Incident at Geostationary Orbit #473

Earth, spinning outside. The planet. It doesn’t look like a big blue marble. It doesn’t look like CGI. It doesn’t look like it does in Gravity or 2001 or ...

It looks so goddamn real. 

Beautiful, subtle. But random, weird. This isn’t a map, this isn’t an image. This is the real deal.

This is ground control to Major Tom ...

Oh no. No. Fuck this shit.

You've really made the grade.

Oh fuck no. That song keeps playing in his head. Stupid song. Fuck you, David Bowie. Nobody gives a shit what shirt we wear. Shut up, shut up ...

The Earth spins. He's going to die.

Beep. Two minutes of oxygen remaining.

He always knew he was going to die this way. 

He had the nightmare. Recurring. Every astronaut does. 

Firemen probably dream of burning alive. Sex workers dream of being fucked to death. Astronauts dream of dying in space watching the Earth spin.

Why the fuck did he want to be an astronaut?

What was he thinking?

He'd worked so hard. Practiced in his kids’ desk pretending it was a space capsule, getting used to cramped positions. He pumped weights. He ran and ran and ran. Read up. Learned to hold his breath. The whole nine yards.

Beep. One minute 50 seconds oxygen remaining.

Fuck you suit. That’s so fucking helpful.

Earth spins. 

Africa. Madagascar, under a smear of clouds.

Recurring nightmare continues. 

Then he woke up.

He was 23 years old, in bed. Still on the base. Still in training. 

It hasn't happened yet. 

"Fuck this astronaut shit."

He said it out loud. Nobody there in the base. Just rows and rows of squared-away cots. But he said it again.

"Fuck this astronaut shit."

He dropped out of the training program. XO chewed his ass out. He stood there and took it. Like Grissom in The Right Stuff. 

He finished his service, went back to engineering school Graduated. Got a job at Yoyodyne. Took a kickback from a defense contract. Expensive widget, just a prop. Dead circuitboards inside. Did nothing. Cost ‘em nothing to make. Cost NASA a shitload. Until they caught on. Defense contractor killed himself. He almost went to jail, but they fucked up at the trial and he got off. His first wife left him. He wrote a book. Grounded. Sold a few copies, running joke on late night TV. His next wife left him. He sold used cars, copier paper, toner, self-help seminars, insurance, real estate, marijuana, pizza. Day after day. Shit happened, but nothing to write home about.

One day woke up in a hospice. He was 73 years old. His brain had blown out like an old bicycle tire. Tubes and machines. Hooked up. Clicking, whirring. Going beep, beep, beep. Just like ...

Beep.

Opened his eyes. And there he was again.

Stuck in the suit. Looking out at.

The blue planet, spinning in space.

Beep. One minute oxygen remaining.

This was all just a dream. Or not.

What fucking difference does it make?

He'd know soon enough.

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Either way, at least that stupid song would shut up.

The Earth kept spinning.