The Boy's Perfect
/A subtle look at recruitment and deception.
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Outside the doctor’s floor to ceiling window, 2 stages of the latest Apollo rocket were being towed to a service bay along a tarmac. “There’s nothing up there, just stars, and if there was something - they'd let us know…”
The man in the white lab coat wrote it all down as the boy peered nervously around the NASA psychiatrist’s office.
Last week Billy told Dr. Smyth his truth, “Everybody says, God it’s so great your dad’s an astronaut, he must be really smart, but I wouldn’t know. He comes to a ballgame once in a while, but he’d rather be here with you guys, or in his den, or working in his office.”
This session, Billy laid on the sofa and continued expounding his 14-year-old view of the known universe, and the daily life of his mother, Rosemary.
Dr. Smyth bit on his pencil and wrote it all down again. The report would be filed and forgotten like all the rest; a waste of his time. Billy’s father, Captain A. Clarke, was so far down the mission list, that these sessions were just a show for the families to convince them NASA cared. But despite Dr. Smyth’s petulant opinions, NASA took Astronaut culture seriously. The top brass felt the support and mental health of the astronauts and their families was vital to the missions.
Billy stopped talking.
Seeing the various Mercury, Apollo, and Gemini spacecraft models on the Doctor’s desk made him think of his dad - he didn’t ask for a model like most other boys. Instead, he rolled his eyes, “So, is he the best astronaut?”
Dr. Smyth smiled, he couldn’t answer that. Billy continued.
“Cause I know others …Captain Blakey. He comes by all the time…
He seems pretty nice. He makes mum laugh.”
Billy didn’t notice, but Dr. Smyth’s pencil had a deeper bite mark. Leaning forward to the boy Dr. Smyth said, “So how many times does this Captain Blakey come over?”
Just then the white tubular stage of the Apollo service module with the American flag emblazoned on it’s side glided by the office window from a nearby crane. The boy spoke hurriedly as if excited by the sight. “Man on Man, so after my baseball practice on Tuesdays I get back at 6 and he’s always leaving, so I wave and he’s around when Dad’s doing the flight - what’s it called?” He asked as they both watched the rocket being lowered intro it’s bay.
That the shrink knew, “The flight simulation?”
“Ya that’s on Thursday nights, right?”
Dr. Smyth nodded, his pencil moving faster on his clipboard.
The boy wants a model rocket, he thought. Faking a confused expression he threw out some bait.
“So, Captain Blakey, your mum, and your dad, are all friends I suppose?”
Billy explained, “Well, I’ve never seen all of them together, but mum says Captain Blackly lost his wife, so I always smile and clean up my room when he’s over.”
Dr. Smyth pressed,
“So… Do you… talk with Captain Blakey?
Does he give you presents? Is he a swell guy?”
For Billy, this was unknown territory. And the Doctor noticed. Dr. Smyth compensated by leaning back in his chair twirling a Gemini 10 model spacecraft in his fingers.
“Hmm, I really don’t have time to watch TV with them,” Billy said.
Then scratching his head, “Captain Blakey promised to take me to a ballgame sometime.”
Dr. Smyth put down the toy and stood up. He took a long look at the nervous teenager, and ended the session. With his clipboard and his scribbled notes he marched purposely to his superiors office.
Minutes later, the door closed and the curtains were drawn - this new meeting had become classified.
NASA’s futuristic logo loomed over Billy while he waited for his ride home. In the west, rainclouds threatened to block out the summer sun.
A yellow sedan drove past security and into the lot. But, it wasn’t his mother, Rosemary; she would be involved in a slight fender-bender; rushing from a nearby shopping mall.
Billy waved.
The driver, wearing a fedora hat with black sunglasses and a brightly coloured tourist shirt nodded.
“Ya ok. I said what you wanted.”
The man reached out handing Billy a crisp note.
“Ok, there’s more to do, and more of this, - having fun?”
“It’s so boring.” Billy said adding “I can’t believe he writes down everything I say!”
“Ok. THAT’S GOOD!” said the man tapping his car dash with his fingers.
“Well, tomorrow see if you can be with your Dad at the picnic - just listen - that’s all.”
“Yeah, no sweat - Oh, you gotta split! Here comes my mum.”
From the west Rosemary’s blue Ford swerved across the parking lanes, she was late. Looking through her front window she saw the unfamiliar yellow sedan leaving the lot.
“Who’s that?” she asked. Her red hair was more frazzled than usual.
“Oh that’s… Tommy’s … dad.” Billy said.
Her voice had an edge; something had happened.
“Who’s Tommy?” She demanded.
“Just a boy at school. I guess he forgot to do some chores, or something.”
Rosemary wanted to get home, pour herself a drink and pretend the dent in her front bumper wasn’t there. She wasn’t rattled, just irritated.
There was a bright side; the visits to Dr. Smyth were paid for by NASA.
“Well get in - How did it go?”
Billy put the 50 dollars in his pants with a satisfied thrust.
“Swell, he was nicer this time.”
Rosemary’s face brightened.
Home was a short 20 minute drive to the suburbs.
She relaxed her hands on the steering wheel and drove.
When they were several blocks away from the NASA security booth, Billy did a quick shoulder check.
“By the way mum,” he said softly. “Do you happen to know a Captain Blakey?”
Rosemary shook her head, “No…No I don’t believe I do. Should I?”
Billy focused his eyes straight ahead. “I just saw some photos of the astronauts on the wall.” he said flatly “They sure look happy together.”
“Yes, Billy” she agreed even though she had never seen the picture. “They are a great bunch of guys. - We have a good life here.”
As Rosemary drove her 67 Mustang under a grove of palm trees and homewards to her loving husband, she realized in that moment, the purpose of her life.
She told Billy in a sing-song voice. “We’re just one big happy NASA family.” Billy didn’t answer - he was watching the neighborhood kids riding on their bicycles and running alongside their skateboards. None of them mattered, he thought.
A few blocks away, the tourist driver saw a payphone booth and pulled over.
He got out of his car and waited. The phone rang.
He picked up the receiver and wiped it with a white cloth, then, he spoke in a slippery Russian accent.
“Yes Comrade. It’s done. The boys perfect.”
By Derek Nyberg
From: Canada
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