THE MONKEY HANDLER
After many coy encounters in the Simulator, the tension was taut as a blown balloon. Dale wanted to burst it, stab it, squeeze it. He hadn’t called a woman in years. Sexual contact with a crewmember was absolutely forbidden in space, but they were on land for two days. It was a technicality, but to Dale the nights in between seemed wildly open. The first night, he lay in bed dreaming of the second. On the second, he dialed it and waited, clearing his throat after each ring, then tumbling into the void, the unnatural sound of her answering machine. “Holly here!” it began, then continued into a song. No astronaut would ever have that message. It was ridiculous, it was cheesy, he hung up immediately.
She had astronaut’s blood, he had to keep reminding himself. Her parents and their hand-in-hand moonwalk, the space promenade, printed on posters and tote bags, illustrated on stamps for its ten-year anniversary. Tomorrow would be its 30th. He sat in panicky aftermath of the call. He threw himself in the shower. After, he sat shivering in a worn towel, feeling old. He jumped at the sound of his phone. He rushed to it and saw her name blinking on the screen. Pressing it to his damp ear, he said “Hello Holly!” and waited, goose-bumped, happy. A muffled conversation relayed back, a car horn, swishing. He said “hello” once more, but the muffling kept on. He heard Holly’s girlish laugh dazzle some earth place, some usual plaza where everyone’s hair was hanging down, everyone’s feet touching ground.
Dale was tall and slender with an accusatory nose, sullen, slack cheeks, the same style glasses he’d worn as a boy. Long teeth with prominent gums. Skinny arms with bulging biceps. He sat on the edge of the tub in his humid bathroom, toilet water trembling from a recent flush, and finally accepted that no one had dialed the call. Holly was out with friends, Holly was getting undressed in a hotel, one butt cheek had randomly chosen his name. She was in a taxi, she was young, she had no idea. He dropped his towel in a sad lump on the floor and left the bathroom. She was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen in a spacesuit. If he were patient, he might hear her have sex with a stranger. This disgusted him. He flipped his phone shut and hastily pulled his underwear on. Earlier, he had prepared a sandwich so painstakingly, with a knife for every spread, paper-thin tomato slices, such an array of cheeses that he’d felt embarrassed of the whole ordeal and sulkily had left the sandwich alone on its plate. Now, dashing into the kitchen, the 29th man to dance the moon sank his teeth into that sandwich.
A dismal night was spent at home, but the morning found Dale driving to Base, an astronaut alive. His medical check-up further perked him up and by the time he saw Holly at the traditional breakfast, “Did you call me last night?” “Oh, did I?” there was no discrepancy a muffin couldn’t solve, and one crumbled into his mouth like a supportive crowd.
* * *
Looking out from the spaceship, Earth filled Holly’s field of vision. A great pile-up of smoke marked where the shuttle had launched. Her heart beat in a lagging, longing, sped-up way. She felt fat in her spacesuit, but she’d only have to wear it for launching and landing. It was stupid to feel fat. She was on a spaceship for Christsake! Holly watched Dale, Justine, and Rory carefully monitor all the levers and lights. Even the monkey was wearing a spacesuit! He was buckled into the seat right next to her. This was truly a privilege for her and the monkey handler, onboard with three overqualified crewmates. That was the toast she had made at the breakfast.
The ground curved, the Earth looking finally like a huge globe! Then like a domed stadium. It fell to a size Holly could hold in her arms, a basketball, volleyball, tennis ball, ping pong ball, a marble, an eye. It stayed an eye. Justine motioned to Rory. Rory pulled a lever. Everyone was quiet. It was unwritten code to remain silent during a launch. Anything more than eye contact is bad luck. Holly knew this, she’d been told, she told herself this again. At any moment some doomed level might react, nothing is perfect, no plan immune.
The silence was also like a moment of silence, ritual, like for dead astronauts. Dead astronauts whose souls float about outer space, along with the meteors and whatever else. Holly didn’t really believe that, like about souls, but to die in outer space? What a thing to do out there. Soon she would be shitting in outer space, sneezing. If she cried, if she dared, would her tears float, would they splat on Rory’s face?
She looked at the Earth eye. Slowly, it shrank to the size of something pulled off a sweater. Holly reached for the hand of the handsome chimpanzee and he held hers back. His name was Costello. She squeezed. He squeezed. Costello’s other hand was held by his handler. Together, Holly, the monkey, and the monkey handler were a chain. If they were playing tag and the monkey handler was touching base, then she and the monkey would also be counted as safe, thought Holly. She laughed to herself and Rory gave her a smile, like soon Holly, soon we can all laugh out loud.
* * *
The cockpit, living quarters and operator’s station were located in the forward fuselage. The airlock provided access for spacewalks. The mid-deck contained provisions and storage facilities, sleep stations, lithium hydroxide canisters and other gear, the waste management system, the personal hygiene station. There was an escape capsule for emergencies that could dislodge from the craft. There were exercise machines, a dvd player. There were astronaut journals from old missions. The ceiling, walls, and floor were covered with handles and ropes.
When first built, the Spec 5 looked sly and modern, but 30 years later, the shiny white had yellowed, scratches and scuffmarks covered its interior, and rust grew on its metal beams. This gave it a homey feel. To Holly, it felt like time-travel, drifting on the very craft her parents manned for their famous launch. Holly was an off-Broadway stage actress, invited to join in a ceremonial mission on the big anniversary. At first, she’d felt nervous around the astronauts, but Rory had been so nice, they got along immediately, and Justine so stoic. Besides, the monkey handler knew far less about space than she, and she was a quick learner.
Dale told her all the names of the astronauts to have reached beyond Low Earth orbit, because his was one. Also, Justine. Justine Boswin became a star astronaut at an early age, and still held the record for youngest woman on the moon. A Time Magazine cover from that time showed her in zero gravity standing very straight, gazing intently at the camera, while behind her, her crewmates were a mass of tangled limbs. Justine was efficient and professional. She moved gracefully about the cabin. She had a crew cut and never referred to her land life.
* * *
The crew fell into familiar rhythms. They floated around in their socks. Dale worked on carbon growth experiments while Justine checked all interior and exterior levels, recording endless data. Holly put on Radiohead and Dale scoffed and switched it off. The monkey handler communicated in sign language to his monkey. Holly distracted Rory from her afternoon exercises, making her play theater games. “Say the line again, but this time as the sophisticated old lady.” Rory and Holly’s laughter distracted Dale and he grimaced. He glowered at the controls. He beamed at space phenomenon. He cleaned the kitchen.
Dale watched miserably as the monkey picked a bit from his nose and then with one finger, casually flicked the bit off, following its tiny path through the air with his big brown eyes, gauging its wayward course. It could go anywhere. It turned and drifted. The monkey lost interest and made a face at Dale. Dale returned with the meanest, ugliest face he could conceive of and Holly saw. Dale’s ugliest face was the face of his soul, she thought to herself. She felt hot and tried to breathe herself down. She bumped her way to the Sphere.