Double items here. Head into (so to speak) PAW, and then latch onto (sotto voce) BillyBatch-up. Don't worry, it'll explain itself.
Now here's a mother-shippin' fool...dedicated to mother-shippers everywhere!
First a poem and then the story...
PLASTIC ANN WOOD (PAW)
A UFO found me sleeping in the snow and lifted me past reality to a living room without weather I could feel.
An inching tentacle coaxed me to a garage sale chair like Bunker's, tattered and reclining, not at all a piece one'd expect in outerspace.
A steaming cup of joe was handed me by a gentle squid I didn't know.
Plastic Ann Wood never looked so good.
An amazon prawn kicked in spastic ways and started a lift-off I didn't feel for days.
Just like the ways my organs left and reappeared kept me counting my parts.
But when I was bent over for a probe, a kind eyed octopus emerged, and said, don't get discouraged.
Gee, Plastic Ann Wood never looked so good.
I didn't remember landing back on 42nd Street, son, but rest assured it was smoothly done. I wanted to wave back but there was
empty space except for the storefront mirrors I faced, and perplexed people who doubted their eyes on how I'd appeared. Actually, I was the one with the sense of loss from being deposited on the right street, since I'd been wrongly yeared.
Plastic Ann Wood never looked so good.
Alien intelligence is a phenomenon to doubt when a spaceship can't tell Buffalo from 42nd Street, or 1974 from 1994.
But that street still has a lot of pretty whores, and can be a treat to browse the stores. I'm twenty years past the fun I often had with a certain lady on 42nd Street.
Yet here I was, staring down that blouse and undoing a strap, but still with a vague notion of being caught in a trap.
Screw the calendar, Plastic Ann Wood never looked so good.
I have to admit, there was a stirring I didn't regret.
We could do it in a car she said, but yet, neither of us was ever the waiting kind. She said, honey, where've you been?
I told her outer space, and for some strange reason, like I'd just told her that lilacs were in season, she believed me on that.
Again, just a little too pat.
Damn, Plastic Ann Wood never did it so good.
I had no trouble in a timeframe I didn't understand.
A halter top and shorter skirt made a quick pull and drop revealing heavenly sights no astronomy can equal. Fantastic Ann Plastic fell to duty, not deterred by my imagination, strangely picturing pumps made of chrome, made of steel, but not enough real, so as I could point to or feel.
Plastic Ann Wood never looked so good.
Some large amount later, that alien bank let me drop, this time on Buffalo, Fourth and Miller at a time much more familiar.
You can't blame me for wondering and continuing to smile way past silly.
You ever had an angelfish do your willy?
Who to tell the source of my grin?
But sure and there's a few lucky bastards like me know a heavenly ride, on a spaceship, for once, not gin.
Small wonder, Plastic Ann Wood looked so good.
Not if, but when; Mir-ly a matter of time.
BILLY G'S GREAT SPACE DRAG
BG McCullough was the man on the ledge of space. It wasn't his fault (though maybe it was), but BG was there and live on round the world TV. How often is a man on a ledge, about to die, available to a whole planet? BG's ratings were "bigtime-boffo" on the tube.
B, for William George, G's spacewalk took place outside the orbiting lab, outside the orbit, and outside Billy's ability to get back inside. B was completely surprised, as were we all, at the rotten turn of events. Even his lab team hadn't dreamt that the thrusters they fired by remote would sentence B to the drag of the century.
There isn't much to tell about HOW it happened. As with most traumatic events, it was over in the blink of an eye and not much anyone could do about it. Live, in our living rooms, the equivalent of the Challenger disaster, whose video replays were getting awfully irritating, it happened to BG.
Simply, BG tethered himself to what he thought was his own spacelab strut, and OK'd the firing of the thrusters he'd attached to the space debris lab. The idea was that the lab would go into a rapid re-entry orbit where it would burn up and hit ocean or desert instead of the goddam Eastern United States. It was all calculated, except for the tether part. The rest of it worked fine.
Naturally, it was a very quick realization on everyone's part that BG was doomed to ride the space "flush" to the same fate. His thrusters were no match for the custom ones brought along to move the junk. It took NASA only about two seconds to make up it's mind not to chase Billy- but for the cameras the decision went on interminably. Chasing the lab could cost zillions in pre-committed funding. Screw that NIMB-ly, not in my budget, was the thought, agency-wide. Internally, of course.
BG knew as soon as the tug on his self-powered, air-supplied suit. He knew with the equivalent "ton of mental bricks" that he'd just been involved in a "situation."
A goddamn public relations nightmare on top of a string of NASA hits and budget building successes. BG had a PHD in NASA indoctrination and the value of political PR triumph. If you have the grandest stage backdrop in the universe for your filming, you'd better not blow your lines. There's a politician always waiting to catch the budget fallout, if something goes amiss. And two for the I-told-you-so's.
So there was BG. Way out on an infinite star-studded limb with one Zarathrustian Strauss waltzing in space destiny.
Our BG was trained in geophysics and politics. He was not trained in the semantics of dying live in-one for the world. By the way, the pictures were excellent because NASA has this gyro-camera that trails its subject like those homing golf carts you see advertised . BG's extra-vehicular chores were the day's highlight, of course. And he was wired and scoped for action. The space debris of the old lab was huge, headed for populated areas, and so the possibility of a disaster-averted (on a no-brainer space chore) was too good not to play up for viewer points. It was like the commentator's job in sports-generate excitement where none exists, generate doubt about the outcome where none exists, and by all means make the individual activities much more difficult than they are. The elements of circus as ever, the key is play it larger than life, and with a backdrop like heaven and earth, the rest is easy (if not overplayed).
Then the Guinness Book of Oops' happened.
Billy G succumbed to a morbid sense of humor, a symptom he told us "manifested from imminent atmospheric immolation." As he floated, he sang, and not badly. As he floated, he danced. As he floated, he spun and twirled and told stupid riddles like "What's this year's perfect Christmas gift? What's padded, mad as a hatter and has an interplanetary puppet string? What's white on the outside and yellow as egg yolk on the inside?" BG reminded us each time that the answer was a joke on a rope named Billy.
Billy acknowledged that the whole thing was kind of a drag.
Two things were certain: Billy was going to stay the center of attention for quite a time, if not a long one. And nobody was pulling any plugs, not even Billy.
Billy said he was asked for directions by a man in a red suit and sleigh. Left, go left, Billy said he told him.
Billy's bio was all over the news. The interviews with his relatives were pretty sad, though the microphones amplified the emotions. Over-reaction wasn't discouraged, however.
William George McCullough was born in Texas, thirty four years before the "situation." He had no current spouse, but an ex-wife or two, we found out, were deeply affected by his "situation." BG had no children, no real church affiliation and a sense of humor, best described as off the wall. His lab mates, not responding to questions at the time, beforehand had wondered if Billy should ever be allowed on camera. There was a blue side to Billy's humor and often he could spin something completely blue that on paper wouldn't raise an eyebrow.
Like the time he mentioned that as the astronauts came over the horizon, it would be beneficial if the ladies tightened their halter tops as it would be a "distraction from his vantage point."
Probing his background more deeply, a reporter had unearthed a philosophy minor in college. The television tag, "hard to be philosophic at a time like this."
So, other than a few nieces and nephews and near relatives, Billy G was a smart-ass loner with an educational bent to the sciences, but a personality to the sarcastic and eclectic. Nervous tics for a TV anchor, but thoroughly engaging.
Billy's physical appearance was a NASA health club example. You have to be in reasonable shape to get into the program, and Billy had no trouble there. Not tall, not short, either, his five feet nine inches made his weight ideal at a hundred sixty-five pounds. A trim, fighting weight that it was rumored Billy took advantage of on occasion. Not that his temper didn't match his hair, short and red, it was quickly added, clarifying that Billy's Irish heritage made him a multi-dimensional scientist, with a "touch of the stone" in him that contributed to his broad humor.
With an Irish accent coming home strongly to Billy's stressed voice, the commentary from space took on a burlesque aura. The subject of God's sense of humor invaded Billy's monologue from space. Billy was determined to match his situation with a mathematical, universal rationality born of science, not some bizarre miscue with a tether hook and a thruster imbalance.
Billy called on God a few times to explain why this hadn't happened to any British astronauts. He also wondered aloud to God why this hadn't happened to more Knicks fans.
They got the joke in Italy and the Balkans, but the Brits were still a little put off from the prior "billyism" as they started be called. Forgiveness for the circumstances was rampant in most places. Nobody was quite sure how God was taking the ribbing, though.
After moonman on a rope, Billy started up with "anyone got a light? Well, everyone, get'em ready because lighting up was soon to be a specialty of the house. On me."
The singing ranged from Smoke Gets in Your Eyes to Light up My Life to Major Tom. The giggles from Light up My Life turned to "Hey, Earth, make a wish and blow me," as Billy's attitude went through some Kublerian realization depth changes.
Billy was bound and determined to have a hell of a time going through hell out there.
He had very, very little to lose that wasn't down the crapper, already, right. His NASA political sensitivities were first to leave. "What does NASA stand for? Not Allowed to Say Anything, of course. Or how about, Nerds And Simpletons Abound. Apply here." Ground Central didn't feel it needed to advise Billy as to who was where in this scenario.
Yes, with a friction death awaiting him, Billy had very little to lose, and a very big audience. When he was talked to from the ground, he mostly ignored the chatter. He did request "All My Ex's Live in Texas" when asked if there were anything Ground Central (thinking Beethoven or elevator mood music) could pipe up to comfort him. Ground Central quit asking after that.
Billy also requested several cities send a message, a rather strange two worder, to him via their street lights. There wasn't a rush to comply, though a petition was immediately started in New York's Village. Several startled people on the street ran from the petitioners wondering why there never was a cop when one was needed.
BG had a few messages for his bill collectors back home. There was a check in the mail, Houston Power, and cancel the hookup for the next few months-not much call for utilities where he was headed, he added. 'Sides, got all the heat I'm gonna need, and then some, boys.
BG had a message for his paperboy. Cancel the Chronicle, stand on your head, cluck like a chicken and I dare you to pet the nice Doberman you've been tormenting for the last two years. Oh, and stuff that bicycle horn where the sun doesn't shine. The later interview with pre-teen Johnny P. revealed a compassionate youngster, who said, "Cool, bein' talked about from outerspace, cool. You know, he was a shit tipper; so how'm I gonna collect for next month? And who's holdin' that friggin' dog back?"
Billy took on the politicians with George Carlin fervor, too. He spun himself around and asked if that reminded anyone of the current resident at 1600 Pennsylvania...and there was the "spin doctor" joke when he stopped twirling on the tether twistlink. "I got your spin right here" made everyone crack up, especially the First Daughter who didn't even blush, and fired back through the reporters that "why doesn't the moonman come to DC and say that stuff about Daddy?" Not known for sophisticated thought stringing, First Daughter thought Billy was a planted TV star with an attitude.
We watched Billy G go through the Kubler-Ross "terminal syndrome." Back when Billy realized that he couldn't be rescued, the anger came. Torrents of sarcasm and invective rained upon The Program, Junk Deflection and CleanUp Duty. Obviously, Billy was really calling himself stupid, but it sure seemed that there were a dozen or so names that didn't sound like William George in there.
There were several closed-door meetings about cutting off Billy's microphone and trailing gyro-cam, but the Networks would have none of it. Too many dollars to pass up, and a huge hunk of space debris ready to light up New England skies on its way to South Atlantic pfut!dom equaled ratings the size of SuperBowls.
The rescue reaction was swift, as the listening public took to Billy's monologue, but just as quickly, the Program quelled the hope that anything in the area was either available or fast enough to effect a rescue. They weren't happy about it, either. Billy was going into hyper-pottymouth, and the ratings were skyrocketing, to coin a phrase.
As the anger subsided, Billy G did the "not me-no, this can't be happening to me" mumblelogue. The phase was short, Billy was too much the realist/empiricist to deny his situation. He was going to die in few hours, and there was lots to get off his chest. He knew by then that he wouldn't be cut off by anything but The Flash.
Although he knew he couldn't be rescued, Billy started asking for God to intercede with forces that "weren't understood by man" and "dammit, the people in Abyss" got saved for being good, pacific people, and dammit, I'll be the best altar boy again you ever laid eyes upon, boyo God." Billy threw in a few golden cathedrals (which he hadn't since some awful hangovers) and a trip or two to Calcutta. Billy offered up a few Program administrators in his place, but again, the realist/empiricist returned to assess the situation. Back to square one, despite promises of Faith, Hope and Charity in excesses not human.
Ground Central finally got a shrink to break through Billy's bargaining phase which soon turned from bargaining to auctioneering. It was very good theater (several discussion groups actually used the word, theater--foregoing, thank God, "entertainment") in space. "Drama unfolding" was also a typical talking head lead-in after the dog food commercials in the United States.
And since Billy G had his earphone shrink, we on the ground had Dr. Expert-on-Everything-Dying on every channel telling us that whatever we were feeling was "alright." As if we didn't know it, but there were some street interviews with upset people who couldn't handle the watching but did anyhow. Ledge-struck mobs. That's what we were, because we couldn't turn away from one of us out there in trouble.
Californians thought the New Yorkers were too "emotionally absorbent." Midwesterners wanted something done immediately about the situation. The Southern U.S. made plans to start a NASA/Billy G theme park.
Eventually, Billy, at square one again, was rational for a moment. Before our ears and eyes, Billy crumbled into 'mea culpas' galore, and started listing his own faults as a human being. This was the 'relief' phase that was predicted almost to the moment. It was relief for Billy to tell us that Billy knew, and knew we knew, that he was human and frail.
From there on, Billy G tattled on himself. He tattled on his childhood errors, his puberty errata, and young adult schemes and dreams of "getting right goddamn where he was." Minus a situation, of course. Billy confessed to every venality, cardinality and pre-baptismal, original sin he could think of. All he needed to add was an Act of Contrition, and he was clean, devoid of soul smirching sin. He couldn't imagine being hell bound without such a light, unburdened soul.
We sat through Wallechinsky sized lists of what Billy was going to miss as a "crispy critter." From children's laughter to Big Mac commercials to David Bowie songs (nobody had a clue to this proclivity, but it was fascinating) to all the commute stops on the 5:10 Metro which Billy could sub-list in a narration that made them sound like the Wonders of the World. Billy rambled through a list of our sensory pleasures that was so subtle that only a dying person could name the shades of reality unseen except by the about to be deprived. Think of losing your sight, or hearing, or taste and cataloguing what you must remember, unable to sense for yourself forever more.
Our blessings were counted from a rapidly deteriorating space trajectory. Church pulpits echoed Billy G's sentiments to the choir, the congregation, and especially to the three camera positions in the Houston church that Billy avoided except on highly habitual attendance days. But the reverend recalled Billy's excellent attendance and philanthropic record, which would be sadly lacking momentarily, with vivid clarity.
The main thing experienced on the ground-everyone started to be more thankful about his or her lot in life. There were more smiles, hellos, thankyous, and much less of the usual "up yours'" and "same to ya's."
We knew it was a piece of us identifying with Billy. Billy, the passing through spaceman, was making us see, hear and feel a brotherhood, community and "terrestrialism" that was previously only existent in the Sixties Legends.
Of course, there were Billy jokes. But then again, Dr. Authority-on-it-all had told us that was OK. A lot of us took her at her word on that one. At least, the typical newsroom morbidness junkies did with their own brand of joyous relish.
So it was natural for most of us that "meteoric" day of Billy's heroic space junk deflection to reach our own conclusion about life, death, and the meaning of existence.
On T minus three hours to re-entry Ground Central had a private conference with Billy. They informed him that he did not have to wait for his fate. He could control it from his position. Billy obviously already did know this, but he listened quite respectfully. Of course, Billy did die, but what the Ground bunch said about turning the oxygen slowly to the zero point (which he wouldn't see), was a tense moment between them.
So Billy G made the Guinness Book of Screwings, first page, first line, capital letters. Billy didn't come out of it a loser though. He got to push his own button. His going out speech was memorable because after all the outer-space oratory, Billy was speechless. He mumbled and shed tears, as did we all, but he couldn't really voice the feelings anymore that he meant for us. He managed to get something about regretting trashing his paperboy, and wondering where he'd find one "where he was going. But again, wasn't that where they all came from?"
A rescue from France Communications never got off the ground, but a manipulated military satellite-robot with scissorhands and remote thrusters from Alliance Ground Control tried to reach Billy. It failed at the last minute.
Billy Days turned to Billy-Grief Months, and one by one, we knew we had seen the naked emotions of a doomed man find a peace and thankfulness for what we on the ground took every day and every way for granted.
Except for that paperboy. He got the dog.
by Evan Myquest.
Copyright © 1996 MMW. All rights reserved.
Revised: September 06, 2006.