Manhattan

When I was thirteen years old, I used to mow yards, drink Gatorade, and think of heaven. It started when I was seven; the yards not the utopian dissertations. There were three: grandmother’s who just happened to have a corner lot, ours which was miniscule, and my neighbor who payed 25 bucks for his also pathetic excuse. People back then still cared less for green pastures. I was handed the push lawnmower, yes the push. I don’t know why I was told to be an ant. Pushing something heavier than you through southern Texas grass on a hot summer day was slave labor to a seven year old. It makes men out of boys, in one way or another. It was the payoff, as it always was, that brought the slave back the next time. The Stop n’ Go, at the front of the neighborhood, and inside was the Gatorade. I could have any flavor, but heaven was blue raspberry. We would enter the white truck and as quickly as I could unwrap the plastic seal, I was tilting the bottle up, opening the gates with closed eyes.
    Fourteen years later I open them, and the alarm rings, signifying that the expected is never the truth. That taste that’s always advertised as being quenched barely signals. I lumber out of bed, and walk the trail to my bathroom. The rest of the floor is filled with clothes and paper. I examine myself in the mirror. In dry erase marker, it says at the top, “wake me up.” Black slacks, white t-shirt, I’m a ying-yang on its head. Don’t forget the belt, which I so often do at five in the morning. It’s the basic attire for a catering service. Nametag, pen, wallet, phone, and I’m out the apartment door. The pre-sun morning chill is always a surprise even if it was darkest Africa. I throw my hands in my pockets consistently each morning. I have a sister who says I’ve got cold hands.

    “I think I’m made of wax”
    “You’re not made of wax Colton.” Elena says. “Mario, tell Colton he’s not made of wax.”
    Mario looks at me and says, “You’re not made of wax Colton.”
    “You don’t get it,” I say, “Every time I look into the mirror it looks like someone keeps carving it.” I pop a grape in my mouth to chew away their confused looks. Turning I keep cleaning what’s left of the tea containers. The high powered jets of the cleaning spray bounce off and land on my ying-yang.

    “Do I what?”
    “Do. You. Think. About. Heaven?”
    She pauses and looks puzzled.
    “It’s not a ridiculous question.”
    “In college?” She was about to say something after that, but then realized what she had said.
    “No.”
    “No to it being a ridiculous question?”
    “No I mean about heaven.” She takes her tie off and hangs it back on the clothes hanger. I take a bite out of a leftover cookie.
    “Vi bhot?”  
    “What?”
    I hold up a finger for two seconds clearing my throat. “Why not?”
    She looks at me, not puzzled anymore but tired.
    “I’ve got more important things right now.” She motions to the ground. Elena exhales sharply, and after seeing disappointment says, “I’m made of wax too you know.”

I open the doors from the main building and the sun streaks in my face. Have I really been at work that long? I look around for a five and dime, a Stop n’ Go, but there’s none within reach. I walk back to the apartment. Ying-yang comes off and school comes on. What a rush, and within fifteen minutes I’m seven again pushing the lawnmower back to the side yard. The sweat pours so hard I can taste the salty curiosity. My father is weed eating around the trees. Enamored by the skill by which he hugged the line and prevented complete destruction but somehow trimmed perfectly, I would peer around corners. Grandmother’s neighbors had parrots, but they had too many. Instead of scary repetitions by one, it sounded like Congress was in session, and the issue was split. I never saw the parrots, which made it seem like a level of hell, in which the tortured spoke like, well parrots.

    The great big city's a wonderous toy just made for a girl and boy. We'll turn Manhattan
into an isle of joy!

There’s nothing Ella Fitzgerald couldn’t fix. As she places my feet on clouds to and from class, I look down. Thirteen dollar shoes invade my privacy, and I think about those damn converse. Seventy dollars and fully customizable converse, including a personal ID tag on the outside, can be mine. I always cut the sides of my jeans so that shoes could fit under them. That was my style, but with converse it was unnecessary. I wasn’t going to touch these jeans, because they were my Manhattan jeans, the kind that lived on for something. The something being the converse I thought about for half a year.

    “Why do you read Ayn Rand?”
    “Again?” I have these conversations often.
    “She’s melodramatic.”
    “Did you read that book?” I give him a doubtful look.
    “Well no. No one’s crazy enough to read over a thousand pages senior year of high school.”
    “So now I’m crazy?” I get up to leave my desk seat; the next class already storming in to sit down one seat away from everybody else.  He grabs my arm.
    “I’m not reading it.”
    I smile and look at him. “Then I’m not telling you.”
Utopia. Thank God people try, no pun intended. Something about trying makes it all worth it. And when I find Ella Fitzgerald on my player, it’s like that blue raspberry drink. Utopia certainly isn’t botching the teaching presentation given on March 22nd, but it was inevitable. It was because it was the first time I taught, and after twenty one years I realize nothing’s quite as simple as repeating it back as a parrot. We’ve been talking, us soon to be teachers. Where are our jobs? Eighty percent of our class majoring in history and where are the jobs? Truck gets towed, Presentation is ruined, graduating in a year with no blue raspberry sealed shut.
    Nietzsche says, ‘Out of chaos comes order.’
    Blow it out your ass, Howard.
    “You know you can be an FBI agent with a major in history?” I say that enough. I say that to everyone. I make sure that any person who is worried about a teacher’s future knows that I am also a born killer, and will sacrifice liberties and kidnap whoever it takes. I am covered. I have a future as an agent.
    It’s next Thursday night and I’m cleaning an annual banquet with the caterers. A song plays. I don’t know the song, doesn’t matter. I nearly fell apart. I turned around. Everyone was doing their duty: Sarah had the sugars, Tyler had leftover dessert plates, I had lemon bowls. I fell into a chair. Elena walks up and says, “You alright Colton?”
    I look up and ask quietly, “Do you think about heaven?”
    She looks up, and pauses for a few seconds. Then she turns around and notices an uneaten cheesecake. She grabs the top solid chocolate triangle decoration, and places it in front of my mouth. And I ate it. She smiles and moves on, working diligently like the rest. The melting triangle is the ride home.
    “I read it.”
    “Read what?” But I already know. Amazed he did it during a semester, I just wanted to hear him say it.
    “Atlas Shrugged. Done.”
    “And?” I lean in and the desk digs into my abdomen.
    “I still think she’s melodramatic.” He responds, somewhat prideful that he bested the challenge unscathed.
    “I see. You know what your problem is?” I say.
    “What?” He’s eager.
    “You don’t have Manhattan jeans.” I walk away, leaving another clue for people like him to solve.

    The city's glamour can never spoil. The dreams of a boy and goil. We'll turn Manhattan
into an isle of joy!

It’s 2001 and I’m rounding the corners in the backyard of grandmother’s house. There’s a big hole that my father said he dug when he was little. All of us want to go to China someday apparently; it’s a timeless tradition. Expertly weaving the push lawnmower around the edges, its audible sound changes as it goes over the reverberating gap. The parrots respond. That day I had other plans, and told father about how unfair it was to mow the yards every week. Two hours later I was loading the machine into the back of his truck and with a lunge he raises the back end with a loud metal noise. He turns and pats my shoulder, saying, “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” We turn into the Stop n’ Go, and inside is something waiting for me. We went back to the truck, and as we climb inside the blue raspberry Gatorade is already opened. And my thirst is quenched.

Florence

My truck sounds like a creaking tanker when I get in. I can't quite put a finger on the origin of the sound but something tells me it's between the bed and the front end, or at least where they meet. The suitcases are packed with my laundry, dirty and otherwise. The drive home is raging with traffic, it's a five hour drive. The Forever War on audiobook is in my CD player, but I didn't prepare enough material, and soon it turns into early Ella Fitzgerald in some Great Depression sing-a-long. Eventually it's back to Radiohead, with The Separator chiming in just as I enter Friendswood. Two months and although I expect something to be different, the town is right where I left it. "Spring Forward Saturday" is posted on the Friendswood Hardware sign.

My house has no cement driveway, it's a combination of shell and rock. The close edges to the house are starting to grow green and as long as we stay parked far enough, it's likely to keep growing green. It's dark by the time I pull in, and a deep amber glow fills the street. None of that bright white post modern crap. The old standard amber, that made dates all the better because people looked more tan in the muggy midnight. I turn and look at the window where the computer is, and there's Jamie. Her hand is prying open the window blinds, trying to get a look. With a jolt and five seconds she's left through the garage and hugged her long lost brother, the shipwreck that is always college. She takes my bags, most of them actually, as I relish in the laziness of being the big man on campus. My mother and father are watching television. The black couches that were bought years ago show more signs of wear and tear. The house is even more cluttered with coupons and books and CDs and time and time and time. Exhausted from some unseen force I fall asleep.

The time is eight thirty, and I haven't woken that early since my last shift on campus. The light in the guest room is blaring in my face, and for a man who blankets his window for complete darkness, there is a change. First stop is half-price, where I buy books I'm not even sure I'll read this summer. The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler: the story of a private investigator in 1930s Los Angeles dealing with a murder. That's probably all I'll ever hear of it. Rabbit Run, by John Updike: the beginning novel of a series about a man growing up in middle America. My salivation for Mad Men related anything is unquenchable. Half Price at home is a disappointment. It's not the super store in Dallas and it's no comparison to Recycled on the square, but it gets the job done. Best Buy, a place where I would buy everything if I had the opportunity actually does not have what my mother wants.  Taco Bell, the famous seven layer burrito is waiting for us.

Mad Men. I cannot help but convince my mother to watch it. I can't tell if she enjoys it, or just wants me to think she is enjoying it. Either way, my lack of creativity stops Saturday to a halt. It's not that I don't enjoy doing things, it's the cost. So we decide to buy me some new clothes which no one would deny. We hit up Walmart and do what I do best: making really cheap clothing work. I buy some flannel shirts: one which match my eyes and another in neutrals which I love. I buy some jeans. Blah, blah, blah.

There's something about revisiting a place that is big as a kid and small as an adult, and on Sunday after church it's Mr. Gatti's, well known as "a poor man's Chuck-E Cheese." I love pizza buffets. We all win some tickets and we pool together our resources and prizes come out and you wonder why didn't you just cut the middle man and buy the prizes wholesale back at Walmart? Doesn't matter. Maybe it feels more like you earned it.

It's been wanting to rain all week but it only did it Monday, quickly and in a fit of anger. Unlike many other places in the world, the weather here just gets worse, with the muggy Mondays seeping into your sweaty socks and penetrating the new flannel shirts. Battle Los Angeles in the theater was seizure inducing mayhem, but it was fun if you like that sort of thing. The actors all played their cut-outs well and I couldn't see anything of the action because the camera was held by a drug addict who had obviously not taken the drug. Then came Never Let me Go with Zane and his sister Lacie. The movie that will kill your soul with a knife and then twist the blade. It's a movie that is so sad, they probably invented the word melancholy.

The other moments of the week are kept as a secret, but I'll share a little piece that interested me. My grandparents needed yardwork, which was overly paid as usual. I couldn't help but notice as I was about to be fed corn beef, there were little porcelain figures in the back behind the glass. They were perfectly still, and they were old. "Flappers forever" is what I thought as they were dressed in progressive style clothing. They looked youthful and happy, and they were absolutely beautiful. I don't know if they were real but I look down and notice that they say, "Florence" on them. I have no idea what it means but what is true is that those figurines will be young and delicate forever. I don't know what to make of it, but I think of them now, the hat hiding her dark hair. The young women in a "provocative" dress that shows enough to keep your interest. Smooth porcelain on everything.

I'm leaving tomorrow, and as usual I cannot imagine where the eight days went. I suspect that with time I'll understand visits home a little more, but in this transitional period I have no words to explain it. Does it mean anything? Is there a purpose? I had a dream last night where I visited what I thought was New York, but it was some spectacular city with a massive tower overlooking the coast. I told someone that I wanted to see that while I was here. I did not know why I was there, or what the tower was, but maybe it does not matter. This deal of finding purpose in things may be supremely overrated.

The Distant Gazer

“I came to see about buying a telescope,” she said as she turned to gaze at Timothy Forsythe. She had walked in earlier that day with a double breasted coat. It was beige, except at the bottom which was growing grey from the constant dragging on the occasional step or to the entrance of her 1940s wartime wolseley. Her black hair was partially covered by a hat with a feather, but it could not stop anyone from becoming aware of her mature femininity. Black hair, so black it reflected, fell cascading down the back of the coat. Her entrance was indicated by the small bell chime; however the owner of The Distant Gazer was nowhere to be seen, at least not at the front desk. She slowly walked through the room and squinted at each wall. Blueprints of telescopes lay stretched and overstretched, tearing occasionally revealed even more paper details underneath. News reports of astronomical discoveries were posted on and over constellations. She continued to make her way through the center. It wasn’t until a piece of parchment caught her eye from the ceiling that she turned up and saw what was up there. It started from the center ceiling fan out: a massive constellation chart. Each radial mark, like a clock, represented a date. The entire chart was a year long progression of what could be seen from the northern hemisphere, and in this case Colorado. She looked through the constellations and found Orion. She stood transfixed, unable to recognize how long she’d been standing there. Orion the hunter, rested softly in the heavens neither moving nor acknowledging her constant stare.
    When Timothy Forsythe came downstairs forty five seconds late to answer the call, Morna was staring straight in the air. The line of her back was the reason for a pale exposed neck that was clean, smooth. Tim’s stare was little more than vague approval for a customer.
    “Can I help you?” he said after a throat clearing which made Morna nearly jump as she realized the odd position of her body. Turning ninety degrees right, she quietly requested her order.
    In 1955, there was only one custom telescope maker in Colorado. Tim had gained the necessary money saving the liberties he received from the war to buy a piece of property across the street from his company comrade Dick, who owned a bar. It was the realization of a dream that occurred between the two of them in Holland in 1944.
    That night after Morna’s purchase of a custom Schmidt-Cassegrain telescope, Tim made his way to Dick’s bar. Despite the twenty five yards distance, Tim rarely visited and each night Dick did not take it lightly. Upon entering, Tim would never notice the details, never make a motion right or left. The usual customers were scarce, but consistent. The amber lighting that reflected slightly from the dark wood bar, and the smoke from the occasional cigarette was a vision that Dick had since before 1941. He would hear a whistle from his only employee, signifying Tim’s arrival. By the time Tim sat down across from him a draft of beer was already out, and desperate. Often times it sat there, never touched.
    “A woman came in for an order,” Tim said without making eye contact as he peered at the bubbles that fizzed to the top of his drink. His head was placed on his hands, which were placed on the bar.
    “For a telescope?” Dick replied as he slowly filled the glass he held with a damp rag.
    “Yes. It’s odd.”
    “Was she a looker?”
    “No.” Tim quickly said, making sure to not over indulge in the volume or tone. “Well yes, but it’s not like that. When was the last time you saw a woman, and just a woman enter the store? No kids. No husband.”
    Dick agreed to some extent that it was irregular, but said nothing as he placed the glass back to its home on the rack. After a minute or so of staring at his drink and not daring a sip, Dick asked, “What is her name?”
    Tim looked up quickly, his eyebrows leading before quickly settling back as he replied, “Morna Late.” Dick recognized the name from Lakewood, but Tim seemed unaware to catch it.
    “You know that name is familiar.” Dick continued. Tim said nothing.
    “How’s the leg?” Dick said. Afterward he wished he had not spoken of it. The limp, although prominent in Tim’s step was something he had intended to forget.
    “It’s fine.” Tim said, and forgetting or wishing to forget why he had visited, Tim slowly straddled off the stool seat. Dick, who knew him well did not bother with a goodbye the same as he had not bothered with hello. To Dick, Tim was drifting farther out of orbit.

Over the course of the week, Tim worked tirelessly on the Schmidt-Cassegrain. One of the newest models available, the telescope would allow a compact body while preserving the magnification. Tim always started with the most expensive aspect: the lens grinding. He worked alone, in the workshop behind the front desk. He lived upstairs in a small cupboard of a room dedicated to his nights. During the end of the 1940s, he bought and read from cover to cover several books describing the structure and layout of telescopes, their functions and designs, and how to replicate them. After fighting, Tim felt his evenings stretched forever outward, like some universe. It was the thought of wasted time that gave him the determination to push forward with an idea that began from what seemed like an event so close to him. During those evenings, after cleaning Dick’s successful Lakewood, Colorado bar, he would read about reflecting and refracting telescopes. He would inspect certain spotting scopes and learn about creating an accurate focus. Tim’s first telescopes were mundane and seemed cheaply made based on the materials. Dick would comment using clever words like wholesome, and lightweight.

Dick could hear him working, and as he passed behind the front desk to round the corner to the workshop, he silently watched his friend who did not notice the bell chime. Tim, who was miniscule compared to Dick’s six foot two inch height, appeared little more intimidating than a mouse. Tim was short, skinny, and frail looking. Although his clothes fit him alright, he seemed like a miniature body formed to scale. Dick noticed the precision and diligence with which Tim worked. Seeing Tim fully in his element gave Dick some relief, but also apprehension. Instead of something drastic like residing in a space ship, Dick felt like his work and the capsule were related. It was somehow horrifying to see how efficient he became. The lenses were placed, and he was concentrating at the moment on the body itself. When Tim finally turned to see him, Dick had been there for nearly a minute.
    “I did not hear you come in,” Tim said, quickly resuming his work.
    “I’m sorry, I just wanted to ask you something.” Dick said, looking down at the worn wood paneling.
    “Is it about this woman? I told you it wasn’t like that.” Tim said.
    “Actually it’s about another woman.”
Tim stopped and turned quietly as Dick was looking down. He took a silent deep breath and began.
    “I’m having a night picnic tonight. The moon is full and Jamie and I are going to eat a late dinner farther up into the mountains. There’s another girl named Trudy that could really use some company. I can convince her to come along if you would like to join us.”
Tim remained quiet. It wasn’t necessarily the act of going to a picnic at night, but he returned to his work in order to break eye contact.
    “You can see Jupiter really well tonight. I was planning on looking at it.”
Dick tried to look inside him. He watched Tim turning the screwdriver. He turned to go, walked several steps, then turned around. Tim’s shadow from the work light revealed him before the corner. The light was close to him, the edges of his shadow were sharp, like an eclipse.

It was late in the evening on Tuesday as Dick unfolded a large blanket on the grassy hills overlooking Lakewood. The night air was just chilly enough for a coat, and Jamie was wearing one of Dick’s as she sat neatly on the blanket, watching him place the meal. They ate and laughed as Dick nearly spilled the wine after setting it. The setting was planned by Dick to be as scenic as possible. The town of Lakewood looked like little stars that spotted the hills. The moon, in its full brightness gave blue hue that soaked the wind responding grass.  After an hour Dick had handed her a slice of his poorly made cheesecake. Jamie laughed because of the look of the cheesecake, but Dick assumed it was a laugh of surprise. Jamie turned to him, and accepted the plate.
    “It’s a shame your friend couldn’t make it. Trudy thought he was rather handsome.” Dick had shown her a picture of the two while they were in Austria. Dick was smiling pleasantly and Tim was rather stoic, merely staring into the camera’s face.
    There would be no cheesecake for Tim. Tim was alone. He exited the truck, and unloaded his reflecting telescope. It was a large and heavy piece that was almost too much for him. He dragged it along the ground four feet. He could look up and see Jupiter, shining brightly in the fall air. Close to it would be the moons, the constant bodies that revolved and made no sound. He leaned down to stand the telescope up, then continued to pull out the tripod and balanced it on the uneven crest of the hill. As he bent down, the sting of pain from his leg crawled through his spine and stuck inside his brain. He grabbed his leg as if to tear it apart, to relinquish himself of command over a defective past.
    “I thought Trudy would sway him,” Dick said. He poured another glass of wine and handed it to Jamie. “Tim’s a wonder like that.”
    “He’s a big timer around here.” Jamie said as she accepted the drink. “Everyone wants one of his telescopes. I’m a little impressed really.” She looked out towards the lights and said,  “All that’s here in Lakewood is a couple of drug stores.”
    He was looking through the finder’s scope; properly acquiring a relative location before investigating it with the eyepiece. It was there he saw Jupiter in full form. And to the right were three dimmer dots: Jupiter’s visible moons, circling and circling, and never touching. Tim knew how far they were. Bodies so close were thousands of miles away from each other. Clockwork, Tim thought, absolute clockwork. It was a rewarding thing: finding what was sought after. Mercury’s eighty eight days to Pluto’s two hundred and forty eight years, and everything in between. Like here. Finding what was sought after, he thought.
    “Finding what was sought after.” he said it out loud.  In the silence, Tim remembered his pipe and turned toward his truck.
    “I heard they were even coming in from Boulder.” Dick said, pulling out the occasional blades of grass as he laid down on the blanket. “There‘s an observatory there and people get the idea to buy one for themselves.”
    “Well,” Jamie said, “it doesn‘t sound nearly as romantic as this.” Her hand was motioning at the ground. She turned and smiled at him, a silent recognition that Dick had succeeded.
    “And Tim’s looking at the stars.” Dick said, and he kissed her.
    Tim lit his pipe and gazed down at Lakewood below. Scattered buildings, progressively dropping their lights, were drifting out of focus. He flicked out the match with a rapid wave of his arm. He leaned against his truck and looked upwards, the way he had done so many times before. The stars, constant in their presence, were there as well. The stars were there in France; they were there in Holland. Sometimes they were hard to see because of the gunfire, because of the smoke. It was quiet, so quiet the wind in the trees sounded like crackling wrapper in a dinner banquet speech. It was quiet there in the foxhole as well, and Dick was there too. Night had fallen like it does so often, only in the foxhole Tim had simultaneously feared and welcomed its darkening presence.
    “What are you staring at?” Dick said, seated next to him awkwardly, legs hunched because of the lack of room.
    “Scorpio is above us.” Tim said, rifle between his legs. Dick paused for a minute, attempting to follow his stare as he looked upward.
    “I can’t see it.” Dick said. “How do you know it’s there?”
    “See the string of stars, right there?” he pointed upward, his arm poking over the foxhole by a foot. “That’s his tail.”
    “Oh.” Dick lied, “I see it now.” Dick looked and Tim, neither convinced nor offended, merely stared back at his rifle.
    “Do you know why Scorpio is up there?” Tim said, not focusing away from his rifle.
    “No I sure don’t.”
    “It was Orion.” Tim said, shifting himself for comfort. “Orion’s pride as a hunter killed him. And they sent Scorpio after him.”
    “They?”
    “Earth. Earth raised up a being he couldn’t kill. Orion died from the poisonous sting.”
Tim looked back up as Dick was falling asleep. Soon Scorpio would leave, but would always return the next day. It was beautiful, Tim thought. Even though the sky was filled with little asteroids and comets and loss of orbits, the stars would still be there.

Tim recognized the wartime wolseley at Ryenne’s drug store when he moved a chair out from inside the shop to start the morning. The partial clouds left dizzying effects as he tried to focus down the street. The shadows left fluttering and breezy effects on the contrasting street. Soon after the car had his full attention, the woman was seen leaving. Her legs, profound in their step at such distance, made her look like a giraffe from afar. She had placed the groceries in the passenger side when she turned and looked at Tim. Tim, embarrassed at being caught, attempted to rearrange the chair again despite the fact it was in the correct location. But before he fully acted out the process, he instead looked up and met her gaze. She looked back, and after a while placed her hand out in the air, as if sticking her hand out in the middle of gunfire. Tim responded with a short lift of his right hand, not as profound in its height, but still recognizable. When he had lowered his hand she was already on the driver side, getting in. Tim remained motionless as the car slowly rolled in front of his shop. She got out, her body more in focus, elaborate features tranquilized.
    “Good morning Mr. Forsythe”, she said as she reached out to shake his hand. In her heels, she was slightly taller than him.
    “Good morning Ms. Late”, he said, answering the handshake. It felt sturdy, but still a woman’s touch.
    “I trust my telescope is coming around?”
    “Yes ma’am, should have it finished by the end of next week.” Tim said. A breeze was moving through the town valley. As the rocking chair shuddered, Morna was perfectly balanced, her body refusing to rotate or respond to the wind.
    “Do you feel the project is meeting your standards?” Morna said, breaking his awkward pause. Tim was drifting away, and he reattached quickly.
    “Surpassing them. The new Schmidt Cassegrain models at first were rather difficult, the interior mirrors that is.” The jargon had thrown Morna off guard. Tim responded with a quick, “I think it will be as well built as I can manage.”
    “Excellent.” Morna concluded. “I’ll check up on it the next week then.”
    The wartime Wolseley, Tim thought, she helped the cause. It was obvious in the car she drove, the clothes she wore, and the spirit she held down. She left a trail: pieces flying and sputtering in parallel but slowly diminishing from the host. Cold and small, but part of the main structure nonetheless. The decades spill on to other decades, Tim concluded. As she drove away, the exhaust fumes were gathering and swirling behind. The atmosphere was close, and the way it burned so many others could be the same for her. The heat becomes immediately apparent, but after so many years in the darkened void there is something warm about returning. Tim looked down at the rocking chair. Gusts of wind would automate its movement without the need of a body to propel it. The bell chime that signaled his entrance was the only sound in the dark dead of The Distant Gazer. Wood floors occasionally let out a yelp, but it was only a whisper in Tim’s mind. He looked up, and there were pieces of the roof constellation slipping down, edges that were untamed. Grabbing the bench and the stapler, he repaired what remained of his ceiling stars.

    “I found out why Morna’s name was so familiar.” Dick said as he handed him a draft. Tim did not take it, but he looked into its brass coloring. It was the following evening.
    “What makes her name so familiar?”
    “It’s actually her husband”, Dick said. “He died in the war.”
    “Holland?”
    “Italy. His name was in the paper with a tally of Colorado men who had died. I remember reading it. They married right before he left. Sad really.” Dick was taking out a cigarette, more as a defense. Tim did not speak for some time. While he looked at the drink, Dick tried to smoke casually.
    “What was her husband’s name?” Tim finally said after some time had passed.
    “Rigel.”
    “What?” Tim for the first time that night looked up, his face in a questioning and pointed stare. Dick dropped the cigarette. As he picked it up, he blew hard on it and looked back at him bewildered.
    “Rigel Late. Served in Italy, shot through the abdomen, and di-”
Before Dick had the chance to finish, Tim had leapt from his seat and proceeded to leave the bar and run, nearly sprinted across the street to his shop. By the time the door chimed he was already halfway into the room, and soon he had worked his way around his front desk and into his workshop. His light flickered on as he swiped the switch, and worked throughout the night. He vigorously installed what was left for the main body. He calibrated and double checked the mirrors, and their reflection to the focus. She was trying to return, he thought as the sweat started to gather around his face and under his arms. The tripod that stood in the corner was now ready to become attached to the double weight system that would allow balanced movement. Whatever the cost he would make this telescope the best he had ever made. The reasoning like a camera was staring him right in the face.
   
    “Forsythe’s been hit!” someone had screamed that night; who he did not remember. It was dark, and he was running in the beginning. The fields were constant, the trees disappearing behind him. The farm that was in the briefing was ahead by four hundred yards. Their dog tags were removed; placed in their boots to stop the rattling. The dark shoe polish hid their faces, making their eyes all the more bright and violent. Running, and then a distant yell, and then noise. His mind was in full panic, but his feet dared not stop. To stop would be to die in the open. Tim had nearly tripped over a dead man, he did not remember who, when suddenly his leg felt heat, profound heat. It was not a feeling of glad warmth, it was the turmoil of pleading to be sent out into space, into cold. He was thrust forward as his legs refused to continue. The scream of his name echoed and there was the man with the red cross. His mind was scattered as the medic thrust him on his backside. The streaks of bullets went by in a twinkling blur. Yells felt distant, like a far away football game. He fully lost sound when the morphine was shot into his body. When he regained some form of sense he was looking up, and the stars were out. He was observing the heavens and there was the creature. There was Scorpio. He was moving but the sky remained still, docile. Dragged by the medic, his feet were kicking up grass and dirt as they slid. He looked down and saw the machine gun fire from the barn’s second story. A bazooka flared from the ground in front and tore the opening of the barn to pieces. The action stopped. Tim gazed up and saw the lights that gave him a consolation. Something was always above him. It was there, reassuring him that nothing out there noticed. He was calm, the jeep that carried him away would be unrecognizable by Pluto’s icy surface.

    “My God, it’s amazing.” Morna said the next day at high noon. Tim had called her up in early morning to let her know it was complete. He knew she would arrive as soon as possible, because he knew what she was after. She was orbiting the telescope, observing its satin black siding on the body, touching the weights that held the system in balance. Occasionally stopping to peer at details, the retrograde motion was oddly hallucinating. Nevertheless Tim held his stance firm. After a minute or two he finally prepared himself.
    “You can look at Orion now.” Tim said. She had stopped abruptly. She was not making eye contact, but it was keenly aware to him that Morna was shaken. The stance that he had seen her take was there now. There would be little wind to sail her away. In an anchoring certainty, this was a storm she would withstand and fight out.
    “I’m sorry?” she said, trying to remain calm as she turned around to look at him.
    “Orion. The hunter. He will be out tonight a little after nine o‘clock.” You’ll be able to see him fine.”
    “Which ‘him’ are we talking about?” Morna said, her eyes narrowing and focusing on Tim, but he would not give. One of them was going to reenter the atmosphere, was going to leave in the escape pod from the derelict hell of what they experienced.
    “This is the best telescope I’ve made. I’m sorry about what happened to your husband, but we feel the same thing.”
    “You do not know what I fe-”
    “I do.” Tim said interrupting. “I do know because I own this shop and because you came in requesting for the same thing.” Morna’s eyes became more and more reflective as she eventually turned away. The tears falling through, but merely glanced off the surface before bouncing back. There was a long pause as Morna looked at the telescope.
    “What do we do then?” she said.
    “This is free of charge.” Tim said, and before she could object he said, “Take it now.”
Tim did not answer the real question. They both knew in the silence the gravity of the situation. That increasing power of Jupiter’s interior was part of them. It was a dastardly dark that intended to wrap them in tyranny if they did not lift themselves from the foxhole. Tim loaded her telescope in the back of her car. She nodded as she entered the driver’s side. The silent thank you became a key given directly to him. Not a key to be used for later on some mysterious moon, but a key destined for Earth. Alpha Centauri feels as distant as the twenty five years it would take at light speed to reach it. Immediately after Morna’s car drives away, he gives it one last glance. The transition to landing was smooth, and he walked, head level toward Dick’s bar. He entered, looking at things he never saw before: the constellation charts that people demanded because of the rising popularity of Tim’s telescopes, the dart boards that had become largely ignored. Dick, the giant in the back was always waiting for moments like this. He saw him, and immediately turned toward a cup that was standalone on the back counter, next to a row of drinks. Dick poured the best, to the top, and placed it on the bar watching intensely his arms folded. Tim sat in his place, back straight. The posture made Dick’s eyebrows raise.
    “Did Morna enjoy the telescope?” Dick asked.
    “Yes” Tim said, “she did.”
    “Did she mention her husband?”
    “No, but I brought it out of her.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Tim looked up at him and then exhaled. His hands were intertwined, thumbs matching together and mismatching as he collided them again and again.
    “Dick. Rigel is brightest star in Orion.”
    Dick looked at him, then slowly looked down as he pulled the towel from his shoulder and folded it.
    “I see.” he said. “She is going to look at her hunter.”
    Tim’s craft was then perfectly fitted with a heat-shield. The test runs that had failed so many times before had somehow today proven safe enough to fly. The travels to distant worlds had rendered him homesick, and as he was cleared for reentry he peered behind. The moon was bright, but deadly in the rear view of his ship. It was only then he understood and smiled at the prospect of never returning. The outside of his windows began to flare up orange and yellowish lashes and strikes, but he was protected from the tearing, and given the warmth. The ice shattered and melted and dragged away chills. He entered the atmosphere safe, and he landed successfully in the ocean to the cheers of some unseen mission control. He picked up the beer, and drinking up asked, “You said her name was Trudy?”