The Dream Life of Astronauts

by Patrick Ryan

  She glanced around as if suddenly needing to take inventory of my furniture. Then she looked me right in the eye, the smile gone from her lips but then back again in abbreviated form. “Well, aren’t you full of yourself,” she said.

  “I am,” I said. “I truly am. And I wish it weren’t so.”

  —

  The problem with becoming someone else is that you’re still stuck with you. You can change your name, buy all new clothes, pretend you’re from Nebraska when you’re really from Illinois, pretend you used to work in drywall when, really, you were a bookkeeper for an extortion racket, pretend you’re a happy-go-lucky retiree, no secrets, no regrets—and still, when you look in the mirror, you’re going to see the guy you first saw, way back when.

  D. B. Cooper, or whatever his name really was, could never be D. B. Cooper again once he jumped out of the plane with all that cash, but he still saw the guy desperate enough to make such a heist when he looked in the mirror. Ferdinand Waldo Demara, the great imposter who pretended to be thirty or forty different people in his lifetime, with thirty or forty different jobs and thirty or forty different personal histories, saw only one guy each morning when he shaved his mug: Ferdinand Waldo Demara. I’ll bet even Mickey Rourke can still see himself if he squints hard enough.

  So when I, Eugene Delcacorte, look in the mirror, I see Nick Parascos. And here’s why it’s no picnic, this brand-new life: I don’t want to be either one of them. Eugene Delacorte is a cream puff, and Nick Parascos is a rat.

  Sophia Humphries, I would guess, is not the happiest camper when she looks in the mirror. I say that not because of her features, but because of all the makeup, and because of her lust for power, and because of that forward lean in her voice. I know more about her than I do about anyone down here—she’s a sharer—but she leaves out the tender parts and won’t go near the juicy bits. She’s divorced, like me. She played tennis until she had to have her knee replaced—a surgery that led to complications, two more surgeries, and a pending malpractice suit. She likes QVC, anagrams, Hummels. She listens to Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck (so she’s a private romantic, maybe, even while she’s a ballbuster). I imagine she’s been through a few wringers in her lifetime, had more than a few turns at the rodeo. And I suspect that, while she’s glad to have survived it all, she’s not exactly thrilled to be Sophia Humphries. She’s got some Barbara Stanwyck in her, sure. She’s even got a little Mae West, if I rose-color my Oakleys. But she’s also got some dour in her dowry. Some Aunt Bee in her bonnet.

  Nothing happened that first afternoon, other than that she finished her tea, complimented my Fiestaware, and went on with her day. Did I come on too strong? Not strong enough? Would she have liked it any better if I’d let her take the wheel? These might be questions for another man, but the rev in the engine doesn’t go away, even if you’re driving a jalopy.

  —

  The pool pavilion is a modest affair, given Ponce de Leon’s lofty standards. Under the banner is an entrance that leads to the check-in counter, and on either side of the counter are the restrooms—ladies to the left, gents to the right, the only way in or out of the pool area. It strikes me as poor planning that you have to pass through the toilets to get to the pool, but there it is.

  Sophia hires and fires the people who work the check-in counter. She hires and fires the lifeguards. She has her own test kit and goes behind the pool maintenance man, taking her own pH and alkalinity levels. She’s breaking in a new kid for the desk today and, as I stroll in, she’s also chewing out one of the lifeguards.

  “We have to keep these children out of the hot tub,” she’s saying.

  The guard is all muscle, shaggy haired and dimple faced. A smirker. He’s got on a white tank top and this snug, little red bathing suit that might as well be Jockey shorts. He shrugs.

  “It’s too hot for them,” Sophia says. “They’re not allowed in.”

  She’s right; it’s in the regulations. But the guard shrugs again and says, “They jump in really fast,” and he’s right, too. I’ve seen them do it. There’s a low wall between the pool and hot tub, and the brats make a game out of belly-sliding over that wall—plop!—right into old people’s laps. I step around the two of them, wink at the scared-looking new kid sitting behind the counter, and cut through the men’s room to the pool area. And what a crazy mix it is. A dozen retirees splayed out on lounge chairs, and half a dozen little hellions darting back and forth, up and down, asking for snacks. It’s like flies on meat. I buy a Vitaminwater from the soda machine and carry it back inside.

  Sophia’s got her cinnamon-colored hair teased up into a bouffant, and aqua-blue earrings that match her nail polish. She’s still putting the screws to the lifeguard. “Can I just remind you,” she says, “that it’s your job to keep these children in line? I need one of you watching the counter, and two of you watching the pool, and if that’s too much for you to handle, I’m sure they’re hiring at McDonald’s.”

  The guard is fingering the whistle around his neck. “We’ll do our best, Ms. Humphries,” he says, then heads out to the pool.

  “I should hope so,” she calls after him. “It’s what I pay you for.” When she turns away, her artificial knee pops and she lets out a small gasp. The lifeguards can be very mean sometimes. Behind her back, I’ve heard them give all kinds of descriptions for the noise her knee makes. They say it sounds like a squeezed aluminum can. Or the leg of a Barbie doll. Or—and I think this one is the cruelest—a wing being ripped off a cooked chicken. They watch her while she’s doing her pH tests and they smirk at each other, waiting for the day that knee might give out and send her twirling into the deep end.

  “And here’s Mr. Delacorte,” she says when she sees me. Like I’m one more thing she has to deal with.

  “I’m just standing here,” I say, smiling. “Is that against the law?”

  “The rules say all residents have to be checked in, whatever reason they’re here.” She’s talking to the new kid behind the counter now, who’s nodding and blowing his bangs out of his eyes. “You’ve read the rules?”

  “I will,” he says.

  “What does it take?” she asks—not the kid, or me. God, maybe. The ceiling.

  “It takes a hope and a dream,” I say. “A wing and a prayer. I heard about this stuff called Hint, supposed to be better than Vitaminwater. Healthier for you. Think we can get some Hint in the machine out there?”

  “There are two file boxes,” Sophia tells the kid. “One for In and one for Out. Someone comes in to use the pool—or get a soda—they sign their name on the sheet, you pull their ID card from the Out box, check the photo stapled to the back, and move it to the In box. It’s the only way we can keep track of who’s here.”

  “And it’s very important to keep track,” I tell the kid. “It’s paramount. You don’t want any covert operations happening right under your nose, do you?”

  “Co-what?” the kid asks.

  “Mr. Delacorte,” Sophia says, “can I show you something?” She motions for me to follow her into the ladies’ room.

  I ape a What’s this all about? expression for the kid’s benefit and start after her with a goofy Red Skelton walk.

  She hollers around the corner, “Anybody in here?”

  No reply. A faucet is running. She shakes her head, shuts off the water. Checks for feet under the stalls. Takes my hand and leads me to one of the narrow, metal doors.

  “Well, you little vixen,” I say. “Got something naughty in mind?”

  “Stop it,” she says. Then she tells me these children are going to put her in her grave. The problem, she says, is that they all think they’re living in a Space Invaders game and have lost touch with reality. (Adorable, right? I could kiss her.) Last week, some girl—and she thinks she knows who—stuffed a clementine down one of the toilets, so Sophia put up signs on the doors to both stalls spelling out the rules for proper food disposal. She’s still holding my hand, and as if my eyes are attached to it, she tu
gs it up toward the stall door we’re standing in front of. “Just look at that,” she says. On the door are four little corners of ripped paper fixed with masking tape. “Would you have done something like that when you were a child? Would you ever dream of being so bold?”

  “I was a rapscallion,” I say. “I gave the nuns a run for their money.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” she says, letting go of my hand. “I’d just like to get hold of the girl who stopped up the toilet. I’d just like to shake that girl’s shoulders.”

  The bathroom’s got high windows cranked open, and through them I can see that the sky, which had already gone from cloudy to sunny, is now turning cloudy again. “Watch me, watch me, watch me!” we hear one of the hellions scream from the pool, and then a cannonball splash. I follow her back out to the check-in area.

  The new kid’s got his iPhone out and is about to put in his earbuds.

  “No headphones,” Sophia says. “I need you focused, sonny boy.”

  “My name’s Todd,” he says, tucking the iPhone back into his pocket.

  “I know your name. I hired you.” But then she smiles—maybe because it’s his first day; probably because she’s worried about running out of teenagers willing to work for $7.25 an hour. She reaches under the counter, pulls out a clipboard with a page fixed to it, and tells the kid it’s the delinquency list. A rundown of all the tenants who are behind on their condo fees. It’s a shame that some people think they can get away with not paying their share, and it’s unfortunate that some people have fallen on hard times, but it makes sense that everyone on the list not be allowed past check-in, because the condo fees are mainly channeled back into what luxury?

  Todd looks like he might get a nosebleed trying to follow all this, but then he says, “The pool?”

  “He’s a smart cookie,” I say, reaching out to nudge Sophia’s arm with my elbow.

  She cuts me the kind of look you’d give a party crasher. The same person whose hand she was just holding in the ladies’ room. “People will try to fool you,” she tells Todd. “They’ll ask you all kinds of questions about special circumstance this and check-in-the-mail that. But they’re either paid up or they’re not.”

  “Got it,” Todd says.

  I drink my Vitaminwater. I stroll around the little room, dragging my Crocs on the cement floor and watching the sky grow darker through the front window. My former employer used to tell me I was a significant part of his organization. Not that I was a genius with the numbers, but I was dependable. He knew if he asked me to take care of something, I’d do it. Cook the books till they’re golden? I was the guy. Drive up to Evanston and talk some sense into a business owner? I was the guy. And now I’m this guy, as impressive as a goldfish. They tell you to save money for your retirement, but, really, we should all be saving up self-esteem, stockpiling it for days just like this. “Here’s a question,” I say.

  Sophia sighs and puts the delinquency list back under the counter.

  “I live in a world of beautiful women,” I say. “I live in a world of spicy little numbers, they run around my place dressed in nothing but bikinis, and they can’t get enough of me. If I bring them to the pool as my guests—assuming I’m all paid up, of course—do I have to stay here with them?”

  Todd snorts out a laugh. Then he realizes Sophia’s watching him, waiting for him to answer. “No?” he says.

  “Yes,” Sophia says, correcting him. “I can see we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  “Another question,” I say, because why not? I’m feeling my vitamins. “There’s a little filly in Building C who’s got her eye on me. A brunette, likes to wear a one-piece with zebra stripes.” (This person doesn’t exist.) “You think I could leave a little present here for her? A box of chocolates with a card, maybe? So when she comes to swim, she knows I’m thinking about her?”

  “I guess,” Todd says.

  “Well, you guess wrong,” Sophia says. “We’re not the post office. We don’t hold packages for people.”

  “It would mean a lot to her,” I say. “And it might help my chances. I mean, you should see this woman.” I jingle the loose change in my pocket. “Woof.”

  Todd snorts again.

  Sophia taps her aqua-blue fingernails against the counter. “Are you trying to ruin this young man’s first day?” she asks me.

  “Absolutely not. I’m just livin’ la vida loca.”

  She turns back to her employee. “People flood through that door. You have to be ready for them. And some of them actually come to use the pool and not just loiter.”

  “Ouch,” I say.

  “And they aren’t all as charming as Mr. Delacorte here.”

  Bless her for adding that. I’m done with my drink and just about to head out when the lifeguard comes in through the men’s room.

  “What is it now?” Sophia says.

  “You hear thunder?”

  She frowns at him, then peers through the front window of the pavilion. “No.”

  “Rules are, we close for thirty minutes if we hear thunder,” the guard says.

  I can see it in Sophia’s eyes: If the pool’s going to close, she wants it to be her idea, not his. Even if he’s right. “No one heard anything in here,” she says.

  He shrugs. “Rules are, if the guard hears it.”

  “Well, maybe the guard needs to have his hearing checked.”

  “Thirty minutes for thunder, one hour for lightning,” the guard says. “Storm’s coming.”

  Sophia fakes a chuckle, which she doesn’t do well—too much breath in it, too much staccato. “Do you have a connection to God we don’t know about? Get back out there and do your job.”

  The guard’s got a look on his face, I don’t even know what kind of look it is but somebody should smack it off. He turns and walks back through the men’s room.

  “The arrogance,” Sophia says.

  “That’s right,” I say. “That’s what it is.”

  “Do you know I’m a volunteer? I don’t get paid to do this. I do it because I care. This whole complex would go you know where in a handbasket if I wasn’t going the extra mile.”

  “Punks, every one of them,” I say. I glance at Todd. “Not you.”

  “The board didn’t even ask me. They begged me. ‘Please, Ms. Humphries,’ they said. ‘People look up to you. They respect you. Please provide us with the leadership we need.’ ”

  I seriously doubt this is anywhere near an exact quote, more likely she grabbed the position before anyone else could, but I nod like I’m drinking in every word. “You’re a godsend, Sophia.”

  “And you’re a flirt,” she says. “And a yes-man.”

  “And a loiterer,” I remind her. “But would you have me any other way?”

  There’s part of me that doesn’t want to be doing this in front of the kid, but there’s also part of me that knows this is all I get: a daily stroll around the complex, a few wisecracks, some gutless flirtation. This is me with my dick swinging. Small shakes, right? And ol’ Sophia walks a line you have to admire: a little nice, a little mean, cards held close to her chest and one hand on a lever that’ll drop you through a trapdoor in a heartbeat. She’s got nothing in common with my ex-wife and more than a little in common with some of the girls I used to date, back when I still had hair. And, believe it or not, I used to be able to make them swoon. But Sophia’s not having it—and why should she? I’m a joke in a straw hat.

  A deep rumble rolls down from the sky. The three of us look toward the window.

  “All the work I put in,” she says. “And for what?”

  The next rumble is louder and seems to echo back on itself.

  I’m looking around for a garbage can so I can throw out my bottle when this bare foot crosses the corner of my eye. It belongs to a girl around ten years old. She’s got wet hair and a T-shirt pulled on over her swimsuit. She’s hugging a towel against her stomach and bolting from the ladies’ room toward the exit.

  Sophia glance
s at her, does a double take, and snaps, “Hey!” She steps around me and grabs the girl’s arm.

  The girl tries to tug herself free.

  “I know what you did with that clementine,” Sophia says. “And I’ll just bet you ripped those signs down, too. Do you even realize how lucky you are to have a pool like this?”

  The girl’s eyes have grown wide in their sockets. She pulls her head back, and when she opens her mouth, her voice is buoyed by the next rumble of thunder. “Don’t touch me, you old bat! You’re not allowed to touch anyone! Get your claws off me!” She’s like Linda Blair, this girl, her body snapping in one direction, then another, pulling Sophia with it because Sophia won’t let go—or maybe can’t let go, now that the girl’s flailing. It’s all about balance when you get past a certain age. It’s all about not wanting to fall, which is probably why it’s a good idea not to grab hold of someone who needs an exorcism. I take hold of Sophia’s other arm, but my own balance isn’t what it used to be and I hear one of my Crocs screech on the floor, so I let go. The kid behind the counter looks entertained and says, “Awesome,” and I don’t know what kind of universe it would have to be for a comment like that to make sense.

  Sophia’s artificial knee pops once, twice. A third time.

  “Let GO!” the girl screams, and when she pulls free, there’s one last pop, louder than the others, bouncing off the walls like a rubber ball.

  The girl darts out of the pavilion. Sophia wavers, leans sideways, and takes hold of the counter. She’s not just frowning, now; she’s wincing. Grimacing.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  There’s a distant flash of lightning, followed by more thunder. She’s still holding on to the counter and her lower lip is pushed forward. She lifts her free hand as if to put us all on pause. I’m about to tell the kid to move so she can sit down when the lifeguard comes back in. He cuts a wide berth around Sophia, reaches under the counter, and pulls out a handwritten, cardboard sign that’s got a string looped through it and reads Pool Closed Due to Weather.