Brian Plante - The Astronaut

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THE ASTRONAUT

by BRIAN PLANTE

* * * *

Inspiration doesn’t always take the form you might expect....

In May of 2030, right after school let out for the year, my family moved from

New Jersey to Seguin, Texas, home of the world’s largest pecan, relocating us to

follow the company they both worked for. By June, I was bored to death. My

friends (all two of them) were back in New Jersey and I didn’t know anybody in the

new place yet, and wouldn’t until school started up in a couple of months. Each

morning, my folks would commute to their jobs in San Antonio, an hour’s drive to

the west on Route 10, so I was alone most of the day, spending my time just staring

at the ceiling of my bedroom or watching the Mars Channel on the holovision. The

Romulus had been underway for three months, with another three to go before it

made its way to the red planet, and even that was starting to get a little boring.

Among the few chores my parents gave me to justify my miserable existence

during those long summer months was to keep the lawn mowed. That wasn’t such a

big deal in New Jersey, where the grass only grew half the year, and the summers

were semi-bearable, but in Texas the heat was intense. It wouldn’t have been so bad

if the house hadn’t come with an underground irrigation system, since the grass

would have withered and blown away as the land turned back to the desert it

naturally should have been, but unfortunately for me this grass was lush and green

and it was my job to keep it that way. This was no small task in that scorching heat.

I had the lawn maintenance down to a weekly schedule, and one blistering day

late in June it was time to mow again. I was fifteen years old, and like a lot of boys

that age, I wasn’t particularly industrious when it came to performing slave labor.

Instead of mowing the lawn in the cool of the early morning, like any sensible person

would have done, I went back to bed after my parents had gone to work. I slept a

little more, stared at the ceiling for a while, and watched the transmission from the

Romulus for a couple of hours. By 11:00, the sun was high and the heat was building

outside, and then I had the mowing to do. What a jerk I was, huh?

So there I was in the noonday sun, sweating bullets as I finished up the lawn,

pushing the loud, stinky mower back into the garage, when I first caught a glimpse

of her. It was my next-door neighbor, and she was a major distraction. She was

probably twice my age, but a real beauty, with a pretty face, strawberry blonde hair

and a body to die for, dressed in khaki shorts and a Vikings football jersey. A boy

my age with serious hormone problems couldn’t have hoped for a nicer neighbor,

and I had struck gold.

She was sitting on a fancy riding mower, trying in vain to get the thing started.

A damsel in distress. I put away our mower and walked over to introduce myself.

“Hi, I’m Davy Carson, your next-door neighbor,” I said. “Got problems with

your mower?”

She looked flustered and startled when I spoke, then looked me over and

apparently judged me harmless. “Hello, Davy Carson. Pleased to meet you. I’m

Rosemary Horton.” Even though she looked like your typical Texas beauty pageant

queen, her voice had a flat Midwestern accent, not the local drawl. It was a

wonderful, pleasant voice. “You folks just moved in a few weeks ago, didn’t you?”

“Six weeks already,” I said.

“Oh, that long? I really should have come over sooner and said hello. I mean,

we’re neighbors and all. Is your mom at home?”

“No,” I said. “Both my parents are at work. I, um, take care of the house

during the daytime. Hey, would you like me to look at your mower? I’m pretty good

with my hands.”

“Could you? I mean, if it’s nothing too serious. My husband Richard bought

me this stupid thing so I can do the lawn myself, but I don’t know anything about

engines.”

Her husband. She was married. I looked at her left hand and there was the

ring. I was briefly disappointed—as if I’d really ever have had a chance with an older

woman like that! What a jerk I was.

“Let me see what I can do,” I said anyway.

I popped the hood and found the problem almost immediately. It was

something simple: a sparkplug wire had come loose and I snapped it back on the

plug.

“Try it now,” I said.

Mrs. Horton turned the key and the engine roared to life. She gave it some gas

and the mower jerked in reverse, back into the garage, before she slammed on the

brakes and stalled it.

“Shoot,” she said. “Say, Davy Carson, you wouldn’t like to make some

money mowing my lawn, would you?”

Well, there I was, this horny, pimply teenager with nothing but spare time on

my hands, and the gorgeous next-door neighbor was offering me money to work for

her. Was I gonna say no?

“I have to call my dad and ask if it’s all right to use our mower on someone

else’s yard. He’s a bit picky about his tools.”

“No, that’s okay,” she said. “I meant for you to use my mower. You can

drive one of these things, can’t you?”

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Brian Plante - The Astronaut

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