Page 2 of Across the Universe

On the side of the ballroom, there are several tables set up with giant advertisements propped up on easels. Professional photographers with oversized flashbulbs attached to their cameras move about expertly, bobbing and weaving as they rearrange and reconfigure the astronauts around different products and items.

"What's going on here?" Bill frowns down at Polly Vanderbilt. "What are we doing?" He gestures at Todd Roman and Jay Reed, who are mugging for a camera as Todd throws an arm around Jay's shoulders. Dave Huggins, NASA's own staff photographer, stands to the side, photographing the other photographers. The whole thing is mysterious to Bill. "I don't understand."

"Well," Polly says, placing her hands together daintily and stepping towards a table with the grace of a ballerina. She beckons for Bill to follow. "NASA has entered into some very exclusive deals with a variety of vendors, and in exchange for their lucrative sponsorship and the added exposure, we are working with these hand-selected companies to advertise their products."

Bill stands before the table, eyeing the items that are displayed there. "Rolex?" he asks, eyebrows shooting skyward. "We're advertising Rolex watches?"

Polly's head bobs excitedly as she reaches for a watch nestled in a leather box. She eyes the security guard stationed there, and the tall, beefy man gives her a single nod of approval. Polly takes the watch out of the velvet interior and holds it out for Bill's inspection. "Here," she says, "this one is for you.” Bill looks at the gleaming watch.

"This is a stainless steel of the highest industrial grade," Polly says, eyes wider than Bill might have imagined they'd go. "Every man in America wants to be an astronaut, and every astronaut in America will be wearing a Rolex on his wrist. You do the math on that one."

Bill holds out his wrist and allows her to fasten the watch in place. He admires it, turning the face under the lights and watching the way it shines. "Huh," Bill says, tugging the wrist of his tux over the watch to see how it feels. He can't lie: it feels like success. But reality gnaws at the back of his brain as he thinks about what it means to allow advertisers to use his body like a billboard. "But what if I don't want to participate in any of this?"

Polly's face falls like an avalanche; she looks as if she might cry. "You...you don't want a Rolex? I worked so hard on this campaign, Mr. Book--I mean, Lieutenant Colonel," Polly catches herself, correcting his title. "It's such a good opportunity."

Bill can sense her growing flustered as he watches his fellow astronauts from the corner of his eye. They rotate through the different tables, trying on the swag and posing for photos.

"Listen, Miss Vanderbilt," Bill says, holding himself in check so that he won't reach out and lay a paternal hand on her shoulder. "You can call me Bill." Polly clamps her lips together and nods her head. "And I just need a minute to process all of this. I've never imagined someone handing me a watch worth thousands of dollars and then just asking me to pose for a photo in exchange. That is all we're being asked to do, correct?"

Polly nods rapidly. "Yes, sir," she says. "And, of course, wear the watch when you go out in public. But nothing official," she tells him.

Bill puts a hand into the pocket of his tuxedo pants and surveys the rest of the tables as Denny Hitzman and the Hitmen switch to "Be My Baby" by the Ronettes.

"Alright," Bill says with a nod. The rest of the guys seem to be eagerly participating, and he can't lie to himself: walking around with a Rolex on his wrist feels pretty damn good. "Where do you want me?"

Over the next half hour, Bill moves around, allowing himself to be repositioned with his fellow astronauts, laughing and smiling as they clamp their lips around Cohiba cigars, pose with Spalding golf clubs and tennis rackets, and talk jovially with tumblers of Seagram's whiskey in hand.

As the flashbulbs pop, the band changes songs repeatedly, and the loud laughter of the men rings out through the ballroom. Much to Bill's surprise, he's having a good time. The golf club feels particularly natural in his hands (though he's less convinced about whether he might actually hit the links in a tuxedo), and the Seagram's goes down smoothly.

Bill is handing back the tennis racket and slipping a few extra Cohibas into the breast pocket of his jacket when the band starts to play "I Only Have Eyes For You." Instantly, Bill scans the room, searching for Jo. His gaze lands on her as if by magic. Almost as inexplicably, the crowd seems to part before Bill's eyes, and it feels like a spotlight sweeps across the dance floor until it finds Jo.

There she is, Josephine Booker, his bride. She's standing there in a mint green dress that hugs her curves, its fabric sprinkled with tiny sequins that catch a million sparks of light and make her glitter. Jo's lovely hands are covered up by white gloves that reach to her elbows, and her hair is swept off her neck, twisted and pinned into an elaborate updo. On her ears are two sparkling diamond studs.

The music swells slightly and, as Bill is watching her, Jo's gaze finds his. They've always loved "I Only Have Eyes For You," and Bill is about to pull away from the other astronauts and go to her, to sweep his wife up in his arms and sway along to the music.

But then Frankie Maxwell walks right between Bill and Jo and says something to Jo that makes her light up with a huge grin, and the spell is broken. Bill watches them talking, and then he turns away, ready to say something to Ed Maxwell about the way their wives are stealing the show in the middle of the ballroom.

But before he can speak, his eyes land on another singular vision, this one suspended in a different spotlight. It's Jeanie Florence, the woman he'd kissed in a stairwell and who he can't get out of his mind. She's standing near the glass doors that lead out to a balcony overlooking the water. Behind her, a first quarter moon hangs like a sliver of silver in the dark sky.

Bill's breath catches in his throat as he watches her: Jeanie, with her long, straight brown hair slicked away from her face and knotted at the nape of her neck. In comparison to Jo's glimmering pastel dress, Jeanie is in strapless black satin, and the fabric snakes down her body like she’s been painted into it. Jeanie is wearing black, opera-length gloves and a pearl necklace, and her face looks bare and innocent, save for the bright slash of red lipstick on her lips. Bill sucks in a breath as his eyes snag on her naked shoulders.

For a moment, Bill Booker has no idea where to look: towards his wife, with her sparkling, transfixing beauty—the woman who is the mother of his children and the keeper of his happiness—or at Jeanie Baxter with her lush, youthful glow. It’s an unfair comparison, as there is nearly a decade between the women, but Jeanie’s glamour in her black satin dress feels almost accidental; she’s zipped herself into a dress, pulled her hair away from her face, applied red lipstick, and slipped from the house. Jo, on the other hand, spent hours having her hair styled and sprayed at the salon, then followed that up with layers of tight undergarments, a variety of face creams and products, and the application of the kind of jewelry meant to catch and reflect the light around her. The results are no less arresting, but there’s something so appealing about the ease with which Jeanie has achieved this level of beauty that Bill can’t take his eyes off her.

And so he doesn’t. He stands there, caught in the moment like an image captured by a camera lens, immovable and unchanging. He watches Jeanie with no regard to where Jo is at the moment, and he doesn’t even try to make himself stop until, once again, the song changes, jolting him back into the moment.

Jo, Bill thinks. And there she is, still standing near Frankie with a wide smile on her face, looking like a gorgeous vision come to life.

Bill looks back at Jeanie, noticing her hesitation as she glances at the sparkling chandelier that hangs over the room, then back at the dance floor. She’s come alone; he can sense that immediately. And she’s regretting it just a little, feeling as though everyone in the room is paired off, leaving her to fend for herself and to make her own way to the bar for a glass of champagne. Bill can’t help himself as he watches her: he wonders who will kiss her at midnight. If everyone else is paired off when the clock strikes twelve, will Jeanie turn to the nearest busboy and allow one of the college-aged boys to kiss her for good luck as they trip their way into 1966? Will she be gathering a fur stole from the coat check as midnight approaches, looking up and down the carpeted hallway as the countdown rings out from the ballroom and her heart aches with loneliness? Will she let the closest drunken man lean in to kiss a pretty girl as a new year dawns and sweeps them all into the second half of the decade?

“Booker!” Ed Maxwell says, holding a hand in the air to get his attention. He waves Bill over.

Bill walks away from his spot directly between the two most beautiful women in the room, shoving both hands into the pockets of his pants sheepishly. “What’s up?” he asks Ed, nodding at the other men who are gathered there. “What am I missing here?”

“Moon shot,” Ed Maxwell says. “We’re scheduled for third quarter of 1969, which feels like a long way off, but it’ll be here in the blink of an eye.”

Bill nods and jingles the keys in his pockets. “Sure will,” he agrees, clearing his throat. He knows Ed Maxwell and Todd Roman, but he isn’t yet acquainted with the third man standing in their small group and he reaches out a hand to the man. “Bill Booker,” he says.

“Ted Mackey,” the man says, offering a hand that’s somehow larger than Bill’s and more authoritative. Bill tries not to react visibly as Ted Mackey grips his fingers in a handshake that’s meant to announce who the alpha male in the group is.

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