astro

A boy in the backyard, mud under the nails of his tiny digits. The sun is blocked out by an outstretched arm holding the silhouette of a rocket ship. His minuscule nostrils take in the scent of charcoal briquettes and not-so-lean 60/40 beef patties. Looking down from the shuttle shaped sun he spies his mother in a red dress, shoulders exposed, tanned. Now green, sunspots playing tricks on his eyes. Blue now. His father stands at the grill, wavering in the heat wearing slacks and leather shoes.
Maybe if the spaceship was loud enough he’d pay attention.
Voices, unintelligible, fall upon unknowing ears as the boy tracks a leaf, freshly fallen, fluttering on the breeze with his beady blue eyes. The spaceship flew too high and the boy planted one hand firmly into the dirt, packing the mud deeper into his nails.
“RRRRRREEEEEAAAAARRRRR!!!”

Ba-bump.

A pimple-faced teenager with itchy black stubble on his lip and chin stands in a tuxedo and thick, black framed glasses with flowers in hand at the door. His freshly trimmed nails make contact with the doorbell and his heart skips a beat. In mere moments the persian peeling painted door swings inward violently, nearly making the boy piss himself. An older couple fill the entryway, their deafening silent gaze melting through his glasses and boring a hole into his soul. Then she appears between the two, smiling, cleansing, purifying, burning. Now sitting in the pale leather backseat of a cheap limo from the 80s that's due for an oil change, or the scrapyard. Now the gymnasium with its waxed wooden floors, painted cinder blocks, and twelve-hundred pound scoreboard that looms overhead like a neon wrecking ball. Dancing, clumsily, the heat fogging his glasses. Her rouge lips upon his, the crowd melts away and the lights go out.

Ba-bump.

The down comforter kept them warm in the bed of the red Ford that was parked behind the facility where he worked. Naked, he penetrates her with the force of the Holy Rocket, piercing the green earth into land which no man has ever been, the virgin sky. Pale, shaven legs coated in dew jut into the damp night air with socks still on. One black shoe dangles from her foot, steaming in the night's cold. Beard hair covers her visage. His vision blurs, chest goes red, arms pump with the blood that longed to rush just so. Blood that had been dormant too long. With one hand he holds her by the breast, his nails pressing into her skin leaving crescent moon marks, and thrusts again. Past is nonexistent. Future is the golden rays of the sun that are burning on the other side of the world, out of sight, out of mind. Pace quickens. Moans escape her mouth, wet and wanting, lips smeared rouge. World goes liquid in an instant, and the liquid leaks out.

Ba-bump.

He’s on his knees. In front of him a bible-no, a manual. He can hear his child crying in the other room through the particle board door. His hands are clasped in prayer-no, focus. A cigarette hangs limply from the corner of his tar-stained lip, threatening to singe his long wiry beard, his glasses sit quietly on the edge of the lonely, cold mattress without a sheet. A framed photo of him and the girl gathers another mote of dust. At stage four decouple guidance pylons and burn starboard stabilizer 3 seconds then engage manual gyroscopic control. Yes, to pray to the machine. To worship the numbered math and feel the emotions of the metal. No, focus and study, get it right. The girl never stirs from her coffin to attend the child, who continues to wail. Howling echoes throughout the dripping, green trailer home. Step Five: Pray.
Dear God, Holy be the propulsion that one day will lift me to the Heavenly cosmos.
The bible-no, manual slams shut and he storms off to his son’s nursery. With the pink infant in his arms the man cringes inwardly. The blood writhes, aching to flow, to pump and stretch and pulse. Eyes shut, ears ring. Ringing, like a phone. Like debt collectors calling. The child whimpers once more.

Ba-bump.

The flash blinds him momentarily, putting colorful blobs in his vision that twist and swim around with a mind of their own. Flesh gripping flesh, his. Hands holding paper, framed. His tie pressed upon his throat like a great snake, like the straps of the training module, but he didn’t mind, he had become used to suffocating. Certified to fly. Congratulated. Photographed. Anointed to the annals of history. Awaited, now arriving, awarded. The flash goes off once more and he is guided to take a seat before a small crowd. Questions rise, clamoring for attention, like a child. Like his child. Like he was as a child. Answers are meted out. Flash. Smile. Holding up the certificate showing the training is complete, time for the next step. Flash. Question. Answer.

Ba-bump.

Fluorescent bulbs buzz incessantly overhead inside the porcelain tiled bathroom of the launch station. The man staring into the mirror is a stranger. He would be the last person to see his face. Tattooed schematics and diagrams of lunar modules, rockets, and satellites writhe across his skin, twisting and contorting as he contracted his body into a tightness. A black hole of tension. Teeth bared, drool dripping, nails digging, veins popping. Stars danced in his vision, swaying in front of the obscenely long mirror. Eight white knuckles grip the cold, damp marble counter. All is forgotten, all is forgiven, all is foretold.
Just like the bible said.
His blood would soon have its reprieve. Soon he’d have his destiny. Soon he’d be a rocketman.

Ba-bump.

Five. . .Four. . . Threee. . . Twoooo. . . Onneeeee. . . God pressed his thumb down on the man, pushing him deeper into the vinyl chair. His gloved hands gripped tightly the y-shaped controller with the power of shining, golden Apollo himself. Shaking. Screws come loose. Panels tear and hurdle to the earth below. A strained smile breaks out across his stubbled face, yellowed teeth glint. Chest compressed, gasping. Knees tight, puffing. Eyes drooping, kissing the brain. Blue to black. Stars. Gasp again. God let up. God let him up. He grabbed the bible-no, manual, and kissed it, eyes held shut in pure, near orgasmic pleasure.
Yes.

Ba-bump.

“Come in, shuttle pilot. Do you read? Over.”
Wonderment pierced his mind like a stake through the heart. Like how it feels to be told a loved one has died.
Yeah, control, I read. But you will not ruin this moment for me. This is mine and mine alone.

Ba-bump.

Frost began taking its crystalline form in his nostrils, his slow warm exhale just barely combating the temperatures of open space. He can almost smell it. A frozen tongue licks cold unresponsive lips.

Ba-bump.

The fatty hamburgers, his mother, his wife, his child, his home, the funeral home, the facility, the rocket fuel. Yes. It was the rocket fuel he smelled. Even without oxygen he was sure of it.

Ba-bump.

His nude head basked in the glory of the cosmos. Void filled his eyes, an overflowing pool. Fingertips blackened, numb, go slack and the manual-no, bible was set free to float away, following its own destiny.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
“Pilot, please respond, over.”

Ba-bump.

“Yes.”

Ba-bump.


Ba-bump.


Ba-bu-

…

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