A short story about space travel.
For three hours – that’s half the exam already – I have been looking for a specific button on my scientific calculator. I remember that pressing it was vital. I was taught this in a lesson I had some time ago at night school. It was orange, definitely, and there are four orange buttons on the calculator.
“Mind if I ask a personnel question? OK. How many persons are employed in your organization?”
That had been in my head since I drove to the interview. After I heard myself saying it I laughed aloud. They laughed too. Especially the fat one who’s name I probably misheard as Ham Stanley.
“Hah, that’s too personnel a question for us to answer! Get this, Baker, he’s a funny guy.”
The other man with the sloping forehead and hairy wrists was Glenn Baker. He didn’t say much but you could tell he liked my joke. I saw him wink in approval. Stanley continued,
“We like you and we want you to join our astronomic exploration agency. You, Glenn Baker and me will get in our astronomy suits and… uhh,” he shifted on his hands a little, “we’ll go up there, into space and explore the universe. Us three.”
Baker fished out some papers from the disorganised desk. They were the wrong ones, so he carried on looking. I checked the plastic clock hanging over their famous astronauts calendar, and twiddled my thumbs. With a look of satisfaction like that of a dog’s that you are spooning food out of a tin for, he pulled out some papers that had been stapled together. I recognised them as my application form.
Stanley gave them the once over and pursed his lips. “Seems you’re not cut out for mathematics.” He rested the paper and looked serious. “Math is very important to exploration. Calculation. Formula. All of these things. Glenn Baker is a good mathematician. A great one. I’m not.” He held up two chubby pink fingers. “And in a three-man-team you’ve got to have at least two people who can do one job. In case anything happens to one of us.”
That was pretty much the end of the interview. For the nine months since I have been going straight from the store to the local college, taking a math course. Three days a week. Baker sends positive emails to the store’s computer, and last week he even handwrote a letter telling me about the starship.
They picked me up this morning and drove me the fifty miles east to the hall when the exam is taking place. It’s not just me and the math exam. There are people from all over the state in the hall taking exams for many subjects. History, science, biology, medical exams, languages, french, arabic, animal studies, chemistry… you name it. Stanley told me Baker’s enthusiasm is contagious. “It’s like it’s airborne!” he said, creasing up over the steering wheel.
I don’t know shit about math. Not just in general, but right now; even after nine months of night school. I chew my pencil and look at the four orange buttons to see if the letters on them remember me the one which would help me answer this question. Some of them aren’t even letters I recognise. One orange button has a curly little x on it. It’s under a thin little line strut, like a half done game of hangman.
I try to visualise what the room the night school lessons took place in looked like. I heard this can jog the memory. I try to visualise the teacher. About 30 years old, with a brown beard curling under his neck. I see his mouth moving – he’s saying the name of the button at me – but I can’t hear anything but the silence of the exam hall and the shuffling of chair legs as other people try not to fuck up their exams too. Three bits to the word. Syllables. His mouth opens three times. mo-mo-my. pro-mow-myy. proto-my? Proto-christ?. He’s angry at me now.
And if I did remember which button to press, would it help me answer the questions? Show your workings. OK. What if the button wasn’t orange? There are literally hundreds of buttons on my calculator. Imagine living amongst the stars… There’s an infinite grid of buttons. My stomach shrinks just looking at them. Want to see the celestial, astronomic universe? I turn my calculator around in my hands. There’s nothing on the back. No battery. It’s solar. Imagine us flying in space like angels. Exploring the burning suns and forgotten planets. Send a pre-addressed envelope for more information…
I stand up from my desk and the exam adjudicator looks up at me. I start to make an excuse, then realise I can see – now that I’m standing – the two men in the lot outside. Still in the driver’s seat is Stanley. He sees me and, overjoyed, slaps Baker in the shoulder and points. He gives me two large thumbs up. Baker grins too, showing his little teeth. I have very good eyesight. I turn back to the hall. The exam adjudicator looks at me sternly. Please, I am disturbing the other examees. I sit down again.
Show your workings. I place my calculator in front of me, on top of the blank question paper so that it’s exactly in the middle. I think of the stars, and Stanley and Baker. I think of the three of us in our suits, waving out of the starship like we are waving from the inside of a snow globe. I press randomly one of the orange buttons.