Authors: Marc Andre
“Why’s that make a difference?” Hammond asked.
“Forces us to slow down so we don’t crash into stuff.”
Cotton said. I was so unsettled by my brother using logic that I had to ask Allen if he was correct.
“Yes, that’s right
.” Allen said, nodding.
“Well good for you.” I said, punching Cotton approvingly on the shoulder. “For once you actually thought things through.”
Allen and Ellen made slurping noises as they the dregs of their sodas sipped through straws. Feeling generous, I volunteered to buy the next round.
At the bar, a man in front of me gave his order, “thre
e Stardust colas and two diet Stardust Colas.” I could tell by the neatly pressed, spotless, white button down shirt he wore that he wasn’t from our ship, probably some tourist getting drinks for his family.
“One more thing,” the man said in a hushed voice, “if you could put a shot of bourbon in one of the sodas
— not one of the diet ones mind you — that would be grand.”
“Is Thurgood MacDougal’s good for you?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, he’s very good for me.” the man said agreeably.
The bartender mixed the drinks as the man fumbled with his wallet.
“That will be thirty-six hundred even,” the bartender said.
My heart sank.
Thirty-six hundred, what a rip off!
I thought.
Back home no one would ever pay more than nine hundred, not even with the shot of booze.
The man in the white shirt handed the bartender a ten M-note. The bartender placed the tray of drinks down on the bar, said, “Let me get you some change,” and disappeared.
The man turned around, propping his back and elbows on the bar so he could relax as he watched the celestial bodies through the giant window. Utterly dejected, I was about to turn back empty handed, when I realized neither the man nor the bartender had paid any attention to me whatsoever.
“Hey I think there’s liquor in my drink.” Hammond said with delight. “How did you pull that off?” I winked at him and gave him the thumbs up.
“Mine tastes funny.” Cotton said.
“That’s because it’s diet.” I said.
“Why did you get me diet?” Cotton whined.
“Because you’re too fat.” I said, harshly.
“Oh I want diet,” Ellen said.
“There should be another diet in there?”
“Why did you order two diet sodas?” Ellen said accusingly. “Do you think I’m fat too?”
“No, no,” I stammered. “I drink diet all the time.”
“No you don’t.” Cotton said. “You say diet tastes like piss.”
“I’m just messing with you, Anton.” Ellen laughed. “The whole ship knows I drink diet.”
“Hey how come you know what piss tastes like?” Hammond said loudly, his glass empty and his cheeks rosy.
“What’s going on at the bar?” Allen asked, uninterested in the taste of urine. “Why’s that guy in the fancy white shirt screaming at the bartender?”
The others turned around and I slouched in my chair, trying to become invisible. Cotton grinned. He had figured out I stole the drinks.
“Wow, those security goons are actually handcuffing him.” Hammond said. “He must be drunk or something.”
“No he’s not drunk.” Ellen observed. “But that other guy is!” She pointed to a middle aged man in a dark blue suit with four thick golden bars on each cuff and shiny badges on each of his two epaulets. He had a well-trimmed graying beard and staggered around the Star Lounge, stopping periodically to shake hands with people he clearly didn’t know.
“Who is that?” Hammond asked.
“That’s the captain!” Cotton said.
“Wow,” Ellen said, “I’ve been on this ship for three voyages, and I think this is the first time I’ve actually seen our captain.”
“Hey Captain!” Hammond hollered loudly. Unaccustomed to alcohol, the single shot of bourbon left Hammond buzzed.
Our inebriated leader sauntered over and shook Hammond’s hand. “Good to see you! Good to see you! You on the crew young man?”
“No, but my dad is.”
“Good to have the both of you aboard.”
The ethanol fumes the man expired were overpowering. Cotton gasped for air. Ellen gagged. Fortunately, our captain lost interest in us and wandered away.
“Hey isn’t that your mother?” Allen said.
Mother sat at a table near the bar, facing us. She wore a stylish slim fitting dress, but the male companion who sat across from her wore an orange jumpsuit. We couldn’t see his face, but his helmet hair was unmistakable.
“That’s your mom?” Ellen said. “Oh, her dress is so cute, and I love what she’s done with her hair!” Ellen raised her eyebrows. “Who’s she with though? You think he’d have put in the effort to dress up too. I can’t really make out his face, but he seems familiar.”
“Yeah, he does,” Hammond agreed.
Utterly helpless, I could do nothing but watch the events unfold as our drunkard of a captain wandered over to my mother to wish her well.
“How you doing today little lady? Good to see you!”
Mother blushed with pleasure. The man in the orange jumpsuit turned around to greet the captain.
“Eek!” Ellen shouted.
“That’s Mr. Fox,” Hammond cried, “our social studies teacher!”
I could feel the heat emanate from my cheeks as my face turned red.
“Your mother’s on a date with Mr. Fox!” Ellen shrieked with disbelief.
“No,” I stammered, “they’re just good friends.”
“Why’s he wearing an orange jumpsuit?” Cotton asked.
“First Mate is hiring on teachers with technical certifications to help with the repair and clean up.” Allen said frankly. “He must have just come off shift.”
“Hey maybe they’ll get married and then Mr. Fox will be your stepdad.” Hammond joked.
Apparently Cotton didn’t like the joke either. My brother turned to me and said, “Let’s go look for some comic books.”
“Good idea,” I said. We turned away from our half empty soda glasses.
“No come back guys!” Ellen begged.
“Yeah,” Hammond said apologetically, “we were only kidding around.”
“Let them go.” Allen said. “I think you took your joke a little too far.”
“You’re one to talk.” Hammond said bitterly.
On the way out, Cotton stopped by the can to take a wiz. I waited for him outside. Somebody tapped me on the shoulder. “What?” I snapped, irritated, expecting to see Hammond or Ellen.
“Well who’s Mr. Grumpy pants today?” Mother scolded.
“Oh sorry.” I said. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Well that’s no way to greet someone else.”
“Yeah, I guess not.” I agreed, apologetically.
“Where’s your brother?” Mother asked. “Don’t let him wander because he’ll get lost.”
“He’s in the can.”
“Well good.” Mother said, satisfied I was doing a good job as her parental proxy. “Hey, do you still have any of the money I gave you?”
“All of it, actually.”
“Can I have an M-note?” she asked. I reached into my pocket and handed over the bill. “Oh thanks. I need to get a few things before I go back home.” I made no effort to conceal the look of disappointment on my face, but mother either missed it or ignored it completely.
Someone very strong slapped me on the back. I knew Hammond wouldn’t approach me with my mother nearby, not even with the free liquor in him. “How’s it going Anton?” Mr. Fox smiled.
“Okay, I guess.” I said sheepishly. Talking to teachers in my free time gave me the willies.
“You got a good boy there, Melinda,” Mr. Fox said approvingly. “He’s really started to apply himself in class.”
“Oh he is a good boy!” Mother beamed.
“Be right back.” Mr. Fox dismissed himself to step into the can.
“So… err…” I didn’t quite know what to say, “…you’re on a date with Mr. Fox?”
“Oh yes, isn’t Gerard gorgeous?” Mother asked in a hushed tone.
“No!” I said.
“Oh stop! You’re just saying that because you’re a boy.”
“No it’s not just that, he’s got that freaky hairdo.”
Mother frowned ever so slightly. “Yeah it is a bit odd, but people can always change their hairstyles. I can tell he’s really buff though, and he’s got the most beautiful green eye.”
Funny,
I thought,
doesn’t Mr. Fox have brown eyes?
“He’s super smart.” Mother said. “Did you know he was a certified level 3 electrical technician before he became a social work teacher? He even helped refit the ship back on Earth.”
“Social studies,” I said, emphasizing the word “studies.” “Mr. Fox teaches social studies.”
“Oh whatever,” Mother said, dismissively.
We heard footsteps coming our way.
“Quick!” Mother said in a hushed tone. “He’s coming back. I’m going to sit back down. Do me a favor and don’t stop by my place tonight.”
The footsteps didn’t belong to Mr. Fox. “I thought I heard mom,” Cotton said.
“You did.”
“What did she want?”
“To take some of her money back.”
“Awe man!” Cotton whined.
Most of the shops on Libra Space Station sold gaudy tourist trinkets. Cotton was mildly interested in a T-shirt with a picture of the Obelisk on the front, but only because the Obelisk resembled a giant dong. At five times the price of a T shirt back home, there was no way we were going to buy it, and Cotton didn’t care enough for it to resort to shop lifting. One shop sold hard copy magazines and comic books. Most of the comics were issued years ago and were way overpriced.
“This place is a major let down.” Cotton sighed. “I guess the view from the Star Lounge is pretty cool, but these shops really blow!”
I nodded, agreeing completely.
Someone whispered, “Psst! Hey kid!” A filthy boy with reddish hair lurked in the shadows behind a tall rack of hoodies. He looked back over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. He seemed younger than myself but older than Cotton, but it was hard to tell his exact age through all the dirt and grime. “You guys looking for some skin mags?”
“No,” Cotton said, “comic books.”
“I know some guy who’s got loads of ‘em. I can get you a really good deal.”
“Does he have Macho Moe, Space Marine # 117?” Cotton asked. For as long as I could remember, Cotton had been looking for that very issue.
“That’s the one when he fights that guy, right?” the boy asked. To me, the boy seemed deliberately vague. Macho Moe fought and killed at least a dozen guys in every issue. Cotton, however, seemed less skeptical.
“F
antastic Freddy!” Cotton said, “They had to stop printing the issue because the colorist hid, somewhere in the background, a drawing of a naked man clutching his dong.”
“Yeah, that’s the one. My guy’s got two of ‘em,” the boy said.
“No way!” Cotton’s jaw dropped. “Only six hundred hard copies made it out of the print shop before. How much does he want for one?”
“Three thousand.” The boy said, but to me, he almost seemed to be guessing at a price that seemed reasonable.
“Three thousand!” Cotton’s eyes goggled. “We have three thousand!”
“No we don’t.” I said. “Mom took one of our M-notes. We only have two thousand.”
“I’m sure Allen or Ellen will lend us some cash. We could sell the issue back home for over one hundred times what this guy’s asking.”
“No, I don’t want to do that.” I said. I couldn’t see any way we could pay our friends back for a long, long time.
“Did I say, three thousand?” the boy said. “I meant fifteen hundred. Three thousand was the price for both.”
“Fifteen hundred!” Cotton cried in disbelief, but then his expression seemed suspicious. “It’s not all messed up is it?”
“Got a couple creases, but it’s okay. Not faded or nothing.”
Delight returned to Cotton’s face, “Yes, yes, take us to him, your comic book guy!”
The boy smiled, revealing yellow teeth that were turning black in places. “Yeah, follow me kid.”
The man at the register screamed at the red haired boy, “Hey you punk! I told you to never come back here! If I ever catch you in my store again, I’ll call security!” The boy grinned and quickly left the store. In the doorway, he gestured for us to follow him.
He took us down a maze of passageways, ones clearly meant only for space station staff because there were no signs to direct tourist, only the standard numbers stenciled on the walls. I began to feel uneasy.
The boy opened a door that read, “no admittance.” The handle had been gouged with deep tool marks where somebody had obviously jimmied the lock. After the kid stepped through the door ahead of us, I pulled my brother aside and pleaded, “I don’t know about this, Cotton.”
“Naw, he’s cool.” Cotton was so enthusiastic about getting his hands on Macho Moe, Space Marine # 117 that he couldn’t tell something was amiss.