Chocolate Chocolate Moons (3 page)

He sends a withering look. I reach for more candy and hit the dish at an angle. Chocolate Moons zing toward his forehead.

Ping!
His head snaps back. “Any more bright ideas?”

When we tell the twins, they do a month-long temper dance. Doors slam, tears flow, threats, screams, hair pulling. They are even more depressed than I am. Calorie, our Maltese parrot, sensing she will be left behind, squawks, “Calorie wants a Prozac!”

The weeklong trip to Mars is stressful. Becky and Lois never stop complaining. Cortland is space-sick. I spend more solars than I should on a weightless massage, during which I float naked while four people knead the knots from my body. But as soon as I’m back in our suite, the tension returns.

“Mind if I watch Mars Media news?” I say.

“Mind if we don’t?” the twins singsong like a tragic Greek chorus. They leave.

I click on the news. Barbara Bottled Waters is talking about people getting sick on Mars after eating Tootsie Targets, my second-favorite candy after Chocolate Moons. I adjust the sound. “Craig Cashew, president and CEO of the Culinary Institute of Mars, whose Candy Universe building makes the Tootsie Targets, had all the remaining ones tested. No contamination was found. All stricken consumers recovered. Craig Cashew says there is nothing wrong with Tootsie Targets and it’s an unfortunate coincidence.”

Unfortunate coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not. A candy mystery is something I can sink my teeth into. If nothing else it’s a welcome distraction from thinking about tomorrow’s landing.

3

D
REW WALKS OUT
of his life with CC with the clothes on his back, money for a one-way ticket to Mars, and a half-eaten box of Chocolate Moons.

He arrives at the Mars spaceport and waddles down a long corridor. His 63.9 Moon pounds are now l45.l Mars pounds. And, although considerably less than the 385 he would have weighed on Earth, it was weight he was not used to carrying. The tall, beautiful Martians, whose citizens win the most solar system beauty contests, walk past in disgust.

“It’s cellulite with legs,” shouts a man making a nasty hand signal.

Children circle Drew like sharks. “Watch out,” yells a handsome blond child. “We’re gonna be crushed!” He rolls on the floor laughing.

Jaw clenched, eyes to the floor, legs feeling like balls attached to chains, Drew follows the bright yellow arrows pointing toward Budget Auto Cabs.

When he finally arrives, a tall weary-looking attendant shows him several vehicles.

“That’s the selection? They all look too small.”

The attendant runs his hand through his red-brown hair. “Hey, buddy, we’re not in the moving van business.” He points to a cab slightly larger than the others. “That one’s fresh from the circus where thirty clowns fit inside. But they need it back in three hours. Want it?”

Drew struggles to fit into the cab. When he yanks the right door, the left pops open. Finally he hears a click. He relaxes and exhales. All doors fly open again.

“Tilt! Tilt!” says the auto cab. “Redistribute weight!”

Drew shifts until his knees are at his chest and the large roll that is his abdomen is covering his mouth.

“Destination?”

“Harrumph!” Drew says.

“I don’t compute. Sounded like a curse word. Get out now or I’ll take you to Congress Drugs. They’re lookin’ for guys like you.”

After an hour Drew passes through a security checkpoint, drives through acres of farmland, and stops in front of a chrome yellow building shaped like a three-tiered wedding cake. Sandy Andreas, president and CEO of San Andreas Farms and Congress Drugs, has an office on top, management and sales are in the middle, and the Congress Drugs laboratory is on the bottom.

“Please insert three solars,” the cab voice says.

“Only have two,” Drew manages to mumble.

Congress Drugs photographers, who were watching a national debate about why iced coffee costs more than hot coffee on their palm cams while they waited for Drew, hear the racket and come running.

“Looks like Drew Barron,” one says.

“Sounds like Drew Barron,” another says.

“Feels like Drew Barron,” says a third, poking a finger inside the cab.

Two reach in. One pushes, the other pulls.
Yank! Plop!

“I’m still owed one solar,” barks the cab.

“Get lost,” one photographer says throwing a solar into the cab.

“No tip?” beeps the cab pulling away. “I don’t get no respect!” Clouds of rear noxious gases engulf everyone.

The photographers hold their noses as they wait for Drew to stop jiggling. He feels even worse than he looks. Then they shoot his “before” holograms. After two hours, a hatchet-faced man wearing a blue-and-gold uniform and a tight peaked hat that says “Congress Drugs Special Services” comes and escorts him toward a building that houses people Congress Drugs uses for its “before” and “after” publicity shots.

“You don’t have to walk so fast,” Drew puffs, trudging behind.

“Didn’t seem fast to me.” He stops in front of a white door, hands Drew a key, and leaves.

The room is small, clean, and a color decorators call camel cord rather than beige. There is a bed, media wall, a table and a bare-basics bathroom. Comfortable blue clothes with a gold Congress Freedom logo set in a star-shaped patch over the breast pocket lie on the bed. Drew showers and dresses. A kitchen monitor that is in the center of a wall opposite the bed displays a selection of Freedom Plan foods. Drew scrolls and makes his selections.

After five minutes a monitor blinks. A small window, like one from an old Automat restaurant, opens. He removes a tray that contains an endive salad with candied walnuts, veal parmesan, sautéed mixed vegetables, garlic cheese toast, a glass of merlot, and a generous triple-berry-cream parfait. A card on the side says: “Calorie count 104.” The food is better than he thought it would be. But not as good as a high-calorie alternative.

He sees a box of Freedom Plan Chocolate Moons and opens it. They look like the real thing except they are larger like chocolate planets. He puts one in his mouth, bites, gasps, and spits it out.

Nine months later with the help from trainers, tailors, and cosmeticians, the “new” Drew emerges two hundred Earth pounds thinner. His 185-pound, six-foot-two-inch frame has six-pack abs and bulging biceps. The planes of his face, large blue eyes, and cleft in his chin stand out in sharp relief. Drew walks naked to a full-length mirror and blinks. He is better looking than he ever thought possible.

Now, tweaked to the stylish perfection of a newly minted coin, oozing relaxed confidence and sizzling sex appeal, wearing designer clothes and standing in the most flattering light, the “after” holograms are made.

Drew’s boss, Sandy Andreas, feared by many, loved by few, is not good-looking. He has blond hair cropped short. His eyes are watery blue. He has an intimidating way of looking monumental as though standing on the narrowest point of an isosceles triangle. Photographers never print full-face shots of him or risk being reassigned without sunblock to the side of Mercury that constantly faces the sun. He is CEO of both San Andreas Farms, a company that dominates the farming industry and sells to every major supermarket, and Congress Drugs, makers of Freedom Plan low-calorie foods.

Fun guy and Sandy are words that never appear in the same sentence. His associates nicknamed him “the velvet hammer” because he frequently seduced his opponents into thinking they got the better deal and when other competition dropped away and they were about to sign, he threatened to pull out at the last minute if his new terms were not met.

Sandy sits in his cavernous wood-paneled office. His shirt is white and crisp; his neck scarf black and blue. Squinting from viewing
Bagels without Borders,
a live-from-behind-the-counter at Zabar’s in New York, on one of ten news screens on his desk, he glances at the Mars Media station and jumps. Newscaster Katie Racket is showing footage of Drew Barron, an employee of his, winning this year’s top award for his writing of and acting in a commercial, “Congress Drugs: Of the People, By the People, and For the People.”

“Get that guy who just won the advertising award now!” he roars to his chief assistant, who sits in a glass alcove adjacent to his office. “He has brains as well as good looks.”

This is the moment Drew has been waiting for. In the year he had been with Congress Drugs he had learned everything he could about Sandy Andreas and his companies. He befriended people at the bottom of the mailroom to as near the top of the organization as he could. But he was never able to reach Sandy Andreas. That is, until now.

The “Chariots of Fire” music plays in his head. He checks his mirror, mints his mouth, and enters Sandy’s office like a boxer entering a ring.

Sandy walks toward Drew, mouth a straight line. Suddenly he smiles knowing that Drew is a great new face he can use in Freedom Plan commercials. He extends a manicured hand that has either a ring or small communication device on each finger. “That commercial deserves to be rewarded,” he says, crushing his hand into Drew’s hand. “Where did you come up with that ‘Of the people, by the people, for the people’ stuff? It’s just the kind of thing I was about to think of myself.”

Drew does his fake humble but effective
aw shucks, ain’t nothin’
look. “Guess I’m just a people person, Mr. Andreas.”

“Sandy. Call me Sandy.” He shoots Drew a friendly punch. “Now, I’m going out on a limb on this, because I can see you’re not one of those yell-and-sell kind of guys. Not only am I going to use you for some new commercials, I’m fast-tracking you to executive vice president in charge of marketing. I’m sure with your imagination and talent; you’re not going to have trouble handling a seven-figure income, are you?”

Drew’s eyes spin. Every new glow-in-the-dark capped tooth shines.

4

“H
ELP
!” I
SCREAM
, putting one foot down on Mars and feeling my 47.6 Moon pounds jump to 108.3. “Help!”

Cortland takes a deep breath, exits, and marches ahead. He pretends not to hear as he waves at his cousin Billings Montana and Billings’ wife, Florida. They are hard to miss, standing in front of the green-and-red horizontal-striped Mars flag, with its four white stars, while shaking large round Little Green Men Pizza signs up and down.

Cortland slows, turns his head toward me, and cups his mouth. “She’s built like a flamingo,” he says.

I groan, “Praying mantis.”

Perspiration mats my hair and films my body. I adjust the Cracked Craters sweatshirt I now regret wearing. Flo’s jutting lower lip frowns an expression I hadn’t seen since I left Earth and makes me feel like a bratwurst. I want to turn and run back to the Moon. I want Cortland to say he made a big mistake. I want to cry.

Florida, like most Martians, is tall by Earth standards. Not unusual for people born and grown in gravities lighter than Earth’s. At six-foot-eight and 130 Earth pounds, she towers over the Earth-born fivefoot-seven-inch Billings, who is wearing platform shoes, a company T-shirt, a tomato-red jacket and a black stovepipe hat. Her stylish gray suit has a brown braided belt that circles a waist that could pass through the eye of a needle.

Billings and Cortland hug each other like lost socks in a dryer who find their maté. They pound each other on the back so hard that I am afraid Cortland will hurt for days.