Into One Ball

Into One Ball

(a one-act play)

COLT KEPLER, astronaut

RACHEL STRACH, his mother

KAREL STRACH, his father

DUMAS, detective

DIANA, engineer

SHERM, astronaut

LILY, trainer

BOB, technician

* * * *

i. Whittier Place, Boston. The smallish condominium is owned by Rachel Strach, subject of this interview and mother of Colt Kepler, object of the investigation. Along with Detective Dumas is a camera crew, a make-up artist whom Mrs Strach eventually repels, and a shadowy presence who says and does nothing, presumably to stand as quality control, as might occur through mental notes. Umbrella lights lasso the space where Strach and Dumas are sitting. The camera rolls with a clapperboard click.

DUMAS: Appreciating your cooperation, Mrs Strach. We would like to say the reason why we’ve come, but that, um, depends on, well, several things. Like, if you, Mrs Strach, have a particular reason yourself why we’ve come…

MRS STRACH: Is that a question? Oh. Okay. First of all, you mispronounced my name—most people do; it’s a tonsil-deep ‘h’ at the end, like you’d say for Bach. You know, the composer. Johan Sebastian?

DUMAS: People botch up my name as well, forgetting to say the ‘s’. So I’m with you there. I mean, why have letters if you’re not going to use ’em, eh?

MRS STRACH: Well, my name is more complicated than that, actually,.. but I can’t imagine it’s worth your time. I gather you’re here because I’m his mother—that should have been my ‘first of all’—and the horse’s mouth, so to speak, for how he started out. Why we named him ‘Colt’, for that matter, his father and me. Should I talk about that, if it matters?

DUMAS: Of course, everything matters. You select the order of the details we should know.

MRS STRACH: I select. For you to know. So, we named him ‘Colt’, his father and me. Kind of a whim, frankly, as we’re both city-slickers, none too familiar with farm animals. As a little girl I was drawn in by the circus horses that trotted around the ring in a big-top tent put up in our neighborhood each spring; I didn’t care much for the acrobats leaping from their backs, but God, those geldings were beautiful—porcelain and precise.

DUMAS: Geldings?

MRS STRACH: Well, I’m guessing, in retrospect. Their manes and tails and everything were all, you know, done up. Anyway, that’s not completely why we called him ‘Colt’. His father was a collector of firearms, mostly pistols of the wild west—Colt 45s and Weston Smiths, that sort of thing. Kept them all under lock-and-key, for the record. I remember he wanted to show Colt, around age twelve, how to shoot. Colt had been, how to say, hard to pull away from the video games we’d given him—mighty mistake, that—and all he did after school was play Nintento, navigate paths on a screen, shoot at asteroids, build his digital skills that, by stretch of the imagination, would ice the deal to get him into M.I.T.

DUMAS: M.I.T., down the street? The record shows he went to Emory-Riddle.

MRS STRACH: Embry-Riddle. His father’s alma mater. I was more for M.I.T., to keep him close to home, for one thing. But off he went to Daytona, rocketing our Nissan Pulsar straight from the parking garage, down to whatever dorm complex he had arranged online, never to return to Boston. The rest, you can say, is history.

DUMAS: All respect, ma’am, history is recorded. We just started doing that a minute ago, so the rest will be history, yes? Fine. So maybe you can explain his name, why it isn’t Colt Strach.

MRS STRACH: Strach—silent ‘ch’. He was that, growing up.

DUMAS: And what changed? Marriage?

MRS STRACH: No. He did it on his own, in Florida. Needed me to send his birth certificate, which I did. It felt like pulling up his final anchor.

DUMAS: Empty nest, eh? I’m with you there. Loneliness. Silence down the hall. Wondering where the—oh, here, have a hanky—

MRS STRACH: No, no thank you. I’ve got my own, in a pinch.

DUMAS: So you do. Where were we? Ah, yes, his name change. Clue me in on that.

MRS STRACH: I’d be guessing, really. I mean, I asked him over the phone when I had found out—he’s Googleable, you know, if deep within the web—and he hung up on me. Not for the first time. I think he did it for academic style: name himself after a great star-gazer, get back into his books after so much time in cockpits. His father was furious: the Strach name stretches way back to medieval Moravia, coat of arms and all. We probably should have named him ‘Colton’ to soften the harsh pound of the Strach he had to endure. ‘Kepler’ does that with soft final syllable, and adds alliteration—I wanted to commend him for it, actually, but… he hung up.

DUMAS: Did you visit him in Florida, or elsewhere?

MRS STRACH: Where else could ‘elsewhere’ be? The Space Station? Houston? He let me in a couple times when I crashed his crawlspace—

DUMAS: Crawlspace? Like in…

MRS STRACH: More an attic, really, of a narrow building in Cape Canaveral. Dark interior, but quite cozy. He was always meticulous about cleaning, cooking for himself, keeping everything in place. He was more a mother to himself than I ever was. Probably more a father, too, after the divorce.

DUMAS: When was that?

MRS STRACH: After the shooting. Karel and I couldn’t live under the same roof after that.

DUMAS: Yes, yes, understandable. Well, thank you, Mrs Strach, for your time.

MRS STRACH: My time? Like, we’re done?

DUMAS: Um, yeah. Unless you think we’ve—how to say?—left a stone unturned.

MRS STRACH: A stone? a lot! Perhaps I can ask you some questions, Detective Dumas.

DUMAS: Wow, you said it right! As for the witness asking questions, it’s not the usual thing, but—go ahead, shoot.

* * * *

ii. Kennedys Lamp Post, Cape Canaveral. Four friends in their thirties play pool at the far end of the narrow bar, lit by a Bud Light lamp above the table and seaweed strands of christmas lights, kelly green and fuchsia. Otherwise, the room is dark. Bob and Lily lean against the wall while Diana and Sherm size up their next shot.

DIANA: You see what she did there?

SHERM: See what she did? I’m the guy that has to undo it.

DIANA: She snookered us—all planned, I’m sure.

LILY: All planned. Like my next three beers.

BOB: Why only three? There’s four of us—five, if we’re counting Colt.

LILY: I said my next. Y’all can pace out your own shitface. And, hey, if you’re gonna count Colt, bring him the hell back, will ya?

DIANA: Shh. We’re trying to concentrate here. Unless you can give us advice: how would you get out of your own snooker?

LILY: What’s a snooker?

DIANA: The thing you just said you planned: nestling the cue behind your ball and the eight so we can’t clear out. Means that Sherm has to hit one of our own cleanly or it’s a ball-in-hand for you—or technically, for Bob.

BOB: Who knows? Maybe you’re gonna snooker me in return.

SHERM: No, I don’t think so.

DIANA: Best I can see is a three-bumper line: back rail here to this side of the center pocket, hard enough to run up to that corner—no scratch if you have the angle right—and kiss it off the far end into the nine or thirteen, conveniently close together.

SHERM: That’s four bumpers, then. And I’ll probably scratch.

LILY: Why’d you bring up Colt, anyway? Just to bum me out?

BOB: Bring him up? We’ve been talking about him all week. All month, really. Last time we saw him was here—at least me and Sherm. Wasn’t that right? Before he—

SHERM: Yeah. Three of us, sittin’ over there in that corner, near the photo of JFK in sunglasses, pointing up—‘sky’s the limit, boys!’

BOB: This ceiling’s the limit, in this case.

DIANA: How come we weren’t invited? Did you have man-cave secrets to spill? Confessions?

BOB: Nothing like that. You know Colt, shy as they come. He didn’t want any fanfare, goodbye parties, gushy stuff said.

LILY: He wanted a hug, I know that. Hugs, more likely, but for only, like, a second each.

DIANA: You timed them? I bet you charted out the real and the imagined: the slope of h times .01666 versus, I don’t know, what?

SHERM: Verses the slope of grope!

BOB: He’d never grope.

LILY: Wish he woulda once in awhile.

DIANA: You’re drunk, Lil. I just wish he’d return.

SHERM: Shit! I wish I hadn’t taken that shot. See, told you I’d scratch.

BOB: Now what?

DIANA: You get the cue ball in hand and one of ours comes out to the break spot. How come you don’t know this?

BOB: Don’t play that much. Come here just to drink, get out of Dodge, so to speak.

SHERM: Everywhere’s Dodge, when you think of it.

LILY: Colt got out. God dang did he get out, the mother-fffaugh!

DIANA: Just say it—get it off your chest. He did this to us, not just the Russian crew.

BOB: What do you know about the Russian crew?

DIANA: Next to nothing. But they bore witness when he snapped. Sherm, you must have been briefed on this.

SHERM: Hey, listen, I’ll echo Bob: I came here to drink and scratch my shots. I’m not supposed to talk about the situation—

LILY: Says who?

SHERM: Some Detective Dumas wants to interview me. Tomorrow.

LILY: Detective? What are you gonna say?

SHERM: I just told you, I’m not supposed to talk—

LILY: But we’re his friends. We’re your friends, dammit. Plus, what could you know about it? You weren’t there. You just gonna mouth back what they told you? or make some shit up?

SHERM: Of course not. But… I have to, you know, be a character witness for Colt.

BOB: Okay—I have an idea. Let’s cash out this table, order some Blue Moons and sit over there in Kennedy’s corner and talk Colt—Sherm can take notes, nod his head if he wants, doesn’t have to say anything. That way, the gag rule stands and the interview will, you know…

LILY: The interview will rat him out for being a loner. An intervert.

DIANA: No crime in that. ‘Intro’ is the way to go when you wanna go deep. And I never thought of Colt as a loner in any negative sense. I mean, think about it: he stayed to himself, for sure, but he also shared his space, pretty agreeable to have others around.

SHERM: Yeah, necessarily. Nothing in the capsule is not shared. His missions and mine never overlapped, but we spent countless hours in simulation. He knows the bouquet of my sweat and I know his—

LILY: Hey, hands off! I’m the expert on his sweat. He’d come into the training facility blushing for the chance to run his little hiney off, get beneath the bar, have me stretch him out—

DIANA: Then how come you guys never hooked up?

LILY: Maybe we did. What goes on in the steam room...

DIANA: —is part of your job.

LILY: Bitch, I always did my job. What, you jealous alluva sudden? No steam rooms among your penthouse cubicles?

DIANA: The word would be ‘envious’, but no. I never wanted to know Colt that way.

LILY: So you want him some other way. You’d rather fuck his brains out—like liter’ly, his brains.

DIANA: Lily, dear Lily. The man is in limbo right now. Neither here nor there.

LILY: Wha?

BOB: So, they’re out of Blue Moons. Had to go with Fat Tires.

SHERM: Keeping us grounded. Great.

BOB: What’d I miss?

LILY: Nothin’ yet. Maybe a cat fight later if Di’s not too chicken.

BOB: Huh?

DIANA: I was just saying—soberly—that Colt’s in limbo right now.

SHERM: Kazakhstan, in all likelihood.

DIANA: Might as well be the dark side of the moon.

LILY: Oh, hey—do some karaoke from that. I envy your sweet voice.

DIANA: I’ll shut up, then.

BOB: C’mon. We’re all a bit pissed. But here’s for opening up—not shutting. I got a story about Colt, back before he joined the agency. Hell, he’s the one who got me here to begin with—otherwise I’d still be oiling up old Cessnas. Early mornings at the airfield, no one awake but ghouls like me that failed Plan A—‘a’  for ‘aint gonna happen, vying to fly with coke-bottle eyesight’.

DIANA: What was your Plan B?

BOB: ‘But it’s bound to happen’—digging my heels in. And maybe that worked out—not flying, but getting better with the mechanics and… well, so anyway: Colt comes to the airfield, parks as close as he can to the hangar, but it’s on the other side of the fence, and I have to buzz him in. He’s got these two golf umbrellas, big-ass ones like Mickey Mouse ears, doming him in. Had a devil of a time getting them through the gate like that.

DIANA: Was it raining?

BOB: No! cloudless sky.

LILY: Sunny? Bald guys gotta be careful.

BOB: Was barely daybreak. I asked him—first conversation we ever had—what’s up with the Mary Poppins pair, and he goes, “that’s my way of getting into the zone.” He held them with arms crossed, like he was King Tut or something—

DIANA: You said he was Mary Poppins—

LILY: An’ Mickey Mouse. What is it? What are you trying to make him?

BOB: A man of many facets. He got into the hangar, closed the umbrellas, threw them in the prop plane he’d reserved, then taxied out, pretty happy with his ‘zone’. Fast forward, couple weeks later, he gives me a lift after his log hours and my shift done—the airfield starting to brace for Hurricane Francis, I think it was. Day turned rainy fast and took some folks by surprise. Colt sees this grandma pushing a baby buggy on the sidewalk and stops the car, pulls out his two umbrellas, opens them both the instant he opens his door, bunnies over to the granny and gives her one—

DIANA: Why not the other one, too, for the baby?

BOB: The baby was already under the hood, and the granny kinda hunched over with the one she now had—plenty huge for her to handle. And so he comes back, contorts into the car and drives on.

DIANA: How come he didn’t offer them a ride, fold the buggy into his trunk?

BOB: What d’ya want? Everybody else was just driving by, leaving them in their wake.

LILY: Also, he didn’t have a baby seat. I mean, come on. Colt’s straight-laced, maybe too much so.

DIANA: It’s true, he didn’t like to bend rules. One time I tried to sneak a bottle of Zwack into his duffel en route to his first launch over there.

BOB: What’s ‘Zwack’?

DIANA: Look over there, behind the bar. You see that round black bottle on the second shelf? Swiss cross logo? It’s actually Hungarian, but…

BOB: Yeah, should I order us some?

DIANA: Sure. It’s potent. And herbal.

LILY: An’ shaped like a new moon. So you were digging into Colt’s duffel…

DIANA: As duty allowed: I was prepping some of his apparatus—camera equipment, adapters, stuff like that—and there was this perfect nest of space, size of a softball. He of course found my little gift and marched it back to me, claiming it would burst during lift-off, and I assured him, “no, not with that shape”; then he worried it would float all over the space lab once uncorked, and I said, “that’s why it's a screw-top”; then this, then that. Finally, he admitted it would be against code, as if I wouldn’t have known. “Okay, give it to the Russians, like, as a gift.” He mulled that over, but backed down again. “It may snowball,” he said.

BOB: Snowball? Sounds perfect for Ruskies.

DIANA: Yeah—acclimate a bit, y’know? Meet them on their terms. Raise a toast to the Glasnost, or whatever they call it these days. Well, he shook his head at that. “I just want to stay within the bubble of the job,” he said, exact wording.

BOB: “The bubble of the job.” I’ve heard him say that, too. Never knew what to make of it. Dedicated dude, I guess.

LILY: Getting all this, Sherm?

SHERM: Got it all before you spoke. Like I said, I know the bouquet of his sweat.

* * * *

iii. ‘Tattoo You’, Daytona Beach. The proprietor of this beachside box, Karel Strach, sits upon the reception desk with his feet dangling nervously. Crowding the rest of the room is Detective Dumas and his camera crew, debating their angles; the shadowy presence stands at the threshold of the back room, blackened for the morning’s lack of clients. On the walls are many templates and testimonial pictures; among them, on a muscular back, is a rocket bursting from within a globe. Another, not tattooed, is of Kennedy’s motorcade, seconds before the inevitable. Strach lights a cigarette and offers one to Dumas. The clapperboard seems to take both by surprise.

MR STRACH: Is all this necessary? I mean, be my guest—I could use the free advertising—but I got nothin’ in terms of Colt. Haven’t seen him in years. Too busy, I guess—him, I mean. Hey, you need a light?

DUMAS: Hmm? Oh, this? No, I don’t smoke.

MR STRACH: Well, I’d just as soon take it back then; not to be an Indian-giver.

DUMAS: Of course you don’t want to do that. Here, sorry for the confusion. May I ask how you came to this line of work?

MR STRACH: Tattoos? You have one hidden, yourself?

DUMAS: I have, as a matter of fact. Hidden in plain sight, as it were. See, if I turn around and scrape my hair back—do you see?—I haven’t had a haircut in a while, but…

MR STRACH: Oh, yeah, I can see something. Don’t know what, exactly.

DUMAS: That’s an open eye. Probably hard to distinguish the white from the iris, the eyelashes from all the other hair there, but…

MR STRACH: An open eye. Okay—now I think I can make it out. A sort of Cyclops thing, yeah?

DUMAS: A detective thing, really; I should have eyes in the back of my head.

MR STRACH: Or ‘eye’ in this case.

DUMAS: Yes, just one—that’s what I could afford at the time. College, you know. Which brings us to Colt. He rejected his acceptance at M.I.T. to study here, is that right?

MR STRACH: You’ve been talking to my ex-wife, I guess. Boston blue-blood wanting to rub it in everybody’s faces. I bet she insisted to call her ‘Straw-hh’, like Bach.

DUMAS: Why, yes—that’s good detective work, Mr Strach.

MR STRACH: No, see: I’m not into that nonsense. Pronounce the ‘ch’, like it looks on paper: Strach. I’m a visual guy—a thing is what it is, and you should just own it. Look over at that wall: all my misspellings—‘what didn’t killed me made me stonger’, my fave—most of ’em brought in that way by dumb-ass college kids on Spring Break, begging their downpayments back.

DUMAS: My relatives, you think?

MR STRACH: Possibly. I don’t really keep records that closely.

DUMAS: Would you have any records of Colt’s hopes, or fears?

MR STRACH: ’Scuse me?

DUMAS: Hopes and fears. You know, like they ask parents at school conferences: ‘what do you hope your child will do?’ and ‘What do you fear?’ At least that’s what I’ve had to consider for my kids, dreaming to be, you know, the typical ballerina and astronaut.

MR STRACH: Girl and boy, you got?

DUMAS: Two boys. Plenty! But girls can be astronauts, too.

MR STRACH: You’re asking, I think, how Colt chose space as his profession. I don’t have the slightest idea, really. I stopped flying when I crash-landed in Beverly, before Colt was anybody’s idea.

DUMAS: How did you crash?

MR STRACH: Karaoking with my iPod, I forgot to put down my wheels. Kept hovering half the runaway wondering where they were, and then just… belly-slid the damn thing. All fine ’til she decided to roll, turn into a fireball. Miracle I walked away.

DUMAS: So why would Colt want to follow in those footsteps?

MR STRACH: Ask him. I never pushed him to fly.

DUMAS: Curious. Your wife seems to think you lured him out of Boston.

MR STRACH: My ex. I can just imagine her voice: ‘Karel, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!’

DUMAS: You introduced yourself to me as ‘Carlo’. Is this another name thing?

MR STRACH: Up there I was Karel, to please her. Down here I’m who I wanna be.

DUMAS: And the apple tree? Did you pick apples as a family?

MR STRACH: Like at an orchard? No. Hell, I could hardly lure him out of our apartment. Tried to take him hunting once—big mistake.

DUMAS: I’m sure. He’s a vegetarian, is he?

MR STRACH: Not that I know of. Maybe. What does that have to—

DUMAS: Elementary, Mr Strach. One cannot hunt vegetables.

MR STRACH: Fair ’nuf. Say, you wouldn’t want me to do that second eye behind your head, would’ja? Ten percent discount if you pay in cash.

DUMAS: Tempting. I have another interview this afternoon—how long would this take?

MR STRACH: How much cash you got?

DUMAS: A half-hour’s worth. And that depends on my chance to ask more questions, if you can answer while you ink. Are you good at multi-tasking?

MR STRACH: Oh, sure. Done that all my life. Now if you step into my office…

* * * *

iv. Ramp Road Park, Cocoa Beach. The mid-morning sun is now over the isthmus, seeking at distance, like anyone else, an aggregation of manatees. Lily pulls her kayak from the Banana River and shoulders it to her car, then slides it over the roof rack and bungees the sides, bow and stern. Her phone rings from inside her mesh bag, and she walks over to a shady bench before answering. She presses the button and coughs affectatiously.

LILY: Hel—lo?, Is it… par—don… you, Sherm?

SHERM: Of course it’s me. You alright, Lil?

LILY: You alone?

SHERM: No one’s listening in, if that’s what you mean. Where are you?

LILY: I’ve called in sick. Se—e, I’ve caught a cold.

SHERM: You were perfectly fine last night. Sure this aint just a hangover?

LILY: Are you asking as a friend, or practicing your interrogation?

SHERM: As a friend. Same as I’ll answer concerning Colt, if that’s what you’re implying.

LILY: I am. Hey, maybe when this detective—what’s his name?

SHERM: Dumas.

LILY: Dumas—when he asks… whatever, you can turn the tables, ask what he knows about Colt, what can we hope, all that.

SHERM: I’ll do my best. But what would you like me to say? You didn’t really share a story, despite Bob’s prodding.

LILY: Neither did you.

SHERM: ’Cuz I was told to listen, and learn.

LILY: You wanna story? Okay. One day you dragged him from his car, threw him into yours and drove off, dumped him out again, laughed about it later. The end.

SHERM: Wait, wait, wait—it wasn’t that way. His car overheated on a morning we were both due for a simulation launch. He called me to say he wouldn’t make it—taxis can’t go through the checkpoint—and so I say, ‘you better make it, our fates here are attached!’ Hell, he could’ve hoofed it if he cared, a couple miles—

LILY: So you cared so much more by driving those couple miles—

SHERM: It was a pain in the ass! I was already suiting up, my jeep wasn’t very nearby; but he wasn’t gonna budge. Said he’d wait for a tow truck to take him home.

LILY: You dragged him from his car—I saw his scrapes when he came in for fitness.

SHERM: Listen, Lil, he was messing up my shit! I was next in line for an ISS mission—he’d already had one, so la-ti-da for him. But if that simulation didn’t happen, I’d be the one losing out. As for his scrapes, he had ’em coming: he told me to put up the tarp roof before he’d get out of his car, and I said we didn’t have time—jeeps aren’t that automatic—and he crossed him arms and, yes, dammit, I did drag him out and wrestle him into the back seat, where he balled up like a fetus on the floor.

LILY: Oooh, big man, you.

SHERM: The guy’s afraid of open space—

LILY: He’s been to outer space, for fuck’s sake! Prolly to get away from ‘friends’ like you!

SHERM: You said I laughed about it later. We laughed about it, sitting at the Lamp Post—Colt, me and Bob—after simulation passed. People go through shit, anxieties and such, and true friends wrestle ’em back to a better reality. That’s what I did. And by the way—you know his body well enough: he coulda just as easily belted me unconscious. I think he wanted me to do exactly what I did.

LILY: You’ll make a scary dad someday. But… hey, just be, like, not so scary when you do this stupid interview. Don’t tell that story, f’rinstance.

SHERM: I could be a good dad, if you’re interested. Bring you some chicken soup—

LILY: I’m interested in Colt comin’ back. You make that happen. Through Dumas or, I dunno, fly there yourself for a rescue. Just don’t scrape him up too much.

SHERM: Scout’s honor, Lil. Be well.

LILY remains on the bench for a while, watching the way the Banana River barely flows. She scratches below her eye and looks down to her phone as if it—and not an unwelcome caller—has something to say. She scrolls to a poem Colt had sent her some time ago, when he had to get some kind of clearance in Houston. He was taking the city’s metro system when he saw this “mosquito hawk:

was lonely in the subway,

trapped within the train,

doors that slid might slice

a leg away, a feeling out

for any cue to fly or stay,

the tunnel would enwomb

things either way, far from

where the rabbit hole began;

come, dear creature, land

your worries, rushing on,

into my open hand, not

that sojourners can rest

so well, talk or understand,

but give that palm a chance:

God knows the opposite

assumes the usual exit plan.”

She slides her screen and pushes FaceTime.

LILY: Come on, come on, come on… Don’t die on me, you, you damn bug… Don’t—oh my God, Colt? Are you…?

COLT: Hey, Lily.

LILY: Hey? Are you okay? Alive? What the fuck’s goin’ on? Where are you? Why aren’t you here? God damn you, Colt Kepler, God… are you okay?

COLT: I’m okay. Are you?

LILY: No! Don’t you know how worried we are over here?

COLT: I guess so.

LILY: Sick. Worried sick! Nobody’s heard anything, but they say you’re like a hostage. Are you trapped? Like that mosquito in the subway?

COLT: Hmm. You remember that?

LILY: Answer the fucking question!

COLT: I’m trapped. But treated okay. Better than I probably deserve.

LILY: Who are they? Russians?

COLT: I can’t really say, Lily.

LILY: C’mon—I’m alone. I’m lonely, too. I didn’t think this about you when—

COLT: I got to go.

LILY: No! Hey—can you even see me? You haven’t looked into my eyes yet. Can you see where I am right now? Do you like kayaking? Looking for manatees? Are you more for fresh water or salt? I’ve only seen you swim in the fitness pool—

COLT: Lily, they’ll take my phone away if—

LILY: Do you know where we were last night, Bob, Di and sneaky Sherm? Lamp Post, drinkin’ you back. They were—God! They were… too fucking happy to… Why did you do this, Colt? I heard you wouldn’t get back into the space ship—almost outta oxygen—is that what happened? Why did you, I mean, didn’t you—Jesus, what am I trying to say? Sherm today is gonna talk shit to some detective. What d’you think of that? Bastard! He never was your friend, really, was he? Remember those scrapes you showed me? He’s, like, all lion-proud about it, pounding his chest. Are you there, Colt? Why don’t you talk, shut me up? At least look at me.

COLT: If I look at you, I’ll probably cry.

LILY: That’s a good thing, right?

COLT: Right.

LILY: But you’re still not looking.

COLT: Someone’s coming. Bye.

LILY: No! Don’t—damn it. Tunnelling again…. At least alive.

* * * *

v. Nasa Pkwy E, launchpad viewing area. The causeway slices the fat Banana River and separates the general public from the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. An early evening breeze cools off what has been a sweltering day; Sherm lies on the grass embankment while the camera crew of Detective Dumas sets up in front of the empty bleachers. Behind them, to the side, stands the shadowy presence, careful not to be within the frame of filming. Dumas summons Sherm over to sit upon the second bench, allowing them to use the first as a footrest and perhaps the third as a place to lean an elbow. The clapperboard cannot be found, so a whipped-up sheet of paper identifies the scene, as that worker slaps her outstretched hands.

DUMAS: So, shall we start this like that Ziggy song?

SHERM: Excuse me?

DUMAS: You know: ‘ten, nine—commencing—eight—countdown, engines on—’

SHERM: Oh, you mean Major Tom. Okay… We’re rolling, right?

DUMAS: ‘six, five—’

SHERM: Just thought that, um, you meant to do this… more, or less, serious-like. Nothing against that song.

DUMAS: It captures a demographic, that song—maybe, if I can extrapolate, it gives you astronauts a pop star sheen. The ‘rock’ of rocket science. Larry Hagman did it for me, growing up.

SHERM: Not Barbara Eden? She’s the one we’re usually asked about.

DUMAS: For sure, her. For sure. But where were we?

SHERM: Nowhere: we hadn’t started yet, technically.

DUMAS: Sort of we did. This very place—launchpad number 5—where countdowns have patterned the heartbeat of America for all those Apollo missions, Space Shuttles—

SHERM: Well—

DUMAS: the nest of NASA, the cat-bird seat—

SHERM: You’re mixing metaphors, I think…

DUMAS: the frontal lobe of—

SHERM: Listen, we’re here to talk about Colt Kepler, as I understand.

DUMAS: In an extant way, we are. What can you tell me?

SHERM: I can tell you that there’s nothing truly for me to tell; you’ve heard, I’m sure, more than me: the mission stalled after five-plus hours of normative procedures; Colt was eventually reeled in; the return vehicle did its job, despite some impromptu adjustments…

DUMAS: Could you care to elaborate on those adjustments, from a fellow astronaut’s point of view?

SHERM: I don’t know how technical I can get…

DUMAS: The world’s your oyster—shoot for moon, if you will.

SHERM: You’re mixing metaphors again—

DUMAS: My virtue, I guess, or my vice. I just want to get to the nub. Colt was a consummate colleague, it’s fair to assume?

SHERM: Colt is my friend, if that’s what you mean. What factors into ‘consummate’?

DUMAS: Hmm. Hadn’t thought about an adjectival definition, per se.

SHERM: My uncle—he’s a priest—talked sometimes about the consummation of a marriage, most recently when my cousin Ernie was getting married.

DUMAS: Did Colt attend that wedding?

SHERM: Erm… no, not that I recall. He’s actually not that close a friend…

DUMAS: Curious. Could we pursue how close he was to you?

SHERM: I’m his colleague, Dude. I don’t know much what else to say.

DUMAS: You characterized him as your friend.

SHERM: I did. Colleagues should be friends.

DUMAS: Point established. Now this friend goes off the grid, wrestles some Russian kinda-colleague in outer space, makes it somehow back to earth—shall we say, credit to that Russian?—and, as we’ve ascertained, remains in contact with the western world…

SHERM: ‘Remains in contact’—how? I haven’t heard from him.

DUMAS: I’ll take that for the truth. He’s shy, we’ve come to understand, disinclined to talk to everyone.

SHERM: I’m not just ‘everyone’… I’ve—I’ve… spent time… with the guy.

DUMAS: Of course. Take your time, so to speak.

SHERM: It’s not rocket science, to throw out that cliché: a guy goes off the rails, everybody wonders why, and now, somehow, I’m supposed to groove a kind of answer.

DUMAS: No. No answer. Just some background, if you will. Colt was wrestling some Russian…

SHERM: You’re asking me to speculate—

DUMAS: I am. We only have mind-images of what we’ve deduced. Your friend was floating in the oblivion of space, gliding through the protocols, cleaning solar panels and adjusting something of the satellite receptors—that’s where your knowledge could come in to clarify—and, along the way, he… as you say,… went off the rails. That’s what we’re here to verify.

SHERM: So, the interview is done. You know more than me—how could I know more? I wasn’t there, and if I were…

DUMAS: If you were there, the wrestle would have been in English, or—

SHERM: Listen, I don’t think a hypothetical would help you. I have actually wrestled with Colt, brotherly-like, as a mutual friend reminded me today. I pulled him from his stalled-out car to put him in my jeep—this was maybe just a year ago—and it’s hard to know what else to call it other than: I pulled him from his funk.

DUMAS: His funk?

SHERM: Colt… has always been, how should I say?.. self-conscious of the outer world. He’s an introvert, keeps to himself—sometimes to a detrimental degree. I’m not here to back-stab; he’s earned every bit his right to be on board the missions that he’s been.

DUMAS: Including this one?

SHERM: Hey, if all is safe and sound, then yeah: maybe it’s a good thing for our agencies, tussle through anxieties, keep things one-hundred. Not that I’d disrupt a mission, if I ever get a chance to get up there.

DUMAS: Indeed, not.

SHERM: Colt wouldn’t hurt a fly—maybe that’s why the Russian pulled him in—

DUMAS: It took two Russians, to be precise: the fellow space-walker and another at the hatch.

SHERM: Really? That’s dangerous. But anyway, all’s well that ends well, right?

DUMAS: I suppose the end is when he comes back home, but even then…

SHERM: Even then, he’d have to face, you know, the outer world.

DUMAS: You’ve said that twice now—what exactly do you mean by ‘outer world’? Is that what civilians think as ‘outer space’?

SHERM: Hmm. Hadn’t really thought of it like that. Funny, now that I hear the two together. Colt is—what’s the word?—afraid of open spaces.

DUMAS: An agoraphobe?

SHERM: Yes, I think that’s the term. Opposite of a claustrophobe, I suppose, though I don’t know the nuances of such conditions. We’d be in a hundred simulations, training weightless, in the pool, at the radar center, in the guts of the rocket hangar, at the canteen, back to the drawing room, on and on. Colt would always be a fish in those waters.

DUMAS: A fish in an aquarium?

SHERM: Maybe—he wouldn’t want to be on display, but yeah: he’d need the confines of a tank. The times we had to practice landing in the ocean and busting out a rescue raft—those became panic attacks for Colt. He’d plow through it, wrap himself into the tarp, then slowly unfold when he got into the hold of the retrieval ship. I asked him once about it, and, well—

DUMAS: Fish don’t talk much, I suppose.

SHERM: Huh? Oh, um—that analogy isn’t the point anymore. Colt would talk like anyone—knocking down a beer or two—as long as we were inside.

DUMAS: All his anecdotes were set indoors?

SHERM: Not necessarily. Most of ’em, probably. They’d happen in some kind of capsule, though. He’d describe his flights over the Everglades, basking in the comfort of the cockpit. He told about his parakeets escaping their cage in his apartment; he couldn’t lure them back with birdseed or anything. So, he said, he opened the sliding door to the balcony he never used to let them free, fend for themselves, find the jungle with their fellow species… Instead, Colt found them after work, back inside their open cage.

DUMAS: He must have been happy.

SHERM: Then there was his story from his boyhood, hunting with his dad…

DUMAS: Yes, that’s been mentioned every interview.

SHERM: It has? Oh, well, then. Never mind.

DUMAS: Ahh—my favorite Nirvana album.

SHERM: They only had three. That one in the middle.

DUMAS: Kind of insulated, yeah? Say, do you think we can go to that bar where you astronauts hang out—we could stay inside, to honor Colt—

SHERM: I dunno. His other friends may not want to say so much. We’re not quite in a ‘walk down memory lane’ kinda mood.

DUMAS: Roger, that. We’re in a mindset to get our Ziggy back to Ground Control.

SHERM: Whatever you can do will be appreciated, but references like that… can’t really help.

* * * *

vi. Lori Wilson Park, Cocoa Beach. The sun is past its zenith, allowing the ocean to be scrutinized without squinting. Lily emerges from the tree clumps and continues her slow gait toward the white sand and gentle surf. Her head is down, gazing at her phone, or rather Colt within the frame; he’s in the same room as before—beige and windowless, at least from the angle that captures him (an angle he can commandeer). He speaks as if into a tin can; she, as if into a vast cavern.

LILY: So, yeah, it’s been a better three days than I woulda thought—being sick and all.

COLT: You look healthy to me.

LILY: Hmm. I always made fun of those slackers who needed to take their ‘mental health days’, but now… guess I’m one of ’em. Whatev’s. I just didn’t want to face anybody this week. Sherm and his detective...

COLT: Never mind them.

LILY: Bob, bless his heart, said he’d check up on me, guessing correctly that I’d use this beach for my hide-out. He may be coming any minute, so don’t be mad if I have to shut you off.

COLT: No worries. But I trust Bob.

LILY: I don’t want him peering in. Hate those groupie calls, with everybody duckfacing and shit… Not that Bob’s a shit.

COLT: The opposite.

LILY: Of course, he’s deeper than duckface… but still, you can call him yourself—you got his number if you got mine. I’m too jealous to share the signal… On the other hand, I’m happy to share you when this all ends, what, next week? We can all meet at the Lamp Post. You’ll get released by then on good behavior, yeah?

COLT: I told you already… I’m not really sure how things will go.

LILY: But what do you want? How should things go? You will get released, yes?.. Hey! What’s with the vid-cam? You still there?.. Colt? Don’t freakin’ tunnel on me yet—

COLT: I’m here.

LILY: Okay… breath control. I won’t ask you such biggies. But—

COLT: It’s not that they’re biggies, Lily. I just don’t often know what to say.

LILY: That’s maybe why you write out what’s hard to say. I love that you’ve done that these last couple days. You said you’d have a new poem for me, right?

COLT: Pretty much right. It’s about the same as before.

LILY: Perfect! I like the same as before. Some things shouldn’t change. Just as… wait, I’ll swing around for you to see the breakers… these waves I’ve adored all my life, as a little girl coming to this very beach, body surfing and making fairy castles that the tide would swallow up.  

COLT: See, that’s a poem in itself.

LILY: So please write it for me. I’m drowning here in the drought of not knowing where you are.

COLT: Okay, I’ll write it.

LILY: Or, for now, read me your new one—

COLT: I’d have to exit this screen… Probably just as well.

LILY: No, don’t vanish on me yet—

COLT: My voice won’t, as far as I understand the tech… Wait a second... Here’s what I was trying to find. Forgive the fact that it takes the same motif—an insect in the hand, and all.

LILY: Am I the insect?

COLT: Maybe you, maybe me. Nobody has to be… At any rate, I’m calling it ‘for whom’:

the morning breathes

the mists of evening

enterprise, you are there

and I am here, an ocean

and a continent away,

hooked by moonlight’s

sway, seemingly more

constant than the sun:

‘stand still’, the poet says,

yet nature tends to run;

try instead to curl yourself

and me with you into

one ball—not moon, not

sun, but who we are as

worlds as infinite as them

LILY: It’s beautiful, if I couldn’t hear everything so crystal clear—you’ll send it as a text, right?—but I loved that “moonlight’s sway.”

COLT: The hook of it, I meant.

LILY: Is it shining there, where you are? The same shaped moon that I’ll see here tonight? Show me what’s out your window, Colt—the moon you’re seeing there.

COLT: It’s not so easy to show things here.

LILY: ’Cuz of curling up? “me with you” like snails do?

COLT: Well, a different creature. In another stanza.

LILY: Less slimy?

COLT: Powdery, in fact, and with wings. Here’s how it ends:

I caught a moth today

by holding up my hand,

asking to alight and glad

the creature knew it could

(and can) today, tomorrow,

rounded in the residence

that fingers wouldn’t cage,

rather to protect its rest

the minutes it remained,

time enough to name it

‘whom’, for anyone who’d

dare presume a landing

to unfurl; I thought of

you, for whom this poem

may open my closed world

That’s it. My idiotic, closeted world.

LILY: C’mon, Colt—you’re inviting me into it. That makes me an idiot?

COLT: No, not that at all. I’m an idiot for suggesting as much.

LILY: How ’bout neither of us are. Though, I could do with being a moth for a while: fly with the moonlight into your prison cell.

COLT: You’re already here. Plus, you wanted me to show up to the Lamp Post.

LILY: Ah, so you’re warming up to that plan! And just the note to leave on, too, ’cuz here comes Bob. Do you see him, slouching toward me, if I tilt this way?

COLT: Yes, I see him. Slouching towards Bethlehem, an Irish poet said. And so I’ll let you go.

LILY: Irish, nice! Me, too. And nicer that my jealousy’s contagious! As it’s meant to be. Here, I’ll leave you with my own little duckface—or maybe whatever pose a moth makes to kiss. Do insects kiss, Colt?.. Colt?.. Damn! I was going to cut you off for once!

BOB: Hey, Lily, am I interrupting anything? I mean, I can… you know.

LILY: Hi. No, you’re not interrupting. Even though, friend to friend, you can… you know.

BOB: Whew, I’m glad to see you in good spirits. I was frankly prepared for the opposite.

LILY: The opposite?

BOB: So, I was coming here thinking, ‘Lil’s playin’ hookey… and God bless her for it!’ The rest of us can benefit from that kinda chutzpah.

LILY: You think I’m playing hookey? You don’t believe I’m sick?

BOB: Well, I don’t wanna presume…

LILY: Um, Bob, you did presume—that I’m playing hookey.

BOB: I’m sorry—really. Are you, um…

LILY: Just fooling. I’m playing hookey.

BOB: Oh! okay, then.

LILY: So, I assume you’re here to make a citizen’s arrest.

BOB: Of course not! I said ‘God bless’, didn’t I? And anyway, I slipped out unannounced, myself; lunch break was over a half-hour ago.

LILY: Oooh. Big Bad Bob—you’ll get in trouble for me! But I’ll cover for ya. I’ll say… hmmm… What should I say?

BOB: Say what’s on your mind. I mean, the week has been heavy, confusing,.. confounding, even, if I'm using that word right.

LILY: Nobody’s con-found Colt yet. He’s still con-lost.

BOB: Yeah. They should give us the whole week off and issue us tickets to Kazakhstan.

LILY: It’s a huge country. And Colt’s hidden in just a shoebox there.

BOB: Oh, so you’ve been talking with Detective Dumas, too.

LILY: Say what?

BOB: Dumas—the detective who’s been interviewing people, trying to get Colt back.

LILY: The guy Sherm blabbed to? Has he been hounding you to backstab Colt?

BOB: No, no—not to backstab. Honestly—he’s trying to negotiate his return.

LILY: How do you know that? And what would await his return? It’s like that Snowden guy, also trapped over there, probably better off than what kinda jail he’d enter here.

BOB: Snowden, the internet spy? You think their situations match?

LILY: I don’t… know. I shouldn’t have said Snowden—I never really followed that shit. Just that Colt… well, I’ll shut up now. I came here to go swimming, so—

BOB: Yeah, I mean—go to it. I didn’t mean to rankle you by the detective stuff. I only said it ’cuz he also described Colt in a shoebox and he’s doing what he can to help get him out.

LILY: Did he say what color shoebox, inside?

BOB: I dunno, beige? I suppose it wouldn’t matter if the lid were closed. Why do you ask?

LILY: I just wanna imagine.

BOB: Beige or black?

LILY: Both. And now I’ll swim towards him, if you don’t mind.

BOB: Um, if you don’t mind, I’ll sit here awhile as lifeguard. Make sure you come back, at least.

LILY: You’re sweet, Bob, but don’t lose your job. I’ll come back on my own.

BOB: Alright. And join us at the Lamp Post tomorrow evening, if you’re up for it. You can meet this detective and judge him for yourself.

LILY: The Lamp Post? To play pool with this detective? For fuck sake, maybe I will get sick for real.

BOB: No, don’t fret. I just wanted you to be in the loop. We’re all hoping to get Colt back, and Dumas says he’s made some headway that he’d like to share with us.

LILY: I’ll see. Text me tomorrow—I need at least another mental health day.

BOB: Indeed. Swim safe.

LILY: I will. The wide-open ocean floats me pretty well.

* * * *

vii. Kennedys Lamp Post, Cape Canaveral. On the entrance side of the room, pool games go on as usual; on the other side, Detective Dumas busily sets bar stools to facilitate a possible discussion between his interviewees—Mrs Strach and, separately, Mr Strach, Diana, Sherm, Bob, and Lily. In Dumas’ disarray, the six decide how to seat themselves. Dumas points out that he’ll want to refer to the big flat-screen behind the bar, but also that they’ll need to face the video camera which he has set up on a narrow shelf opposite the bar. Absent his supporting crew, Dumas pushes a couple buttons himself before stepping away from the camera, leveling a ‘peace sign’ horizontally and closing it like a scissors.

MR STRACH: Where’s all your help? They kinda left ya in the lurch.

DUMAS: Oh, they’ve taken the evening off—maybe going out to play pool somewhere!

DIANA: I don’t understand. Is this camcorder what you’ve been filming with?

MRS STRACH: It was far more a production at my place in Boston—

MR STRACH: Our place, don’t forget. You haven’t bought my half out yet.

DUMAS: Well, tonight this esteemed tavern is our place, where Colt let down his hair, so to speak, and colleagues like you supported him in his hopes and fears.

BOB: Huh?

MR STRACH: You already used that line at my tattoo shop. And I’m Colt’s dad, not his freakin’ colleague.

LILY: Well, I am his freaking colleague—nice to meet you, Mr Kepler—

MR STRACH: ‘Strach’, actually.

MRS STRACH: Since when did you pronounce it that way, Karel?

DUMAS: He prefers ‘Carlo’, by the way.

MR STRACH: Since my liberation from New England patricians like you.

DIANA: Hoo, boy—can’t we just get on to the facts of the investigation, like where is Colt and how you’re going to get him back?

DUMAS: I’m not technically a part of that investigation; I’m only documenting this side of things.

SHERM: What? You’ve implied all along that you have an inside track on his situation! We’ve been counting on you to work on his return.

MRS STRACH: Why did I even fly down here, otherwise?

DUMAS: To have this occasion, for one—this coming to terms.

BOB: Huh? I think, if it doesn’t mar your documentary, I’ll order us a round of Blue Moons—you said the evening’s on you, right?

DUMAS: Reasonably, yes. It’s budgeted in.

MR STRACH: I’ll take a Jack Daniels, then.

DIANA: And me a shot of Zwack. Or maybe the bottle—it’s little. Lily, you’ll help me out on that, right?

LILY: I’m sick, remember. I’ll take jasmine tea.

DIANA: Zwack’s medicinal.

LILY: Whatever.

SHERM: This is outlandish! You still haven’t defined your part in Colt’s actual fate. I’ve been under the impression—we’ve been under the impression—that you have official credentials as a detective. Do you? I mean, are we being taken on a—

MR STRACH: Relax, buddy. Wash down a Jack and let the man ask his questions.

MRS STRACH: I think he wants us to ask questions—of each other.

DIANA: But we’re not the ones in limbo.

LILY: You’ve been using that fucking word too often. You think Colt is playing some kind of party game?

MRS STRACH: Colt was quite private about playing games—wish he had gone to more parties as a boy, birthday parties or even something not so tame. Nintendo wasn’t good for him, I think. He needed to get out more, explore—

MR STRACH: That’s what I was always saying—the kid needs an outlet, a way to meet the world. And when I made that happen, you hit the roof—

MRS STRACH: Because you almost killed him, hunting! You put a rifle in his hands and didn’t teach him anything about it, let alone what to aim for! You tried to make an instant man of him, as if you ever read that instruction manual.

MR STRACH: Getting nasty, are we? Like you lump hunting into some basket of deplorables. Us rednecks hootin’ for a mailbox to kill.

DIANA: I don’t think this is—

MRS STRACH: It wasn’t a mailbox, Carlo, but a basset hound! You took our son to Green Mountain and forgot to check that it was a restricted zone—

MR STRACH: In-season, even had a doe-tag.

MRS STRACH: But too close to the resort, where that elderly couple had every right to walk their dog in peace—

MR STRACH: Off-leash, at least a hundred yards away from them.

MRS STRACH: And how does Colt decide the basset is a doe?

MR STRACH: You’d have to ask him, now, wouldn’t ya?

SHERM: I heard it a little different—

MRS STRACH: Oh, do tell! The basset charged him and he shot in self-defense?

BOB: It’s Colt’s story to tell, if we even need to go there.

LILY: Well, you were the one last time digging through his closet.

BOB: Not at all—they were anecdotes that showed his good character: saving some granny from the rain, keeping to professionalism…

DIANA: Alright, Mr Dumas—detective, if you are—you gathered us here for some ‘coming to terms’; now time to reciprocate. What terms have you got for us, besides paying the bar bill?

DUMAS: Not my own terms, but those from the horse’s mouth.

MR STRACH: You mean the horse’s ass—that’s how I always heard it.

DUMAS: Well, I was referring to your son, so—

LILY: Whatever end, he’s not a horse!

BOB: Calm down, Lily—don’t be bothered by this tomfoolery. I can walk you home if you need—

LILY: I can scram by myself, thanks. But I’ll give this Dumas one more minute to, what—‘come to terms’?

DUMAS: Speed of light is all it’ll take. If you can direct your attention to the screen, please.

MRS STRACH: What? You’re going to project him up for us, in live time?

DUMAS: As lively as he was this afternoon—different screen, then, but that shouldn’t matter!

SHERM: You contacted Colt this afternoon? And you’re just telling us now?

DUMAS: There’s time zones to consider, and such.

DIANA: It’s the middle of the night there! Does he know you’re—what, Skyping?

DUMAS: Little thing called FaceTime. Go figure, he’s had his phone available all this time!

LILY (seeing a shadowy figure in the threshold of the exit): Go fucking figure. If that’s all you’re here for, I could have done that on my own. I’m done with this limbo.

DIANA: Lily, I didn’t mean anything bad…

LILY: I’m sure not. Have the rest of my Zwack as a peace offering. (She exits)

SHERM: Should I?..

BOB: What, go after her? Weren’t you listening?

MRS STRACH: How do I get this FaceTime? And if it worked this afternoon, how come the screen’s just showing a red phone?

MR STRACH: If you only got out of your ivory tower, Rachel, you’d know things like this.

MRS STRACH: What, do you have this way of contacting Colt?

MR STRACH: He hasn’t bothered to give me his number. His cell phone, anyway. And, hell—I’m here for him today, aren’t I? Or are you gonna say you travelled further and loved him more?

DIANA: He’s not picking up. He’s gotta be asleep…

BOB: Or else they took his phone away. What do you know, Detective, about his captors? Are they cosmonauts, or KGB, or…?

DUMAS: I told you before—I’m not part of that investigation.

SHERM: But you called him this afternoon! Wouldn’t that have come up?

DUMAS: It didn’t. Curious, that.

DIANA: Well then, what else did you talk about?

DUMAS: Um… about this get-together we’re having now, and how it might go.

MRS STRACH: Unanswered? Left hanging?

DUMAS: Apparently… so.

LILY (outside): You gonna answer that?

COLT: No, seeing that I have better company.

LILY: You’re talking about the moon? It’s hooked you, finally, hasn’t it?

COLT: Like a moth.

LILY: Wait, that’s supposed to be me.

COLT: Then two moths.

LILY: And an open sea. You’re sure you don’t wanna go inside? My place is as much an option…

COLT: I’ve been inside a long time. I’d just as soon take in the night air.

LILY: Riverbank, or beach?

COLT: Both. But maybe I should wait and greet the folks?

LILY: Maybe. I’m in no hurry.

COLT: No bench in sight, but there’s a wall we can sit against.

LILY: That doofus Dumas is paying for their drinks; they could be in there ’til last call.

COLT: I’m in no hurry.

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2018)