I’m not quite sure where to begin. Nor what my purpose in penning these words is. Am I seeking communication, communion, or catharsis?
What does it take to change the world? Money? Power? Influence? Or just a thought, that might spread like a virus, infecting the minds of maybe 10 people around me, which grows, spreading to 10 more people through each of the first. It grows exponentially until the collective all comes to the same conclusion. Perhaps that’s too optimistic. The world today is noise, a constant thrum made up of individual screams, screams of desperation to grab your attention. What hope could one small message have amid the humming machine of capitalism, of advertisements and influencers. The sale of morals, served up on a silver platter next to weapons of mass destruction with the names of children written in blood on their sides. What hope? Maybe there is none. Maybe I’m a fool to try. Then again, a fool’s hope is still a hope.
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I sit in the courtyard of the office. They’ve turned two halves of the rocket fairings into shade awnings, but I sit off to the side, preferring to feel the sun on my shoulders. This is my favorite spot at the LA office, because there are trees planted here, and not just palm trees. Not that I have anything against palm trees- but they’re not native to California, and they’re not, technically speaking, even trees. No, I prefer the spindly oak and the many-branched magnolia that live out here. Small birds flit to and fro in the bushes at their base, searching from leftover crumbs from erstwhile engineers and technicians at lunch. The factory churns and buzzes with life across the courtyard.
I notice the activity only passively, as my attention is focused on the conference call taking place on my tablet in front of me. The agency folks are antsy, like always, about the upcoming mission.
“I’m not sure I like the idea of the new thruster design flying for the first time on a crewed launch – can’t we defer it to one of the cargo missions?”
I nod sympathetically. “I totally understand that, Pierce, new hardware always carries some level of risk, but this particular design is totally agnostic to mission success. Have you taken a look at the charts from last week’s review? I think it lays out the risk posture quite clearly. We’re actually two fault tolerant here, and loss of thrusters does not impact abort capability. Maybe you and I should sit down next week and go through them together – I’ll be in the DC office starting Monday.”
“Yeah I think that would be good – we can pull the crew in too, they’re in town for the Senate meet and greet.”
Internally I wince – the crew are highly respected, which means that the crew gets what they want. If they don’t like something, it falls on me to convince them, but externally I cheerfully respond, “Perfect, that’s what I’m there for too – that sounds like a great idea. Are you coming to the social? It’s a guaranteed good time.”
I’m deflecting – distracting him from the new thruster and removing the opportunity to pitch a fit. One of the birds in the yard hops closer to my foot, suspicious but greedily eyeing a piece of shredded tortilla, fallen under my seat. I carefully use the point of my boot to inch it closer to him, then recede.
Pierce, answering my question, “Yes, I hear the president is making an appearance.”
Unsurprising. Faced with a divided country and poor ratings, he’s been grasping at any chance to associate himself personally with the Demeter program, one of the only successes of the administration. Pierce, agency bigwig, I’m sure is raring at the chance to rub shoulders and get his name out there. Personally I’ll be staying as far away as the room will allow. The leader of the free world is not my favorite person.
I smile, “Like I said, guaranteed good time. I’m looking forward to it. Do you want to pick this up Monday? I know it’s getting late for you.”
Four-thirty in the afternoon is late for the agency. And I’m hundred percent sure that by Monday Pierce will have forgotten what the thruster is even supposed to do.
“Alrighty – have a good weekend, see you next week.”
I tap the button to end the call and lean back in my chair. It’s only 1:30, but I seriously consider walking out now. I could call in sick. Start my weekend plans early. I allow myself 10 more seconds, closing my eyes and feeling the sun on my face, and hearing the wind rustle the leaves of the trees. Then I turn back to my tablet and open my messaging app, seeing 52 unread chats and messages.
The modern workplace is unending noise. I often long for the days when, if someone wanted to contact you, they had to either find you in person or write a memo and have it delivered. Not that I was around for those days. But nowadays it’s an unending stream of bullshit and pings and dings and cheerful messaging app ringtones that carry a sense of dread.
I sort through the dings. Someone wants to know where to find the Demeter contract. The production manager for the lander wants to communicate a delay for Demeter IV, two years away. Finance wants clarification on a recent payment for a deliverable. I’ve found that the only thing that makes these parts of my day bearable is doing it outside. Message number 21 is from one of my direct reports, Eric.
[Eric Stoneman 2:04pm]: SOS, agency has q’s i can’t answer, can u call into the static fire review??
I sigh and find it on my calendar.
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Six hours later, I’ve successfully extricated myself from work, and am driving north, up to the Sierra. Freedom. My team knows not to contact me on mountain trips unless it’s a dire emergency. When I make it over the San Gabriels, driving up 1-5 in an attempt to escape the traffic, my whole body relaxes. The sense of relief is so visceral that I pull over at a lookout stop and get out of the car. Traffic zips by behind me. It’s dark, the sky an inky violet pierced by the first stars of the evening. It’s summer, so the light has lasted and the warmth of the earth rises up to meet me. I close my eyes and take three deep, slow breaths. A smile creeps across my face and I turn back to the car, eager to get even further way from the city. My campsite at 8000ft is calling my name.