Astronaut v. Astronomer

The Astronaut walks back to the oak.

He reaches into a pocket of his jumpsuit and pulls out a tube labeled "Clams in Garlic & White Wine". After examining the nutrient content, he eats the tube's contents, rolling gently as the course progresses. Then he pulls out a tube labeled "Simple Country Salad" and eats that. Then he pulls out one labeled "Acorn-Fed Virginia Country Ham With Pineapple-Grapefruit Dijon Glaze" and eats that. Then one that reads, "Roasted Asparagus with Thyme" and eats that. Then "A Very Simple Sweet Potato (Or Yam)" and eats that. Then "Scalloped Potatoes, Onions and Garlic" and eats that. Then "Garlic Herb Butter" and eats that. Then he pulls a Mars bar hidden in his sock, beneath his trouser leg, and eats that, too.

Then he takes a nap. Then he wakes and the Astronomer's standing nearby.

Hello there, says the Astronomer. Have a nice nap?

Yes, says the Astronaut, I sure did.

The Astronomer's a genial man in late middle-age, with thick brown-framed glasses, and white hair capped by a tweed touring hat. He wears a grey and green coat, a beige scarf.

Boy, the first thing I thought when I walked out here was what a fine place this would be to erect an observatory. It's remote, so there wouldn't be much light pollution. What do you think?

The Astronaut tells him it sounds like a good idea.

Holy moly! the Astronomer says, clapping his gloved hands together, looking up. What a view!

You know, says the Astronaut, I'm -

From NASA, huh? Heck that's great. Met the chief of your scientific branch not to long ago when I was down in Mexico. Archeoastronomy, you know. Great fun. Students love it.

Oh, I -

And he was a great guy, the chief, let me tell ya!

He -

You know most people think that only the Maya or the Aztec or the Inca practiced astronomy. Not true! North American tribes did, too! Mostly through traditions passed down by the Maya or Aztec. Along with blood rites!

The Astronomer discusses the astronomic practices of several North American tribes. The Astronaut listens patiently. Finally, about nine hours later, as night falls, the Astrologer decides they should get to the task at hand. So they both get their pistols and go to the field.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Assessor v. Astronaut

The Assessor, being a fastidious sort of woman, objects to the requirements of the duel. Specifically, the requirements placed on the winner.

While I'm here I might as well make it worth my while, she says. So she adjusts the waist of her mall-bought jeans and begins assessing the valuables of the dead.

She assesses the Astrologer's coral beads.

She assesses the Assassin's gold tie clip.

She assesses the Artist's silver cuff links.

She assesses the Art Therapist's turquoise necklace.

And then she takes them all and walks back to the oak. She empties the basket of the pencil and list of the dead. Then puts her treasure into the basket and, moving the table over by the oak, stands on the table and shoves the basket into a hole in the oak eight feet from the ground.

The Astronaut arrives.

Hi, he says.

The Assessor jumps in fright, then slips, then falls from the table. The Astronaut helps her up.

The Astronaut's dressed in a baggy navy blue jumpsuit, agency logo on its breast. A beeper's attached to his belt. His belt rides a bit high. He's stands tall, yet slouched, goose-necked, jug-eared, with a patchy sort of mustard-yellow bramble over his upper lip. The mustache accentuates a pronounced overbite.

Who are you?

Astronaut.

She screws her eyes. You? she asks.

It's true! he says. Here's how I came to be one:

After seventeen years of continuous training at the academy - and being skipped over for about every mission for some reason or another - I started to wonder whether I was gonna to go up at all. And I almost quit. But then, it was really late one night when this high ranking officer sees the toilet in his office is backed up. And it's so late all the maintenance people gone for the night. So he walks around looking for someone and sees me, because I'm there using the centrifuge. So all of a sudden the machine stops and I look over and sure enough I see this officer and he says, Hey, son! I got a project for ya, if ya want it. And I say, sure! And he says, can you unclog a toilet? And I say, can I? And so I go and unclog his toilet.

The Assessor frowns.

Jump four months. Now there's a big problem up in the International Space Station. Guess what?

Tell me, she says.

Toilet's clogged. Space toilet. And none of the astronauts know how to unclog a NASA-designed toilet. Then the same officer as before - he snaps his fingers and says, well boys I got just the man the job. And he gives me a call. And I go up, and guess what?

You unclog the toilet.

Bingo.

And you've done that twice?

Once on the International Space Station, once in a space shuttle, yep. The moral to this story that I tell to all the kids? Never. Give. Up. Hope. Ever. It took me seventeen years, but I finally made it. And now whenever they need plumbing work on that space station. They call me. On this beeper. On my belt.

They pick their guns. They walk out to the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.