When all else fails, just walk there.

A good piece of advice my grandfather used to give me when I was smaller. Only now, it didn't seem as useful to accomplish my latest goal. I'm a huge fan of those old pulp comics from the 1940's. The funny things they thought we'd have accomplished by 1999. Flying cars, automatons for everything. Humanity at it's lch would be our downfall. Funny thing, them... they were wrong. It's 1999 and all I'm doing is sitting on my duff writing a Sci-Fi story about how I'm sitting on my duff writing a Sci-Fi story about how I'm sitting on my duff writing a Sci-Fi story about... well I think you get the picture. An enigma within an enigma. Perhaps I'm not the story teller. Maybe I'm just the character that some other kid is sitting and writing about. Maybe in the "Real World" it's 2459 and the U.S.S. Enterprise is a real thing and we're all just a story by some future genius writer. Perhaps.

But I get the gut feeling that this is it. Reality. Sometimes there's a great joy and rapture from living. Some other times there's no other word to describe living in this reality as "Sucky". It's a made-up word, but who really cares anymore? My immediate concern was the moon. She hung there in the night sky, as full and pretty as a cumly lass. I smacked myself as I gazed out the window. Cumly Lass? Who the hell says that anymore let alone THINK it? I sighed as I stared at every dip and bump on the surface. Somewhere up there, men had set foot. Somewhere up there, an American flag waved in an absent breeze, suspended on wires and stiff cloth. Somewhere up there... was my destiny.

The phone rang, just inches from my typing hands. I picked it up. I mumbled some obvious phrase as I turned down the speakers on my borrowed Macintosh. Smash Mouth blaring about something or the other in the background, I turned my attentions towards the phone.

"Josh?" the voice sounded like a friend of mine. I wish I could've remembered who. Damn my memory. Why haven't they invented brain upgrades yet? "Is that you?"

"Yeah." Ah, the Great Thinker speaks!

"This is Andrew Rodgers," the voice replied. Damn my memory and to hell with my hearing. I need a replacement head. Maybe something in a Matt Damon model? "I'm calling in reference to your application to NASA's R and D department."

"I didn't apply to NASA." I retorted.

"You didn't? That's too bad, your resume was sent over by your assistant... you seem to qualify perfectly for one of our newest projects," he offered politely. My assistant? Oh shit! I must've incorrectly dialed Brenda's number! I'd better clear this up. My Rational Brain rationalized. Are you friggin' loony, man? You've got a NASA rep on the line saying you're perfect for a NASA project! It's still YOUR resume. Idiot. My Logical brain spoke up. Hmm... Rational is right... but Logical... well hell, I wanna go to the moon. Why not? I grinned, my mind made up. Smart boy.

"Really? Well to be truthful I didn't really mean to fax that there, but I need something to do anyway... I'm bored off my ass at my current job."

Bright and early Monday afternoon I found myself being poked and prodded by NASA medical scientists. Each question I asked was met with a timely "Hmm" or "That's not right..." Something told me I'd be sitting at my current job for a while longer. After a bit I was told to "Redress, please" with emphasis on the "please" by one of the younger, prettier doctors. Well, no sweet lovin' for her! I was ushered into a small office, with an older man wearing thick glasses and a bad toupee sat waiting for me.

"Mr. Rodgers will see you now," said the pretty female doctor as she left.

"Hello, Mr. Munce." The man at the other end of the desk smiled, showing a row of what appeared to be the derailment of a dental train. "I'm Andy Rodgers. We spoke on the phone a few days ago."

"We did?" Damn memory. He nodded and continued.

"Well, your resume shows that you're of total mental quality for this task, but these tests show that you're sorely out of physical quality," he jutted a fat little finger at a price of paper he held in front of him with his other hand. "But," he went on. "You're absolutely perfect in the mental arena. I've talked to my supervisor and he's authorized me to put you on a strenuous workout regime funded by NASA to get you into shape in time. Will you work for us?"

I sat back and thought for a moment. "Will you work for us?" It seemed like a Choose Your Own Adventure book... Go to Page 45 if you work for them, Go to Page 101 if you don't. My mind mulled this over.

"Page forty-five." I said triumphantly.

"Huh?" he looked at me with a look of a doe caught in headlights.

"Oh," I blushed. "That's... uh... slang. Yeah. Slang for 'Yes!'" I saved my own ass with my words as I'd done on so many occasions. He pushed a contract in front of me, which I skimmed briefly... "If the Signor back out of said Deal.." blah blah blah. I was signing my life away and pretty much allowing NASA any avenue of escape in the untimely and most likely even of my death. But hell, at least I'd get the chance to see the moon. I scribbled my Herbie Hancock and slid the contract back to Andy. He looked it over for a second, dated it and signed it.

"Great!" And smiled. "Welcome to Team Red Planet!" Team Red Planet? My mind mulled. Isn't that... Mars?