At the Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C. there is a display case on the second floor that contains the preserved body of a monkey that was shot into space in 1961 to chase a Russian dog. The monkey returned safely to earth but died four days later from the anesthetic during a routine surgery. In its little white space suit, the monkey looks confused and nervous, which is understandable considering the remarkable events of the last week of its life. Also in the case is a certificate signed by President Kennedy thanking the monkey for its contribution to American science. The monkeyıs name was Able, and its fur is wearing off in places.
"That is overwhelmingly gross," says Carly.
The Air and Space Museum is the place to go if you need to take your mind off something. The museum is a monument to imagination and perseverance. It is the worldıs largest collection of space and aircraft. It has the Spirit of St. Louis suspended from the ceiling. It has Alan Shepardıs freeze-dried dinner from the night of July 15, 1971, but it doesnıt say what he ate instead.
"I need a cigarette," Carly says. She opens her purse, shuts it, and sighs. "God, I could really use a cigarette."
"You donıt smoke," you tell her.
"I know, but itıs just something to do, you know? With my hands. I never know what to do with my hands."
A week ago today you packed your apartment on U Street. You are surprised to realize that everything you care to take with you fits into two suitcases and a laundry bag. There is no room for the stapler, and you feel a twinge of guilt for taking it from work. The landlady does not take her eyes off "Blind Date" when you place the key on her table.
At the Air and Space Museum you can sit on benches placed in unobtrusive locations if you need a break from walking amidst all that innovation. While you clear your head, you can watch heavy, translucent-skinned Midwestern families wander through Milestones of Flight. You can watch eighth-graders from Denver make out on class field trips. You can watch Iwo Jima vets from Florida suspiciously eye groups of Japanese tourists, who wear sun visors indoors and take unsmiling pictures of each other next to Buzz Aldrinıs helmet.
"Christ, itıs cold," Carly says. "Itıs not like we need to feel like weıre on the goddam moon."
"Whyıd you wear that?"
"Wear what?" she says defensively. Her denim halter top looks a size too big. "This is how I dress. This is what Iım comfortable in." She adjusts her strap and looks away, her fingers clasping an invisible Camel.
Carly doesnıt know many people in this city. Actually, neither do you. The two of you have been to a different Smithsonian every Saturday for a month. You tried the Holocaust Museum last week but Carly started shaking inside the musty boxcar replica and you had to go.
A Filipino family bustles around the exhibit hall, in constant motion except for a daughter who stands on tiptoe in front of Ableıs display with her palms pressed against the smudgy Plexiglass and the tip of her nose so close that her breath fogs the surface. Behind her, her larger brothers slap each other and scramble around their frantically shushing parents. The girlıs eyes are transfixed on the monkey. She doesnıt budge until her father pulls her away, and even as their family argument glides into the next room she continues to glance over her shoulder at the stuffed monkey and the possibilities it represents.
"I hate kids," Carly says.
"Letıs walk," you say.
Since you have been fired you find yourself noticing details like that, which is ironic because it is details that cost you your job. You have been fired because TelePrompters donıt have spell-check and the Secretary of Education is a poor public speaker. He reads. Your supervisor is reluctant to let such a well-meaning young person go but the Secretary demands it. He was giving a speech to a teacherıs union from New Mexico. You transcribed the typewritten script into the Teleprompter. Underachieving schools canıt keep ducking our standards, the Secretary was supposed to say.
Thatıs why you always have to read it over, Rosa says with obvious pain. She clutches a clipboard on her lap that she beats lightly on her knees at each word. Always double-check.
It wasnıt intentional, you say.
Of course not.
On the keyboard the f is right next to the d.
I hate to let young people go, Rosa says. Her voice has a pleading quality. Give me a reason to keep you here. Tell me why I shouldnıt let you go. The clipboard is still. In the stiff, antiseptic warmth of her office, you look at the shapeless knobs of her knees in their pantyhose and try to think of something. You turn in your ID badge to the sweat-pitted security guard in the lobby and he scissors it in front of you.
You did not plan for this when you were sitting in the stadium, sweating under your school colors and waiting for the department chair to hand over the most expensive piece of paper you have ever held. You believe the speakersı firm assertions that you are stepping into a world that needs you. You accept the dayıs implicit fantasy, that itıs all upwards from here, for everybody. You do not see yourself three months later jobless and crunching on a package of astronaut ice cream from the gift shop. All thanks to underachieving schools fucking our standards.
"Letıs walk," you say to Carly.
In Pioneers of Flight you take a photo for two male college students, one of whom shakes hands with a life-size cutout of Amelia Earhart while the other pretends to lick her ear. You pass the tour group of fourth-graders chasing each other around Exploring the Planets without stopping. In WWII Aviation, a slight old man stands before a Messerschmitt Bf. 109G-6, its steel side blistered with Allied gunfire, and sobs quietly with his tweed golf cap over his heart.
For $56 a week you take a locker and a top bunk in a four-bed room in the youth hostel on 11th Street. In the course of the first week you share your room with three Italian environmental delegates and a Canadian backpacker. The Italians steal your birth-control pills. The Canadian yells, "I said twenty, bitch" in her sleep.
Youıve thought about going home. Youıve thought about going back to school. You kind of thought about being a teacher. You wonder if this is a sign.
"Iıd like to write," Carly says, "but Iım no good with words."
You are not ready to give up.
At the Air and Space Museum there is no choice but to look up. The Air and Space Museum does not tolerate those who believe there is no place left to be explored. Monkeys can fight communism. Man can pass through clouds. Your fears are rational. You donıt have a choice. You have too many. You close your eyes.
"Whatıs with you?" Carly asks.
Feels like flying.