The Spaceman

When I was in college I had the habit of staying up through the night either reading or working on work both for school and for myself. I wouldn’t feel tired. At least not through that day. Usually, the days after I would feel the overdue weighted blanket of rest begin to cover me starting from my head working down to my feet. After it consumed me on the outside it would begin working in. When I would finally give in, I'd sleep for 12 hours.

I loved the sleep though.

I didn’t mind.

There was a silver lining, aside from the sleep that I would indulge in the days after my work. It was the sunrise I would be able to see. No, that was a lie. I didn’t like it when the sun would come up to greet me. Its harsh light piercing my sensitive eyes after they’ve overdosed on the blue light from my computer. The dew rising up and coating the grass on the lawn reflecting the light from the sun. doubling the already intense exposure. The warmth already started up forcing me to take off my robe so I wouldn’t start to sweat.

I preferred the mornings when the clouds were in the sky. The strong gray coat covering the once infinite blue sky. Blocking the irritating, shining, white ball of flames. Keeping me cool. I was grateful to the clouds. Those would usually be the days I would write the most. I loved those mornings. The few times I stayed up and the clouds would be in the sky I'd either read or write outside. Which was saying a lot because I hated sitting on our porch.

It made me feel pretentious.

But when it was cloudy I didn’t care. I’d go to the porch and listen to the great silence orchestrated by the dark sky. I'd write pages and pages. The words would flow out of my mind and onto the computer. Perfectly coherent as if I didn't spend the last 8-10 hours doing the same thing through the night. Exhaustion didn’t exist to me.

It’s as if the clouds helped block that too.

I was alone and I liked it.

One morning was different. One morning I wasn’t alone.

I had finished taking a final online. This was the first time I had actually felt mentally tuckered out. I was fearful of pulling behind my curtain and the yellow and orange sky would assault me in this frail condition. I closed my laptop and rubbed my eyes, preparing myself for the worst. I stretch as I walk to the window and let out a silent yawn. I pull back and smile as I see the dark gray blanket above. I go to the restroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. As I brush I began weighing what I should do on the porch today. I settled on reading. Once I’m done with that I look at my bookshelf for any of the numerous books I have started but haven’t finished yet. The different color post-it bookmarks in the books overwhelmed me and I cursed as I took a step back away from the shelf and sat at my desk. I open my laptop and see what percentage it’s on.

“35%” it reads.

I sigh and remind myself that I need to start writing my next short story before I completely forget about it. I never really wrote down my ideas in a notebook or on my phone because more often than not I run into a wall thinking about the stories I wanted to write and get overwhelmed. I'd eventually drop them.

I think of my stories from start to finish. Every detail. Every character. And their interactions. It makes it easier for me to just write it. Almost from memory.

The story I wanted to write at the time was about this astronaut who gets lost in space. In the beginning, he thinks it’s a blessing. He was a writer and an avid reader. He was also a terrible narcissist. He writes and writes and eventually begins reading his own work. Falling in love with it. But after a disappointingly short amount of time after he’s completed some of his works in the journals he has on the ship he begins to feel dissatisfied with them. Finally, he begins to write something again. Something he’s very passionate about and it reignites his fire to write again but then he stops. Seemingly in a night he falls out of love with those things and wants nothing more than to go back home. But he can’t. He’s all by himself. Utterly alone.

I loved the idea and had spent the last few days thinking about that story over and over again. I was ready to write it. I close my laptop and head to the front porch carefully stepping to make sure the wooden floors wouldn’t creak so loudly to wake up my sleeping parents. I open the door slowly and sit on the olive green sofa we moved out to the porch but never threw away. I began to type enjoying the quiet the occasional bike rider would pass by and the sound of their chain would tickle my ears.

Suddenly I heard the door open slowly but the noise alone made me jump a bit. Out came my sister Michelle. The somewhat middle child. I was the youngest then it was my brother then Michelle then my oldest sister.

I can’t say I was close with her. Aside from the default level of closeness and trust that comes with being related or living under the same roof. Both of those things could be interchangeable. She was wearing obnoxious light blue cookie monster pajama pants. And she was wearing a bleached black sweater on top. I could tell something was in her sweater pocket. She looked surprised that I was outside like it was her first time seeing me out there. She looked like she had just gotten up and with a cough smiled at me and took a seat on the other side of the porch. I can’t remember if she said good morning to me or not.

I don’t think I did.

She pulls out a small package and another smaller one. She opens the big one first and the stench of its contents rushes my nose and shoves itself upwards into the front of my head. I continue to write or at least try to. She takes out her phone, snaps a picture of the greens, and begins playing music softly. She smiles to herself as she prepares her papers, setting them up so professionally on her lap. She begins to hum as she carries on.

I could hear her say something but I couldn’t make it out.

“Sammy!” She calls out to me. She was the only one who still called me that at that age. I turn to her and just give her my attention.

“What are you doing?” She asks through a smile.

“Writing.”

“About what?” She licks her brown paper slowly and methodically.

“A Spaceman,” I say. Half as a joke to myself and half in the hopes she’d see I don’t want to talk and leave me alone. It was a gamble. She'd either pick it up and leave me be or she’d keep digging.

“Ooo, is it a scary story?”

I didn’t think so.

“Yes.”

“That’s cool. That’s cool.”

I'd hate when people would say that.

“Thanks.” I flash a smile. She returns it. She finishes rolling up her treat and gets up.

“I used to love reading in high school. It was my favorite. I loved this one book 'The Outsider’...”

The Outsiders.

“... I can’t remember the name of the characters but I remember the story being interesting to me. I only liked a couple of books.”

Probably just the ones you can remember.

“Still though I think it’s cool you’re writing and doing that stuff. Let me read some of it sometime, yeah?”

Never.

“Sure.” I smile again. She walks down the stairs and into her car. I continued my writing but I felt distracted. Both by the stench and the curiosity of how Michelle was in high school. How different was she? Was she even different? When did she start smoking weed? Would we have been friends? Would she be the older sibling that protects the youngest or the one that tries to separate themselves from any relation to the youngest? Did she like English class or was she just lying to me? Was she a liar? Would she tell me about her problems and would she tell me about her ideas? Would she write? Could she write?

I didn’t care. For any of those things.

I didn’t. I really didn’t.

I didn’t.

Before I knew it I heard her car door open and close releasing the small gray children of smoke to meet their father in the sky. She steps out and walks back up the porch. She stops and looks at me and speaks.

“Do you know...why I stopped reading?”

I didn’t respond. I kept looking at her.

“Because in the stories..” She pauses. I could see the hamster jump off its wheel and go to the world's tallest filing cabinet and look for the right words to make the sentence. But soon enough it stops and returns to its melancholic pace. Leaving my sister to do the rest.

“They're all the same.”

I stopped myself from asking who?

“Don’t make the Spaceman like that okay? If you do, I won’t read it.” She smiles and kisses me on the forehead. And she walks back inside. In the distance, I hear her body sink into the mattress slowly as she descends back into her slumber.

The birds stopped chirping. No bikes passed by. The leaves didn't rustle.

It was just me on the porch.

She never read the story.

I never finished writing it.