sweating journalists, many of them oversized. The temperature inside is probably similar to that outside, only more stagnant and fragrant. After about ten minutes, the bus pulls over right where a tow road leading from the landing strip connects with Kennedy Parkway. We pile out of the bus. The photographers’ shirts are stained with enormous sweat spots. And the mosquitoes have come out as well, tiny vicious mosquitoes. It occurs to me that in addition to having no sunscreen, I also have no bug spray.
“This sucks! I’m never coming to one of these again!” cries out a huge sweating journalist. Everyone laughs.
The roadside at the intersection is uneven, moist without quite being swampy, the ubiquitous canebrake brushing against everyone’s pants legs. Running parallel to both roads are ditches filled with brackish water. One of the more experienced photographers points out to us an alligator lurking in the ditch on our side of the road. It is a safe distance away, but I’ve been told alligators can move surprisingly fast. We all keep one eye on it as we move around finding our vantage points. The photographers busy themselves setting up their tripods and stepladders; a few intrepid stand-up journalists attempt to smooth themselves out enough to appear on camera. Judging by the logos on their microphones, none of them are from networks or news agencies I have ever heard of, and I wonder whether they now regret the idea of attempting to speak briskly into the camera as Atlantis rolls by behind them, whether it has now become clear to them that this was not a good plan.
We see the caravan coming a long way off.
First a black SUV.
Then the convoy command vehicle, a converted motor home that’s used as a sort of mobile mission control during safing procedures after landings.
Then a stair car. It had never occurred to me that NASA must own stair cars, but of course the astronauts have to get out of the orbiter somehow. This pleases me unreasonably.
These lead vehicles are moving exquisitely slowly, barely a slow walking pace. Behind them, soon, we can see the silhouette of Atlantis, its enormous tail fin and the curved shape of the orbital maneuvering system pods against the sky. In the minutes it takes the orbiter to come fully into view, the photographers scurry around, revising their guesses as to where the best vantage points will be. The few stand-up TV journalists run through their patter, all of them speaking earnestly into their cameras, all of them turning now and then to gesture toward Atlantis.
As Atlantis comes near enough that we can make out more details, we see that there are people walking alongside it, men and women, wearing work clothes and jeans. They walk slowly and reverentially, pallbearers, and though I know from my reading that this towback is always done slowly, today it seems intentional that they move as slowly as a funeral procession.
I hear a single pair of hands clapping behind me, and when I turn to look it’s a photographer’s assistant who has tucked his camera pole under his arm to applaud. He holds his chin up a bit self-consciously, knowing everyone is looking at him, but he has decided to go through with this gesture. Maybe he knew for weeks he wanted to do this, or maybe he’s only decided right this moment, when those people came into view, the workers walking beside Atlantis, hugging close to its side. Even from here we can see that the spaceworkers are not chatting, are not smiling or drifting off thinking about what they are going to do after work or what to make for dinner. They face straight ahead, their expressions solemn. They can see the clump of us journalists on the roadside; they know they are having their pictures taken, and this is the face they want to wear in these pictures. A lot of them are going to get their layoff notices tomorrow, Omar has told me, but for right now it is their privilege to walk alongside their spacecraft. This is what makes me tear up, finally, as more and more people around me pick up the applause, photojournalists actually let go of their cameras, let their cameras dangle from their neck straps, to clap as loudly as they can, holding their arms up so our applause can be seen by those we are applauding. Unencumbered by equipment, I tuck my phone into my back pocket and clap until my palms sting. I’m moved by the sight of the great ship, now forever flightless, crawling along with its keepers at its sides.
We stand on that roadside forever, watching Atlantis go by, still keeping one eye on that alligator. We are in no hurry to leave. We watch patiently as Atlantis slowly passes us in its own sweet time. And then we watch it navigate the soft turn onto Kennedy Parkway, and we watch it make its way up toward the area outside the Orbiter Processing Facility, where the employee appreciation party is under way. We watch until we can see only the outlines of the tail fin again, and as Atlantis navigates into its place of honor at the head of the area where the party is to be held, we hear a cheer rising from the crowd gathered there.
Once we’ve all piled back into the stagnant, fragrant bus, we sit motionless for a long time. Our driver, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Nelson Mandela, keeps the bus idling in a vain effort to get us some air.
Waiting long periods of time in close quarters makes people chatty. The photojournalists strike up conversations. They gossip about others among their number who couldn’t make it to this event. They gossip about layoffs, journalism being another one of the occupations, like space work, in which even the best among them are being laid off in large numbers. The photojournalist who made the joke about not coming back has decided to give nicknames to those sitting closest to him. A tiny videographer carrying a giant camera is dubbed Gator Bait; soon everyone is calling him that. The journalists swap stories of previous space events, and the discussions spread out to more rows of seats as they call out mission numbers and the names of orbiters. I was here for the last launch of Columbia. I was here for the last landing of Columbia. I was here for return to flight after Columbia. I WAS HERE. All of us, it seems, were here for the last launch of Atlantis, only thirteen days ago. That feels like another lifetime.
“Get any good shots?” my seatmate asks me, casting a curious eye over my small bag and empty hands.
“I’m not a photographer,” I answer, and then because he seems to be waiting for something more, “I’m a writer.”
“A writer. What do you write?”
“I’m trying to write about the end of the shuttle era. Trying to make sense of what all this means.” I gesture vaguely toward Atlantis. As I speak, I’m aware of how very iffy this all sounds.
“Huh.” He is quiet for a minute. “And what does it mean?”
I look out the window at a Japanese film crew packing up their elaborate setup, huge sheets of plywood they have laid out on the grass to enable them to get a smooth dolly shot, and I can’t imagine they got any images anywhere near worth the effort, but we watch while they haul all their equipment back into the van piece by piece against the totally unacceptable heat and humidity. The futility of their task seems to signify something.
“I
have no idea what it means,” I tell him truthfully. “I’ve been out here for everything, and I have even less of a clue than when I started.”
He seems unsure of what to say to this, as if I’ve told him I’m dying of cancer. I’m struck with an idea. I turn in my seat to face him.
“What do you think it means?” I ask him. “You’ve been out here taking pictures, right? What do you think it means that we’re not going anymore?”
He takes a deep breath, leans his head back against the bus seat. I’m not sure whether he’s thinking or taking a brief nap.
Finally he speaks. “I don’t think it means anything, it means we’ve decided to stop,” he says. “It means a lot of people on this bus are about to lose their jobs.”
When we finally start moving, the bus circles around and delivers us to the opposite end of the Orbiter Processing Facility from where Atlantis is now displayed. We get out and look around. A small crowd presses toward a low barrier set up to keep us from touching the orbiter. People take turns snapping each other’s photos with it. Bins of ice cream and bottled water are on offer, and I immediately help myself to both. A number of awnings are set up—under one, people are invited to sign a banner commemorating this mission that will be hung in the Vehicle Assembly Building. I find a blank spot and write my son’s name and the date. Under another awning, a live band is playing R&B covers. They are with the Air Force Reserve, and they remind me of a high-end wedding band; they even have a horn section. Nearby, a woman in a union T-shirt is handing out cardboard fans with the NASA logo, and not far from her a man is handing out little American flags. People wandering by are taking one of each; I accept a fan and after a moment’s thought I decline the flag, thinking the stick is probably too long and pointy to carry on board my flight. The man handing out the flags scowls at me.
As I slink away, I see Omar emerge from OPF. I shout and wave, but he only raises a single hand to waist height to acknowledge me, looking totally unsurprised to find me here. I’ve texted him I was coming, and we’ve managed to find each other at other launches and events, but this one feels different. It’s an event for NASA employees only, and my sense that I’m not really supposed to be here, that I somehow got in on a technicality, makes me feel giddy about catching sight of my one friend who is also an employee.
Omar grabs two ice cream bars out of the nearest container and tosses me one. I don’t mention that I ate one two minutes ago and eat this one too.
“Want your picture with Atlantis?” Omar offers, and we make our way up to the barricade. We trade phones and take each other’s pictures with the orbiter peeking over our shoulders. It’s funny that so many of the people here, including Omar, have worked with these machines every day for years, yet they still clamor to take pictures with them like first-time tourists. Being close to this orbiter today is still a privilege.
A dais is set up with a microphone toward the center of the barricade, not far from where we have worked our way to the front of the crowd, and soon Charles Bolden, the NASA administrator, takes the stage to welcome us. He speaks for five minutes, somehow not repeating anything I heard him say at the history conference but not really saying anything new either. Then we hear from the crew of Atlantis. They have changed out of their orange reentry pressure suits and into blue flight suits (and, presumably, have showered). One by one they speak, thanking the people here for keeping them safe, for taking such good care of their ship. As Chris Ferguson steps aside to let Rex Walheim come to the microphone, I notice he stumbles over his feet a bit, a misstep then overcorrection, as if he is walking on the deck of a boat encountering swelling waves. I realize that what I am seeing is his readjustment to gravity.
“Isn’t it weird,” I say to Omar, “that these people just got back from space?” Even as I say this, I know the observation is idiotic. Of course they’re just back from space; that’s why we’re all here.
But Omar nods. “It really is,” he says.
After the speeches are over, the Air Force Reserve band tries to get the crowd dancing, but with limited success. A lot of partygoers are standing around watching amiably, maybe clapping along, but no one is dancing. If these bottles we’re holding contained beer instead of water, maybe. But at work in the middle of a weekday with no alcohol—not a chance.
But then one dude steps forward. Tall and rangy, probably not any older than me but with a weathered face that reflects years spent in the Florida sun. He dances by himself, to “Celebrate Good Times,” and his footwork is reminiscent of Chris Ferguson’s stumble at the microphone. This man appears to have somehow gotten some alcohol on base, and he is dancing accordingly. Everyone still stands around, but now we are all watching him.
Where he went wrong was in taking the word party literally, when the event is not in fact a party but a wake. Best to stand around somberly. A wake with speeches from astronauts and NASA officials, a wake with Atlantis, fresh from its reentry into the atmosphere, in attendance. A wake with ice cream, in hundred-degree heat, a party where most of the partygoers know they are about to be laid off. We watch him dance a few minutes more, then avert our eyes and move on.
Omar and I walk around. The crowd thins out more the farther we get from Atlantis, and past the entrance to OPF-1 there is almost no one. We step over a set of train tracks, built to deliver the solid rocket boosters directly to the Vehicle Assembly Building from the contractor in Utah. Past that, the cliff wall of the VAB. One of the high bay doors is open, and I shield my eyes, straining to see inside.
“Trying to see Discovery?” Omar asks, following my eyes. Discovery has been in the VAB, having its engines and other working parts removed, in preparation for transport to the Air and Space Museum. Omar has been tweeting and posting on Facebook about this dismantling process, and though he doesn’t go on and on about it, it’s clear he finds it disturbing, the lifelong mandate to keep the orbiter safe from harm suddenly reversed into overseeing its dismemberment.
“She’s in there,” Omar tells me. “But I don’t think you’ll be able to see anything from here.” As we move toward the fence, Omar wonders aloud whether he might be able to get me past the gate.
“I’m not supposed to take you in there,” Omar explains, then thinks something over. “It might depend on who’s working security, though.”
As we get closer, we see an idling black SUV with a single guard in it. He steps one foot out onto the tarmac and juts his chin at Omar.
“She wanted to try to see inside the VAB a bit,” Omar says in a chummy, what-do-you-say-bro tone of voice. I can tell he doesn’t know this guy at all.
“Badge?” the guard asks. Omar hands over his work badge. I unclip my media badge and hand that to him as well.
The guard looks me over thoroughly.
“Sorry, dog,” the guard tells Omar, handing us both back our badges. “I can really only let in folks specifically badged for VAB.” It occurs to me only then that he might have thought Omar was trying to impress a date, and that maybe we’d have had better luck if I kept my media badge to myself. I feel a little disappointed, partly because I want to see Discovery, wanted to walk into the cool, dark VAB with Omar and no one else. But also because the guard seemed to be basing his decision on something other than our badges, and I can’t help but think if I had been younger or cuter he would have let us in.
As we walk away, Omar is apologetic about not getting me into the VAB, and I tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, after everything he has gotten me into. I wonder privately what Omar would have done in that guard’s place—it’s impossible to imagine him bending the rules, but also hard to picture him failing to come through for a coworker asking a favor.
After some more wandering around, Omar tells me he has to go back to OPF—he’s working today, and people are taking turns coming out to the party. For a while after he’s gone I linger, watching the band, eavesdropping, eating more ice cream, watching Atlantis, and watching people watch it. A call goes out for media people to get b
ack on the bus, but I ignore it. Even though I’ve signed a form saying I will stay with media escorts and won’t wander around unaccompanied, I feel pretty confident that I won’t get in any trouble today. If I’m caught, I will say I missed the last bus, which will more or less be true.
Eventually, when the crowd starts to thin out, I set out to head back to the Press Site by circling around the VAB on foot, a project that, I only now start to realize, is going to take me a while. For the millionth time, the building has fooled me with its hugeness. The sun is fully blazing now in the early afternoon, I realize it’s been hours since I applied some sunscreen I begged off a Scottish journalist, and I put my Lawrence of Arabia scarf back on my head. I haven’t slept for thirty-two hours. I walk and walk and walk and the huge building next to me hardly seems to change as I walk. It is city blocks long.
Then something strikes me: I am walking, by myself, next to the Vehicle Assembly Building in the middle of the day. I’m loose on the grounds of the Kennedy Space Center. I’m walking through a strange landscape I have come to know so well in my mind it feels like another home to me, yet it still feels like a setting for science fiction. This is where the spaceships are assembled, and I will never get used to that—the people who assemble the spaceships themselves say they never get used to that—even as the spaceships are retired and will be assembled no longer.
For the many minutes it takes me to circumnavigate the enormous beige edifice, I look up at it. I think of the way architecture, over time, can become transmuted into pure emotion. I haven’t really been seeing the VAB, I just feel an overwhelming wonder and admiration and loss. But now I look closely. Turkey vultures circle endlessly overhead, as they always do. Seeing it this close up, I finally notice the many imperfections on the facade, places where the beige-gray paint has been touched up after hurricanes and doesn’t quite match, the way the corrugated surface, seen from directly below, distorts the huge NASA logo. When I pass the high bay doors, I squint inside again to try to catch a glimpse of Discovery. It’s too far away.
Leaving Orbit Page 27