All Fixed Up

by Linda Grimes

  Satisfied I could do it, I shuffled over to the more intimidating functional replica. Buttons and switches and hoses … gah. Luckily, someone had taped easy, step-by-step instructions on the wall behind the space john. (Or would that be a “John Glenn”? I thought irreverently.)

  First thing, you flipped the footholds down. Check. (There were straps to help hold your feet steady, and thigh restraints to keep you from floating away. Honestly, it looked like some futuristic version of a medieval birthing chair. Ugh.)

  To urinate, one had to attach the proper funnel to the correct hose and turn on the fan. No gravity in space meant you had to use suction to control the flow of human waste to the containers where it was held for later recycling (liquid) or disposal (solid).

  Trouble was, there were four different funnel types. How in the hell was I supposed to know which one to use? I supposed I could go back to the positional trainer and take a closer look at, um, things to get an idea of which one might be the best fit, but that seemed needlessly invasive of Dr. Phil’s privacy, not to mention time-consuming. Like I said, I had to go. So I eenie-meenie-miney-moed it, and hoped for the best.

  Phwoop!

  Wow. Talk about a singular sensation. Even though my bladder felt like it was about to burst, I had a hard time getting started. (Go attach a funnel to your vacuum cleaner, press it close to your pertinent anatomy, and see if you can relax.) But eventually my need won out, and relief was had. Until I had to remove the funnel from its, um, docking station.

  I tugged. It stuck.

  Then I remembered—vaguely—that the funnels for the female astronauts were vented around the rims to avoid this kind of situation, because of the necessity of placing them directly against the body. The guys only had to aim into theirs from a few inches away (honestly, guys have it so much easier in the peeing department), so no vents were necessary for them—only a nice, strong suction to keep their fluids flowing where they needed to flow.

  I’d obviously grabbed a guy funnel. (Damn it, I’d had to pee, all right? Urgently having to pee is not conducive to forethought.)

  I tugged again. Ouch.

  There was a loud knocking on the door, followed by an eager “Dr. Carson? Everything all right in there? If you need assistance…”

  Yikes. “No! I’m fine.”

  “Very well. I don’t mean to rush you, but it looks like PR has scheduled you for another interview. This one is with a reporter from a local elementary school, and he’s getting a little antsy. You know kids.”

  “I’ll be right there…” I said, doing my best to keep the desperation out of Dr. Phil’s voice. One more good yank and—

  Gah! I bit my lip against a filthy word.

  * * *

  My interviewer was a big-eyed little boy with a blond buzz cut and more freckles than my primary aura, poor kid. He wrote painstakingly in his composition book with a blunt-pointed pencil, his tongue switching from one corner of his mouth to the other with each new letter he put down. He was in the second grade. But as excruciating as waiting for him to finish writing was, that wasn’t my real problem.

  My real problem was the videographer recording the interview for NASA’s PR department.

  A shiver had gone through me when I’d first seen him. He resembled Alec Loughlin in build and coloring, and was equally good-looking, if you go for that rugged, I’ve-lived-an-outdoor-life type. My handler introduced him as “John Smith.” Such a nice, ordinary name. My relief might have stayed with me past the introduction if, while shaking my hand, he hadn’t stroked my palm with one finger and whispered, in a faint Russian accent, “Alec sends his regards.” That turned my initial shiver into a full-blown chill down my spine.

  I tried to stay focused on the kid—Eddie, his name was—but my mind was flying. What was this guy doing here? Was there going to be another kidnapping attempt? Or maybe worse? Did he think I was Dr. Phil, or had Alec told him I was someone—something—else? How much did he know? How should I be acting around him?

  Thus far I’d kept it to a pleasant but distant “pleased to meet you.” I didn’t think Miss Manners had any set rules for greeting possible kidnappers-slash-murderers, so I was working blind.

  I glanced at the camera, adopting a façade of magnanimous-adult-being-patient-with-the-kid. From the amused smirk on Smith’s face, he wasn’t buying it.

  I turned to Eddie’s teacher (Mr. Brooks, according to his name tag), an earnest older black man who obviously took his job as educator of tomorrow’s scientists seriously. He’d made it a point to tell me the original journalist for today had been a girl who had called in sick to school, and the first alternate had also been a girl, but she too had been sick. I had applauded his efforts to encourage girls in the fields of science and technology, and assured him I was perfectly happy to talk to boys as well.

  Now all I could think about was how to get both of them the heck out of here as soon as humanly possible. If this asshole was sent by Loughlin to get me, I didn’t want any collateral damage.

  “So,” I said to the teacher, “don’t you think it might be a bit, well, redundant for Eddie to write down all my answers? I mean, since the interview is being recorded.”

  Mr. Brooks smiled. “It never hurts to have a backup. What if the video is corrupted? Technology is far from infallible, you know.”

  I suppressed an eye roll, Dr. Phil not being the eye-rolling type. “Yes, I do see your point. Perhaps if I wrote down my answers…” I suggested delicately.

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Brooks said. “We like to foster independence in our students. Besides, this is good practice for Eddie. Dictation is rapidly becoming a lost skill for our youngsters.”

  I nodded, keeping the patient smile on Dr. Phil’s face, and decided to limit my future replies to three words or less. Three short words.

  I darted another look at the Russian. His smirk seemed slier somehow. He knew he had me squirming, and was enjoying it.

  Eddie looked up, eyebrows squinched together. “How do you spell ‘international’ again?”

  I was about to answer, but was stopped by a raised palm from the teacher. “Sound it out, Eddie.”

  Eddie finally reached the end of his sentence—I-N-T-E-R-N-A-S-H-U-N-U-L … S-P-A-S … S-T-A-S-H-U-N; not a bad, if exceedingly time-consuming, effort—jabbing the period at the end of it like he was spiking a football after a touchdown.

  “Next question?” I said, consciously not drumming my fingertips on the table between us. “Um, not to rush, but I do have another appointment soon.” A very personal appointment with my cell phone, to tell Mark that Loughlin definitely wasn’t working alone.

  Hmm. Maybe I didn’t have to wait. I could shoot off a quick text while little Eddie was laboriously laying lead down on the page. But as soon as I reached for my pocket, the videographer (whom, I somehow suspected, was not named John Smith) started talking, his Russian accent not as subtle as before.

  “Patience, Dr. Carson. Put yourself in the boy’s place. That would be much better than putting him in your place, wouldn’t it?”

  I forced myself to keep my focus on my interviewer, terribly afraid I couldn’t hide my shock at what he seemed to be threatening. Would he really harm a child?

  Eddie put his pencil down and flexed his hand, grimacing.

  I feel you, kid.

  “Go ahead, Eddie,” Mr. Brooks said with an encouraging smile, looking like he had all the time in the world. Not that I could blame him for stretching things out. This was probably way more fun than dealing with a whole classroom full of seven-year-olds.

  Eddie looked at the next question on his list, a mischievous grin appearing on his face. “How do you use the bathroom in space?” He snickered.

  Great. How could I explain that in three words?

  “Keep it serious, Edward,” Mr. Brooks said sternly.

  “Hey, you told me a good journalist asks the questions other people want to know. Well, that’s what Sam wants to know.” He shrugged.

  Under
less tense circumstances I probably would have had trouble maintaining Dr. Phil’s decorum. As it was, I only smiled, keeping her professional attitude intact. “We have a special toilet. It sucks the”—would he understand “urine” and “feces”?—“pee and poop into special containers, kind of like a vacuum cleaner.”

  Mr. Brooks frowned slightly at my word selection, but I didn’t care. “Pee” and “poop” were easier to spell, and I didn’t want to wait for Eddie to write “Y-E-R-I-N” and “F-E-E-S-E-E-S.” The sooner the two of them were out of Smith’s reach, the happier I’d be.

  “My dad said you have to use a hose.”

  “For”—I glanced at Mr. Brooks, and decided to be more careful with my words—“um, number one, yes—a hose with a funnel on the end of it. For number two it’s more like a regular toilet,” I said, keeping my voice as matter-of-fact as I could.

  Eddie looked thoughtful. “I’ll bet the hose thing is a lot easier for the guys than the girls, huh?”

  Kid, you have no idea. But you may have just given me one …

  “Hey, I know,” I said. “Would you like to see a space toilet close up?”

  “Heck, yeah!” Eddie said, eyes alight with curiosity. Even Mr. Brooks looked intrigued.

  The Russian, however, didn’t seem to care for the idea.

  “Come on, Mr. Smith,” I said brightly. “You can document it for us. I’m certain whoever watches this interview will be as fascinated with space plumbing as Eddie here is.”

  His eyes narrowed on me. “Sure,” he said, patting Eddie on the head, allowing his hand to slide down to the back of the boy’s skinny neck. He gripped it lightly, in a way I was sure Mr. Brooks and my handler found friendly, but I found nauseatingly threatening. “And then maybe you can come with me to take some random footage around the grounds outside. For additional viewer interest.”

  I nodded, my mouth too dry to speak.

  He let go of Eddie. “Lead the way, kid. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Message received.

  * * *

  I set Dr. Phil’s normally brisk pace to match Eddie’s shorter stride, knowing it was what she would do. It also gave me slightly longer to fine-tune my plan, which so far consisted of “find a way to get Eddie and Mr. Brooks away from Smith.” Admittedly, it could use some fleshing out.

  Smith shouldn’t be armed. Security was tighter than ever for the building—Mark had seen to that after the incident with Loughlin—but I had no idea what kind of hand-to-hand skills he had. He might be as well trained as Mark, for all I knew, and Mark could probably take down anyone who wasn’t holding a bazooka on him. So I had to be extra careful. Isolating him somehow would be my best option.

  When we got to the restroom door, Eddie was ready to barge right in, but I held him back with a hand on his shoulder. “Wait a second. I have a better idea,” I said, the details of a plan materializing in my head as I spoke. “Let’s let Mr. Smith go in first, so he can capture the look on your face when you get your first up-close and personal view of the space potty.”

  Smith gave me a suspicious look. “Good idea,” he said with a tight smile. “Why don’t you come in with me and show me how you want the shot set up?” He hooked a long-fingered hand above my elbow and pulled me after him.

  Okay, so that hadn’t been part of my plan. “Um … sure. Happy to. Let me just tell Eddie and Mr. Brooks what to do when I call them in.”

  Turning my back on Smith, who waited just inside the open door, his grip still firm on my arm, I focused on my Ferengi-Elvis look-alike handler and mouthed the words “Call security” as distinctly as I could, praying he could read lips. He looked confused.

  Smith’s grip tightened.

  “Um, so when I holler ‘go,’ Eddie, you just open the door and walk right in. And, you know, pretend you’re impressed or something,” I said, the whole while staring at Elvis and rolling my eyes wildly in an effort to make him realize something was very, very wrong.

  Eddie shifted from foot to foot, impatient to play his role. “Gotcha! Just like when I open a present from Aunt Doris. Only I bet this is going to be way cooler than the stuff she gets me!”

  Elvis cocked his head at me. “Are you quite all right, Dr. Carson?”

  “Yes. I, um, got something in my eye.” I tried mouthing the words again, exaggerating the movement of my lips even more.

  Mr. Brooks said, “Here, let me take a look.”

  “Uh … okay. It’s the left one.”

  When he was close enough, I whispered frantically, barely moving my lips, “As soon as the door closes, get Eddie the hell out of here. Fast.”

  Surely the man hadn’t survived this long in the teaching field without being quick on the uptake. He cleared his throat, still looking at my eye, and gave one quick nod. “There. I think I got it.”

  God, I hoped so.

  Elvis tucked his clipboard under his arm. “Wait just a moment, please. I didn’t catch what you were trying to tell me, Dr. Carson.” He tugged on one of his earlobes. “I’m afraid this new hearing aid might be malfunctioning. It seems to be fading in and out.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. “I said call security!” I shouted, and spun around, breaking Smith’s grip on my arm. I shoved him into the room and stumbled in after him, kicking the door shut behind me.

  He dropped his camera and came at me with a roar. If he got me pinned, I’d never get away from him. Not alive, anyway.

  I lowered my head and charged him like a bull, aiming to hit him in the solar plexus and knock the wind out of him. It might have worked, too, if he hadn’t had abs of titanium. A grunt was all I got out of him, followed by a dirty laugh.

  He grabbed me by the hair and shoved my face down a few inches, into his crotch. “You want to go down on me, little imposter? That can be arranged. But later. First we are getting out of here.”

  Fortunately, Dr. Phil’s stylishly short coif kept Smith from achieving a strong grip. I twisted my head and pulled away, hard, leaving him with a palm covered in auburn hairs and me with a burning scalp. Before he could grab my head again, I jerked my knee up, aiming for his balls. I figured they must be a big target, considering how he strode into the Space Center intending to snatch me right out from under everyone’s noses.

  Unfortunately, whatever protect-your-junk-at-all-costs instinct men come equipped with kicked in before I could make a solid connection. I must have winged him, though, because he was pissed off. Big time.

  He dragged me—by my ears this time—to the training toilet and attempted to push my head, face-first, into the bowl. Good God, was he trying to drown me? Didn’t he know space toilets use suction, not water?

  When he saw my head wasn’t going to fit—because, of course, the hole was too small—he pulled me back by one ear, and lifted the seat, obviously thinking to attempt it again with a larger opening. Instinctively, I braced my hands against the base of the toilet, trying to push myself away. My fingers brushed up against a knob.

  Aha! The suction switch. I twisted it to the highest setting. While he was still occupied with the seat, I grabbed the urine-disposal tube and, with as much force as possible, jammed it right between his legs.

  Smith doubled over, his own head landing in the place he’d been trying to put mine. He let go of me by reflex, and tried to push himself up from the toilet, but apparently he’d wheezed the strength right out of his arms. I held firm, pushing the hose as hard as I could against the most tender part of his anatomy. With my other hand, I reached up and slammed the toilet seat down on his head. Repeatedly.

  He sure as hell wasn’t laughing now.

  “How do you like it, you motherfucking douche bag?” I know. My language deteriorates when I’m under stress. It’s a quirk.

  I gave the hose another upward shove, twisting. I must have connected a little more solidly to the anatomy beneath his pants, because this time it stuck. Ha! “Sucks, doesn’t it, asshole?” I said, and dropped the toilet seat on his head one final time.

&
nbsp; * * *

  John Smith was still clutching his man-bits when three security guards burst into the room. He’d slid to the floor in front of the space potty, and was balled up in a fetal position, pale and sweaty and glassy eyed. I’d removed the hose. Let him explain his busted balls any way he chose.

  I played dumb with security, claiming I had no earthly idea who the man could be or what he wanted. Mark could decide what to tell NASA. As far as they were concerned, I was Dr. Carson, and I wasn’t about to tell them otherwise. When they wanted to escort me to see a flight doc, I pleaded the need for a few moments in the ladies’ room first, and called Mark, quickly relating the bare bones of what had happened. It’s possible the groin-punishing interlude in the bathroom got condensed to “I incapacitated him,” which somehow struck me as more professional.

  “Are you injured?” he asked tensely.

  “Nope. Right as rain,” I said, keeping Dr. Phil’s voice bright and steady.

  “Hang tight. I’m sending someone to pick up Smith. And you.” His voice had become more controlled, but I detected an underlying grimness.

  “Take Smith, and good riddance, but I’m on a job here and plan to finish it.”

  “Howdy”—the phones were encrypted, so he wasn’t giving anything away to any would-be eavesdroppers—“if there was one guy, there could be more. It’s not safe.”

  “Look, if it makes you feel better, have someone follow me”—I knew he would anyway, so I figured I might as well make it sound like a concession on my part—“but I’m driving myself home in that sweet ride, same as always. Oh, and tell whoever follows me not to freak out when I stop for a burger. I’m starving.”

  Chapter 12

  I dropped my double cheeseburger and fries on the kitchen counter, along with another bag, and went to the fridge for a bottle of designer water. Nobody had recognized Dr. Phil at the busy burger joint, but I hadn’t wanted to stay long enough to press it. Greasy burgers weren’t really her thing, and I didn’t like to appear in public out of character. But desperate times call for desperate measures—I needed a cheeseburger to fortify me.