One of the few private spaces on the spacecraft was an observational room, a glass Meditation Sphere, where crewmembers were assigned an hour to themselves every day. In the Meditation Sphere, Costello crawled like a spider, Holly practiced flips, and Rory cried. On Earth, Rory never cried. But alone in space with the glaring absence of things, Earth seemed pedestrian, like level one, and this, level two, so complex and refined, absent of all clues and weight. No fluff here, and she could cry for this, how foolish the all of everything seemed in that Sphere, check-out lines and ATM machines, karaoke, bumper stickers, game shows, ties, dresses, all that stuff, attics full of stuff, closets full, dressers full, fortune cookies, aprons, quilts, trophies, pinwheels, nail polish. In space, she was free of these, she was alone and she could cry.
* * *
Onboard the Spec 5, Dale flirted with Holly to unusually absent results. Differences between the Simulator and real space typically occur, but this difference was felt so keenly that Dale experienced early stages of Space Adaptation Syndrome (SAS), which he had never suffered before. He took vitamins, did exercises, but his eyes were hot on Holly. Holly clumsily washing her hair with water bags. Holly signing to the monkey, dancing with the monkey, playing with magnets and balls of spit. Holly playing Tetris on the computer, reading Isaac Asimov books, Holly happily indulging in every space cliché he’d ever heard of. His nausea grew worse. Holly and the handler should have been getting SAS, most first time space visitors did. Instead, they wafted about, discussing space like two stoned teenagers, while sweaty Dale silently endured his symptoms, fumbling after a pill that floated past him and into the monkey’s open hand.
Costello had been commissioned by a publishing company to write a short book about his trip. His handler was doubtful. “Sure, he’s smart. But he’s not particularly literary. His jokes are mostly physical and won’t translate. I’m more his friend than anything else.” The monkey handler had lied on his medical exam, neglecting to admit he was a smoker. When asked if Costello smoked, his handler laughed and the nurse laughed too. She hastily checked no, but man how many cigarettes they’d split between them! On car rides to deaf schools, in the woods behind Costello’s lab habitat. Costello smoked long before he met the handler. Before meeting Costello, the handler had always refused cigarettes, even when he played in jazz clubs (trumpet) where the air was thick with blue smoke. Costello had many qualities to admire, but when he held a lit cigarette in his big hands and ruefully pulled it to his lips, his handler was re-reminded of Costello’s infinite attitude and presence. Anything good for Costello was good for him too, so as soon as the deal went through, he and Costello went strictly on the patch.
The monkey handler had guiltily smuggled the patches onboard. Just his luck if the patches didn’t agree with the special air in the spacecraft. When asked about the patch on Costello’s butt, he said it was a vitamin supplement. Patches helped, but he and Costello both craved cigarettes, making it one of Costello’s most frequent signs. When the handler interviewed Costello to generate content for his book, Costello would reply, Cigarette. I don’t know outer space. Cigarette. His handler tentatively titled the book I Don’t Know Outer Space and transcribed all of Costello’s replies. There are not trees. Not birds. Not Martha. Hungry. Cigarette please. You my friend. Walking strange.
Sometimes on the Spec 5, Holly reminisced about the Simulator. How she’d spun in the Simo! Euphoric waves rushed her brain. Weightlessness unbound her thoughts and they flashed casual in her head, skipping around, teasing. Any movement was a joke and Dale was laughing with her. The ballet of the everyday! Slowly, the instant joy had dissolved into calmness. Eventually, she was sorry to admit, the calmness carried the gloss of boredom. She held a rope on the wall and watched the same people she’d been watching. Watched them doing nothing. Would space be as boring as this? She wouldn’t mind. She probably wouldn’t mind. How could she mind? There wasn’t a choice. She decided she wouldn’t mind. She did a little dance to boost her disposition and Dale laughed. She felt drowsy with relief. She knew once she got up there she’d feel romantic. Boredom and adventure always dragged out romance and this would be so much of both.
* * *
Rory was doing routine examination on the Spec 5 when she realized the computers in the dislodge capsule weren’t working. The air control levels and circulator still worked, and the mini waste system, but there was an error in the main computer. Justine ran a built-in diagnostic program. Dale blamed Costello. To him the monkey was a mammoth toddler, sign language or not. “This isn’t just some video game,” Dale said. He found the monkey and his handler to be messy crewmates. Costello, in particular, was a sloppy eater, and had room for improvement with the space toilet. His toys were always drifting into Dale’s lab.
The monkey handler was gullible and easy to be with. His face was untried and new, he looked like a child actor grown older. He knew nothing about space. He’d attempted to explain the scope and importance of the trip to Costello, but was unsuccessful. “He doesn’t understand books to begin with, and he’s only once been on an airplane, let alone a space shuttle.” Dale pitied this monkey handler. “The Spec 5 is actually an orbiter, a winged spaceplane, the shuttle is the apparatus that blasted us off,” Dale explained haughtily. Not everyone deserved space was Dale’s theory. Space was elite. It wasn’t for the sloppy or foolish, the unambitious or annoying.
Playing catch with Costello and the monkey handler, Holly overthrew the ball into mid-deck. The monkey handler and Holly climbed rope to rope racing after it. Costello leapt about distractedly, drifting into Dale’s lab. For once, it was empty, and Costello poked around. He played with a floating pencil tied to a string. He went sniffing every surface, opened a jar containing soil and cathartically jammed his hands in. Eventually, he busied himself snacking on one of many potted plants anchored to the table, arranged neatly in Dale’s control group. Its leaves were lazy and familiar. Costello disliked the taste and spit them out. Soggy leaves bobbed in front of his eyes. The jungle! He tore another leaf from a plant. It ripped easily and he ripped another.
Dale was instantly furious. His screaming sent the monkey handler rushing over, apologetic and blushing. Bitten leaves spiraled around them. Costello grinned and frowned, stood smirking and falling into the wall. The monkey handler rushed around cleaning up. After a lengthy groan, Dale commanded the faulty dislodge capsule be converted into Costello’s room.
They outfitted it with snacks and a stereo, and when Rory needed a break from her work, she’d tumble into the dislodge capsule where Costello, the monkey handler, and Holly were all making necklaces out of toothpicks and dates or dancing to the same Rolling Stones CD they’d found in the player when they boarded. Rory became friends with Costello. She taught him how to thumb wrestle.
* * *
On Earth and in space, humans prove themselves human. Circular thinking, temporary joys. A Hall and Oates song will bring on the same feelings. Waiting for Costello to get out of the bathroom, the monkey handler slowly peddled on the stationary bike. Holly signed him something. Rory saw and absently tried to translate. I’m hungry happy. This day has time. Rory couldn’t remember the signs Holly had taught her.