The Dream Life of Astronauts

by Patrick Ryan

  They’d taken to foraging for their dinners, crossing paths in the kitchen like competing scavengers. Joe, his chin speckled with a fresh outcrop of zits, was leaning against the counter, eating pickles from a jar, when Frankie walked in. “Do we have any Triscuits?”

  “No idea,” Joe said.

  Frankie found a box of Triscuits behind the cereal and took it down from the cabinet. Before he could eat any, Karen walked in wearing her steak house uniform and grabbed the box out of his hand.

  “Evening, losers.”

  “What, are you supposed to look like a winner in that outfit?” Joe asked.

  “Bite it.” Karen ate a cracker as she peered into the refrigerator.

  “I met an astronaut today,” Frankie told them. He was used to his family’s not understanding him and normally he kept the events of his day to himself, but meeting Clark felt too big, too exciting to contain.

  “On this planet?” Karen asked.

  “At the library. He gave a talk on NASA.”

  “So he’s been to the moon?”

  “No. He never really went on a mission—NASA politics and whatnot. He gave me his phone number, though. He wants to take me on a tour of the Space Center.”

  “Lucky you.” Karen finished what was left of the crackers, took the pickle jar from Joe’s hand, ate the last pickle, then took a swallow of the juice.

  “That’s disgusting,” Joe told her.

  She wiped her mouth with her hand and gave him back the jar. “So when are you and the fake astronaut going on your date?”

  “He’s not a fake. And it wouldn’t be a date,” Frankie said.

  “Why else would an old guy want to hang out with you? He’ll probably try to butt-fuck you in a Mercury capsule.”

  After Karen left for work and Joe had retreated to the back of the house, Frankie sat down on the couch and looked at Clark’s picture in the quarter-page ad on the back of the TV guide. The picture was a head shot no bigger than a postage stamp. Clark was displaying the same smile he’d given Frankie that afternoon, and his slogan was printed below his face. Frankie was staring at the picture when his mother’s door opened and she stepped into the living room. “Where is everyone?”

  “Karen’s at work. Joe’s in his pod,” Frankie said.

  “In his what?”

  He held up the TV guide. “I met this man today. He used to be an astronaut and he wants to take me on a tour of NASA.”

  “Is he sane?”

  “He seems like it.”

  She walked into the kitchen. “Well, make sure he gives you a hard hat if he takes you anywhere with scaffolding.” He heard her clacking dishes around. When she reappeared, she was holding a bowl of cereal. “And if you get into his car, don’t let him drive unsafely.” She carried the bowl back to her room.

  In his own pod, liquid purple from the black lights reflecting off the tinfoil, Frankie sat at his desk and extracted Clark Evans’s head from the TV guide with an X-Acto knife. He used his glue stick to anchor the head to a blank sheet of drawing paper, then sketched a body beneath it: naked, hands on hips, dick pointing up to the sky.

  —

  At school the following Monday, he met Melissa in the commons during lunch. She was eating an egg salad sandwich and had a cookie and a lemonade next to her on the concrete bench. “Don’t even look at me,” she told him. “I’m Godzilla.”

  “No you’re not,” Frankie said, sitting down next to her and unwrapping his own sandwich. “You look skinny.”

  “I’m a monster of grotesque proportions. How’s life?”

  “I met an astronaut this weekend at the public library. He wants to show me the Space Center.”

  “Haven’t you seen it already? I thought your dad used to work there.”

  “My dad worked in a supply room. Clark said he wants to show me behind-the-scenes stuff. My sister says he’s a phony and is just trying to get into my pants.”

  Melissa stared down at her half-eaten sandwich as if she didn’t have the energy to lift it. Then she lifted it and took a bite. “He probably is. It’s probably going to turn into some steamy affair. He’s not gross, is he?”

  “No. He’s really handsome.”

  On his way past the bench, Curt Alberg stopped short and looked at Frankie. “Are you talking about me?”

  Frankie shook his head no.

  “Definitely not,” Melissa said.

  “Faggot,” Curt said, and walked on.

  Frankie turned back to Melissa. “Do you really think he might be interested in me—like that?”

  “Lust rules the world,” she said. “It doesn’t rule my world, but it rules everyone else’s. And you’re an okay-looking guy, though you’re kind of an oddball. You’re not going to show him your bedroom, are you?”

  “Why?”

  “He’ll feel like he’s at work.”

  “He’s not an astronaut anymore; he sells real estate.”

  “And he’s handsome?”

  “Really handsome.”

  Melissa sipped from her lemonade and let out a long sigh. “I guess I really am going to be the last living virgin on Merritt Island.”

  That afternoon, at the pay phone in C-wing, Frankie got up his nerve and dialed the number on the back of Clark’s business card.

  A woman answered. “Hello?”

  He hung up.

  A few minutes later, he dialed the business number.

  “Evans Realty.”

  “Hi. Is this—is this Clark?”

  “Speaking.”

  “It’s Frankie. The guy you met at the library last week?”

  “Hey, buddy! I thought maybe you’d be too shy to call. I’m glad you did.”

  Frankie swallowed. He realized he was nodding yes instead of speaking. “Me, too.”

  “You still interested in that tour?”

  “Yeah. And I’d like to hear your story about the Gordon Cooper photo.”

  This coming Saturday at the library, they decided. Clark would drive.

  —

  They sailed up Courtenay Parkway in the Trans Am, bound for the Space Center. After a while, the buildings thinned out and the land on either side of the road turned green and feral. Clark told Frankie the story of how Apollo 12 was struck by lightning not long after takeoff. “The rocket generated its own electrical field on the way up. Those boys weren’t even sure what had happened at first; they just knew some of the circuitry had gone haywire. Lucky they weren’t blown out of the sky.”

  “Which missions were you supposed to go on?”

  “That depends on who you ask. Supposedly, there was a rotation system in place, but it seemed like something was always mucking that up. Made me wonder if the system meant anything, since they could change it around whenever they wanted to. I had a chance on Apollo 18 and again on 19, but both of those got canceled. Then I got wind of a rumor that I was lined up for 20, but that was canceled, too, because they needed the Saturn for Skylab. Did you know when Skylab came down, pieces of it took out a bunch of cows in Australia?”

  Frankie pictured this, hoping the cows’ deaths had been instantaneous, then blinked and asked, “Why didn’t they just transfer you to the Skylab team?”

  “I wish I knew. Hey, look at those bad boys.” Clark slowed the car down and pointed out Frankie’s window. Just off the side of the road, a pair of alligators sat, half-submerged in shallow water. “They’re all over the place up here. I saw one get run over by a little sports car one day, and it just kept walking.” He mashed the gas pedal. Frankie felt his back press into the bucket seat.

  They passed the turnoff for the Visitors Information Center, slowed down for a guard post that turned out to be unmanned, then rolled past it. Nothing much changed about the immediate surroundings; the marshland was the same as what they’d been driving through on the last stretch of parkway. But in the distance loomed the Vehicle Assembly Building: a massive structure slotted with a pair of narrow garage doors tall enough to allow a standing Saturn roc
ket to exit, once completed. “See that American flag painted on the side?” Clark said. “You could drive a bus up one of those stripes, they’re so wide.”

  Frankie already knew this from having taken the bus tour. He asked if they were going to be able to get onto the roof of the building.

  “With any luck,” Clark said. “You know, that thing is so tall, I was standing up there one day and looked down at a helicopter flying by.”

  Long before they reached the V.A.B., the road was blocked by a guardrail and a man sitting in a booth. Clark brought the Trans Am to a stop and rolled down his window. “How’s it going, chief?” he asked the guard.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Is Jasper around?”

  “I don’t know any Jasper.”

  “Well, I’m Clark Evans. If you’d be decent enough to raise that rail, I’d like to show my friend here the inside of the V.A.B.”

  “Do you have some identification?”

  “Absolutely.” Clark dug his wallet out of his back pocket.

  “I meant your NASA ID.”

  “Oh. That’s at home—framed and hanging with the other memorabilia. I used to be one of the Apollo boys, but I’ve moved on to other pastures.”

  “You don’t work for NASA?”

  “Not anymore,” Clark said.

  “Then I can’t let you past this point.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “It’s not going to happen,” the guard said.

  “Be a nice guy and raise the rail, would you? We’re not Russian spies. I told you, I’m Clark Evans.”

  “Sir, turn your vehicle around and head south. The Visitors Information Center is on the right, at the overpass.”

  “I know that.” Clark peered though the windshield at the V.A.B. “Thanks for your time,” he said finally, and put the car in reverse.

  “It’s okay,” Frankie told him.

  “Jackass is on a power trip.”

  “But for me it’s, you know, more exciting to get to talk to you than to see the inside of the V.A.B.” He meant this in earnest and hoped it didn’t sound weird, or too flirty.

  Clark smiled. “Exciting, huh? You like excitement, I’ll bet. Got a bit of a wild streak in you?”

  Frankie nodded.

  “Then let’s get wild.”

  He took an abrupt right before they reached the overpass, putting them on a service road that connected to the space shuttle runway. “What would be really wild is if we could get out on the runway and open this puppy up,” he said, gunning the engine. “We’ll probably just have to settle for a look-see, though.”

  But before long they encountered another guard post. Clark’s exchange with the guard was much the same as the one he’d just had. Again, he thanked the guard for his time. Again, he told Frankie the jackass was on a power trip.

  He made a third attempt to get them off the beaten track by steering them onto a road clearly marked with large white signs that read NO ADMITTANCE and NO VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT WITHOUT ADVANCE CLEARANCE. This time there was no guard post, but a rack of metal teeth lay across the road. Clark spotted them just in time and the Trans Am screeched to a halt.

  They wound up at the Visitors Information Center.

  Not for the first time, Frankie stood on scales that told him what his weight would be on Mars, Venus, and Saturn. He peered into a Mercury capsule (his sister’s predicted setting for the butt-fuck). He wandered around the Redstones and Atlases and Titans in the Rocket Garden, while Clark trailed glumly alongside him, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses and his hands tucked into his pockets.

  “It’s a literal changing of the guard,” Clark said as Frankie tore open a package of astronaut ice cream. “The old boys knew me on sight. I had the run of the place.”

  “Want some?” Frankie asked, holding out what looked like a pink block of Styrofoam.

  “Sorry we didn’t get in there deep. I feel like I should make it up to you somehow.”

  “It’s okay,” Frankie said again.

  “Seriously. You have any interest in getting a bite to eat tomorrow night?”

  Frankie felt warmth climbing up his neck. The freeze-dried ice cream softened on his tongue. “Yeah.”

  “You could come out to the house, and we could go from there to this great restaurant I know called Pounders. It’s a fun place.”

  “Your—your house?”

  “In Cocoa. You drive, don’t you?”

  Frankie nodded. “I got my license this year. I called your house before I called your office. A woman answered.”

  Clark took off his aviators. “That was Pepper.”

  “Who’s Pepper?”

  “You’ll love Pepper. She’s top-of-the-line.”

  —

  Karen’s hair was soaked in mayonnaise and wrapped in cellophane and Scotch tape. She leaned sideways across the backseat of her Datsun and filled a trash bag with beer cans, Burger King wrappers, and empty cigarette packs, then tied the bag shut and tossed it onto the driveway. “Garbage.”

  Frankie carried the bag to one of the trash cans alongside the house. When he got back to the car, she was sitting behind the wheel with a spray bottle of Armor All and a roll of paper towels. “Why’d you offer to help me, anyway?” she asked.

  “No reason,” Frankie lied.

  “Uh-huh. So how’d your top secret, underground NASA date go?”

  “We couldn’t really get in anywhere because he doesn’t work there anymore.”

  “I knew it,” she said. “He’s fake. Which is creepy.”

  “Clark’s not fake,” Frankie said, though he was starting to wonder if Karen might be right. “He’s taking me to dinner tonight.”

  “To a real restaurant, or a fake restaurant?”

  “A place called Pounders.”

  “Ha! I’ve heard about that place. Billy Myers goes there and times it so that he takes a big dump right in the middle of the meal. He really sticks it to them, that way.”

  Frankie didn’t know what she was talking about and tried to erase the image from his mind. He picked up the paper-towel roll from the seat and tore one off for her. She spritzed the dash. “Does Mom know there’s an old guy after you?”

  “He’s not old. He’s probably around thirty-five.”

  “And you’re sixteen.”

  “Almost seventeen. And he’s not after me. If anything, I’m after him.”

  “Oh my god, that’s even creepier. Have you had anything up your butt yet? You better stick a cucumber up there or something. He’s going to be kicking at the back door, mark my words.”

  “Clark’s not like that.”

  “If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it butt-fucks like a duck.”

  Frankie tore off another paper towel and handed it to her. “It’s fun, helping you,” he said.

  “For you, maybe.”

  “Can I borrow your car tonight?”

  Karen sat back on the seat and looked at him. Thin rivers of mayonnaise ran down her temples. “I knew you wanted something. Do you have any idea what a hassle it is to keep up a car? I break my back in that steak house five nights a week to keep this piece of junk going. I’m an adult now, you know. I’ve got responsibilities and a livelihood to consider.”

  “Okay,” Frankie said. “But I have to get to Clark’s house in Cocoa. Can I borrow it—just this once?”

  She narrowed her eyes, still glaring. “Hold out your arms.” He did and she spritzed them both, elbow to wrist, with Armor All. “No,” she said, turning back to the dash.

  He examined the shellac-like coating on his skin as it glistened and dried in the sun, and decided he didn’t mind it. He still needed a car, though.

  His mother was in her pod, but the door was open, so he stuck his head in. She was on her knees in front of her closet, surrounded by shoes.

  “Are you going anywhere tonight?” he asked.

  She started, then returned her attention to the shoes. “I hope not.”

  “C
an I borrow your car?”

  “What for?”

  “Clark’s taking me to dinner, but I have to get to his house first.”

  “Do I know Clark?”

  “He’s the astronaut I told you about. The one who I was with yesterday at the Space Center.”

  “It seems like you’re spending an awful lot of time with Clark. Is this a—dating thing?”

  “Nah,” Frankie said. Not long after he’d reached puberty, he’d told his family, Melissa, and anyone else who would listen that he was gay, and while Karen liked to tease him about it, his mother had asked them all not to bring it up—though she brought it up herself from time to time.

  “And he doesn’t seem like a felon?”

  Frankie shook his head.

  “Well.” She picked up two brown shoes and studied them, discovered they didn’t match and dropped them onto the carpet. “Be back by eleven, and replace the gas you use.”

  Later that afternoon, he sat on the kitchen counter and called Melissa.

  “There’s this Pepper person who answered the phone when I called his house,” he said. “I asked Clark about her, and he told me she was ‘top-of-the-line.’ You think it could be his daughter?”

  “Did she sound like a grown-up?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Could be his wife.”

  “My sister still thinks he’s trying to have sex with me. Maybe he’s gay and it’s some big secret?”

  “Maybe he’s AC/DC,” Melissa speculated. “There are people like that, you know—bisexuals. I should be bi, now that I think about it. It would double my chances. Did I tell you I ate an entire package of Fig Newtons for lunch?”

  “I think he at least likes me,” Frankie said.

  “There are even people who are into fat people. They only want to get naked with fat human beings. I should find out if they have a club and join it.”

  “You’re not fat. You just have a bad self-image.”

  “Well, if I am fat, I hate myself, and if I’m not, it means not even the people in those clubs will want me.”

  He changed T-shirts three times, settling on a purple one with David Bowie on the front. Dusk was just under way when he backed his mother’s Oldsmobile out of the driveway and drove over the bridge into Cocoa.