“This afternoon? We leave Sunday?”
“Is this going to be a problem, Leroy? Because, if it is,
we have a long list of applicants ready to jump on that shuttle.”
“No, no,” Leroy quickly added. “I just thought I’d need a
bit more preparation before flying. You know, getting used to the change in
atmosphere and all.”
“The application states that you’ve been working with
WASP. Was that a mistake?”
WASP, Workers’ Aero-Space Program, trained young men and
women for long-term employment in industries whose products were made faster
and cheaper in the low gravity of space. Several space cities had sprung up
over the past few years and WASP prepared most of their employees and citizens.
“No, sir.” Leroy began to sweat. He needed this job, his
rent was due tomorrow and he had nothing left in his bank account to cover it.
“I just thought there would be some additional training before a departure. I’m
ready to go right now, sir.”
“Good, good. Drive to Gate “L” and the guard will provide
further instructions. Be here by eleven. We have a lunch training session at
noon.”
After hanging up the phone, Leroy pulled out his training
notebook. This notebook contained all the instructions regarding the
distribution, disposal or storage of his belongings, any financial accounts he
might currently have and, of course, his body, should that become an issue in
the future. As part of his training with WASP, he’d been required to obtain
notarized agreements with friends and others willing to handle these issues
with little warning. Today was the day to put the wheels in motion. He called
his brother, Jack.
“Jack, it’s time. My application was accepted and I leave
in an hour.”
His brother didn’t say much. “Safe journey. I’ve got you
covered down here. Skype us when you arrive.”
And that was that. Leroy sighed, surprised he felt a
tinge of sadness at the departure. After all, this was his dream, wasn’t it?
Will Leroy Languish far from home? .... To Be Continued
L – languish
One hard, black plastic
ramp, angled, at rest
in casual conversation
with the back fence.
In close proximity,
unobtrusively eavesdropping,
an old wooden planter,
wearing a green-moss jacket,
head sprouting tendrils
of wicked weeds.
Too distant to catch
all the words whispered
by the ramp,
waits a yellow wheelbarrow,
sides somewhat rusted
in spots where age
cannot hide its presence,
the cost of plastic surgery
beyond her bank balance.
All hope the homeowner
won’t notice them
as spring’s warmth
entices her outside,
they scan the back door
with a wary eye, attempt
camouflage. It worked
last year, spared them
transport and transformation
from casual backyard residents
to junkyard dogs.
