Becoming Spaceman (a Story of Power, Loss, and The Ultimate Satisfaction)

The water was a crisp, delicate blue. It stretched out before him for miles and miles. It was endlessness at last. The machine beneath him thrashed and roared in its lust for dry land; yearning for its wheels to be granted traction once more. But it was too late. They were flying. And at that moment, Spaceman had never felt more alive. Peter Baker had always been a strange and quiet man. Never one to overstay his welcome, or, truth be told, to even acknowledge it most of the time. It would suffice to say that when it came to forming human connections Peter was less than inept. As a boy, some had even gone as far to suggest that he may have been touched in the head. Others still thought perhaps he may have been possessed. By what no one had ever been able to pin down. Surely some spirit or another, they had said, and surely it was up to no good. But the truth was, that Peter wasn’t touched in the head, as they had so eloquently put it. Nor had he ever been possessed, at least as far as he knew. No, rather, Peter was simply uninterested in most of what this world had to offer. As far as Peter could tell, everything around here worth doing had already been done. As a very young boy, Peter remembered the feeling he had gotten when he had heard about Columbus, and Cortez, and the other great explorers of the Human race. How brave they must have been, and how much hardship that they must have had to overcome in order to succeed. From these stories, Peter had discovered that he had a great lust. A lust for adventure.

A lust for the unknown. Every Halloween from the time he had first read about Lewis and Clark and their great expedition, all the way up until the day he had decided he was too old for such things, Peter had gone out on the town dressed up as one of the two young adventurers, always switching between the two, never sure of who to pick. All of his young life all that Peter wanted to do was to be like them. To discover what had yet to be found, to brave the wilderness in search of truth, to be an explorer and to assist in Humanities great conquest over this planet Earth. Imagine his disappointment, then, when Peter grew to find that there was nothing left for him do. The day the magic died for Peter was a day that he would never forget. It was a Tuesday. The first Tuesday in March to be exact. It was on this day that the announcement had come in that someone had discovered a new tribe deep in the Amazon Rainforest. At first, Peters interest was piqued. A new Tribe, how exciting! He remembered thinking. It wasn’t until the following day, upon doing some research on the amazing discovery, that Peter was finally exposed to the truth. Two point three percent. That’s how much of the earth there was left to see. Two point three percent. And on top of that, it wasn’t even anything good. Just some ice out around the poles and some islands no one had ever bothered to go looking for. And with this knowledge, Peter was shattered. The dream was over, and reality came crashing down full force. The only thing Peter had ever lived for was the promise of adventure, the promise of the unknown. Every Christmas he had amassed books on exploration from every relative, every birthday had been spent on some tour or in some museum, learning about the past and what he had hoped would one day become his future. And without this, he was lost. For years after the realization that he would never be Cortez, swashbuckling his way up the South American coast, that he would never be Columbus, discovering more land in the name of his home and country than anyone else had ever done before him - Peter had simply floated. Through High School, Peter had remained anonymous. The History Club, where he might have once felt at home, looked to him now like nothing more than a taunting reminder, rubbing salt into his still fresh and gaping mental wounds.

The few friends he had managed to make as a child gradually moved away from him, realizing that something in him must be defective, that something with Peter just wasn’t quite right. And they were correct, of course. Nothing was right with Peter. He was an explorer with nothing left to explore. A painter with no brush, a woodcarver with no draw knife. Expressionless and alone, Peter suffered silently. Always craving something he knew that he could never have. After graduation, Peter moved into a small studio apartment, alone. He worked in the local thrift shop during the day, and at night he watched movies. There was one thing that always managed to make him forget about who he was for a while, one thing that allowed him to become someone new, to live another life, and that was the movies. Peter lived inside the silver screen. It was rare for him to see sunlight, and when he did, it was almost always because he had an errand to run or an appointment he could not postpone. Peter had no taste for daylight. He found it to be gratuitous, excessive even. The night suited him far better. In fact, the darkness soothed Peter, for it, like himself, was empty. And so, day in and day out that’s how it went for Peter. Working in the thrift store in the evenings, watching movies all night, and sleeping all day. For a time, Peter was content, though never happy. With nothing left out there to discover, he was pretty sure he would never be. Things would come into the shop from some, and he would sell them back to others. A simple life of toil and misery. What more could he hope for? Every once in a while something really cool would find its way into the shop, an old letter jacket from the sixties, or a rotary phone shaped like Mickey Mouse's head. And these things did give Peter a small sense of joy, but it was never enough to overcome what was always there. The despair of a crippled explorer brought to his knees not by his own ineptitude, but by the exceptional prowess and diligence of those that had already come before him. In his ineffectiveness, Peter wallowed, falling deeper and deeper into the hole dug out before him by history's greatest names. Peter was defeated. For a time, he was sure that he would never become what he wanted to become, to see what he knew that he needed to see in order to finally find his own happiness. He was sure that he would never become himself. But then it happened. And it happened in the strangest of ways. Early one Sunday morning, as the sun was beginning to rise, Peter was finishing up a documentary series on the lost civilization of Gobekli Tepe.

The narrator had just posited that maybe, just maybe, the answer to all of the questions Gobekli Tepe asks about humanities past could be answered by one thing. Aliens. Peter scoffed. Fucking aliens, yea right. But still, it had gotten him thinking. What if it were Aliens, as unlikely as that was. What if they were up there, watching him at this very moment. The idea seemed oddly comforting to him somehow. All of the sudden Peter truly felt like he was being watched, and acted accordingly. Sitting up a bit straighter, and pushing his hair off to the side, Peter began to wonder. What if there was something out there that they had yet to find, something out there that he could be the first one to see. And just like that, Peter was alive again. After that moment, things started to happen quickly. Peter was sure that they were there, watching him. Looking out for him. At this point he wasn’t sure who they were, the aliens that didn’t exist, the men in black on the lookout for them. Maybe it was even himself, looking back on him from the future. All that he knew is that whoever they were, they would show him what to do. To Peter, finally, the possibilities were endless. On Monday, Peter came into work ready to quit. He wouldn’t have time to buy and sell this crap now, anyway, not now that he had a plan. But just as he was about to tell Sally, his boss, the good news, he saw it. It was perfect. An extraordinarily bulbous helmet, nearly a complete circle, sat pathetically down on a low shelf near the front door. A spot like that was no place for a beauty like the one now before him, and so Peter took her and walked out the door. He had completely forgotten about Sally, or about work that day. Even her yells of admonition fell upon deaf ears. Peter was a man with a plan, and nothing could stop him now.

The helmet was a subtle shade of eggshell white, with a dark button on the visor. Sturdy and clean. A beautiful color, really, and as soon as he arrived on the lot he knew which machine it was meant to ride with. The great beast kicked and roared under Peter’s inexperienced thighs, but still he held on, and finally, he had tamed the thing. The salesman holding the clipboard had looked terrified when Peter had first kicked the bike into gear, but upon Peters insistence that they were looking out for him, and that they weren’t going to let him get hurt, the man finally relented. As Peter pulled out of the lot, his helmet strapped firmly onto his head, his great beast of a machine roaring beneath, he felt jubilant. There was only one final piece he needed, and he was ready to go. Over Peters' shoulder, he could see the salesman still. He was talking on the phone hurriedly, starring with wild eyes at Peter as he road off the lot. No matter, Peter thought. Nothing could stop him now. Rushing home, into his closet, he found it. Funny how life worked out. This old jacket had been Peters Grandfathers. The man had been a ne’er do well, and Peter had never connected with him in any meaningful way, but suddenly he felt indebted to him. How kind it was of Grandad to help me out like this, Peter had thought. Peter wondered how he had known back then what was to come. Maybe they had told him. Yes, that must be it, of course, they had. They needed him, and they knew it. Peter was satisfied. He laid the dark gray jacket down on his small kitchen table, right beside where he had carefully set down his immaculately rotund helmet.

The keys to his new machine layout beside them. It was getting dark now, but for some reason, Peter was tired. Yes, he thought, time to turn in for the night. Peter hadn't slept through the night in years, not like this. And in all his life, he had never once slept this soundly. The bright California morning sun shone strongly as Peter walked out of his apartment door for the last time. For the first time in his life, Peter found it to be a welcoming, even a comforting sensation. He smiled, and for a moment closed his eyes and inhaled. Somehow, he had never seemed to notice before now, but the crisp air was revitalizing. His helmet was already strapped firmly unto his head, and his jacket was tightly buttoned. His machine started in one kick. Sure that they would let nothing derail him from his dream, Peter thought little of his lack of riding experience. Instead, he pressed forward. Peter zoomed down the road, towards the highway. Cars were whipping past him on his left, just as he was whipping past others on his right. He couldn’t let them slow him down. If he was going to make it, he was going to need enough speed. Anything less than perfection just wouldn’t do. But Peter wasn’t worried, he knew that they were watching and that they cared about him. They would never let him fail.

Finally, it was approaching. Highway 1. He was coming, at last. Finally, his name would be the one in lights, his costume the one that the school children would adorn come October thirty first. He could see the ocean now, stretching out before him. The speedometer on his dashboard read out one oh nine. Not quite there yet. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter was hearing a ringing sound, like the sound of sirens wailing far off in the distance, but he ignored it. Nothing could distract him from his mission now. One fourteen. That should be good enough, Peter thought. And just in time too. And then they were flying. Through the air and up towards the sun, Spaceman revved and roared his great machine’s monstrous engine, vying each second for just one more inch. His space helmet began to fog, slowly at first and then more quickly. There was movement everywhere and as if all at once Spaceman began to be dragged. It was as if he had suddenly been caught in a great god's invisible hand and lifted. He could feel their presence now. Suddenly his flight jacket felt heavy, and the great noise of his momentous beast began to stop and sputter. Spaceman let out a muffled yell. He had done it at last. Before his eyes, there was a great flash of light and he a tumultuous bellowing, as if all of the air had been sucked out of the world and shoved back into it in the blink of an eye. Finally, he was home. And at that moment, at long last, Spaceman was alive.