Page 15 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
Interesting.
“I, uh… well, I told her I needed to do some research.”
I think those are actual beads of sweat forming on her temples.
“And knowing Jackie, all you had to say was research and she gladly handed you over her own and went about her merry way.”
Trish blots her forehead with her napkin. “Yeah, basically.”
Damn this girl is interesting. No wonder Ian metaphorically tries pissing around her whenever we go out.
But she looks nervous and uncomfortable, so, once again, I let it go.
Sometimes being a good friend isn’t fun.
I nod and take a large bite of pizza. Trish’s shoulders visibly slump in relief. “Anyway,” I say moving my mouthful of pizza to one cheek, “NASA has some cool as shit missions coming up. One of them is going back to the moon.” I swallow. “And I’m pretty sure when I get up there”—I smirk, because let’s face it,of courseI’ll be on that mission—“and make any comment not previously PR approved, I’ll get grounded. And I’ll be damned if I ever let that happen.”
“Grounded?” Trish’s previous nervousness is gone.
Score one for me.
“Yeah, the no-fly zone.” When she simply stares at me, I scoop up a few more pickles before continuing. “When a pilot, or even an astronaut, such as myself, breaks the rules or does something out of line, they get grounded or put on the no-fly list.” I grab a handful of fries. “So a person might still have the title of pilot or astronaut, but they’ll never get back in the air. They’d be grounded. Get it?”
“That’s actually happened?” She grabs a fry and nibbles on the end of it.
“Yep.”And I’m not about to let it happen to me, I think, as I chomp my handful of fries. The waitress comes over and refills my water. I wave for her to stay while I drain my glass and have her fill it again. Trish laughs.
“Sorry, just a bit dehydrated.” I shrug, feeling a bit uncouth around Trish. “In the Air Force being grounded happens all the time. For even the smallest infractions. But usually, it’s just short-term, kind of like a probation, or a toddler’s time-out.” Finally feeling full, I slow down on the smorgasbord of appetizers I ordered. “But at NASA? Once you’re grounded, you don’t go back up. It’s for life.” I shudder hard at the thought.
“And that’s happened? To people you know?”
I nod. “I only know of two that it happened to. One was grounded for medical reasons.” Thinking about never flying again has me reaching for another pizza chip, waistband strain be damned.
“What about the other one?”
“Hmm?” I ask, mouth full again.
“The other one who got grounded for non-medical reasons?”
“Oh. Him.” I wipe the grease off my chin with a paper napkin. “That happened pretty recently, actually. Chip Whipple.” I roll my eyes, remembering. “He decided not to follow protocol and unclipped during an EVA. Just flew around without a tether or a SAFER.” When Trish looks at me blankly, I add, “You know, the jet pack thing?”
She nods. “Oh yeah. Those things look so cool.”
“It totally is.” I smile, reminiscing on my last time with the SAFER. Shaking my head, I continue. “Anyway, the dude obviously thought he was the next John Wayne or something. But that isn’t the way NASA rolls. First, you don’t mess with protocol. I grew up Air Force. Rules and regulations are there for a reason. NASA warned him, but the idiot did it again. So NASA grounded his ass. He got all pissed and quit.” I remember that day. It had really sucked seeing one of your own, someone you’d trained with, helped, and competed for space time with, just up and burn their bridges.
“And second?”
“Huh?”
“You said first… so I assume there’s a second?”
“Oh yeah.” I pick up a fry and point it at her for emphasis. “Second, who the hell goes by Chip Whipple? That’s just stupid.” I smirk when Trish laughs, even with her mouth full. “Granted, a lot of people don’t have control over their names or even nicknames.” I mutter “NASA’s Starr” before snapping the fry in half with my teeth. “But the dude’s name was actually Christopher. Hemadeeveryone call him Chip. I mean Whipple is bad enough, but adding Chip to the mix? He sounded like a Tasty-Freeze confection.”
“Gosh, that is bad.” Trish brings her hand up to her mouth to cover it while she continues to chew. Such a lady.
“Try calling him by his title with a straight face—Commander Whipple.”
We both laugh and spend the rest of the afternoon lazing around the porch of Boondoggles, going through the bride magazines that Trish made me stop for on the way here.
