Young Writers Society

How To Become an Astronaut Farmer

For the first time you feel your feet moving–each cautious step, dry leaves crackling beneath you—and they’re moving towards him. He, who acted acutely nervous this morning as you parted ways after Painting, stands in the doorway, grin on face and hand waving. Smile. Try to walk a little quieter, avoiding the dead sweetgum pods scattered over the asphalt. Inside, his roommate the film connoisseur, let’s you pick from his stock of movies. Find something amusing and slightly romantic, something you can watch without watching. Your mind will be distracted. That’s why, when mid-movie he lays his hand down palm up on your knee, you jump.

Ask him, “What?”

“Hold hands?” he’ll whisper.

Tonight will be the beginning of your first real relationship. Don’t count that lousy drunkard from freshman year or the asshole from California. It takes all night, until five A.M., for him to kiss you, but don’t mind. Take it slow. Don’t tell him how much you love his eyes (although they’re the most beautiful bright blue, long-lashed eyes you’ve ever seen); don’t tell him how long you’ve waited for tonight. Tell him you had a great time and he’ll tell you he’s so glad you’re his girlfriend. He’ll say he should have noticed you sooner; shrug. Kiss him goodnight. As you walk half-a-block home, sidestep the drunken stragglers stumbling down the street, because Friday night lingers on. Ignore the burn of vomit in the back of your throat.

When he asks if you want to go to church with him, say yes. When he asks if you’re Christian, no. If you’re on the topic, tell him never to drink around you. When he says it’s no problem, he doesn’t ask why, know that he’s the one.

When you take midnight walks together, hold his hand and swing it dramatically, take large steps, letting them cascade like bombs, and call him a dork. Call him a nerd, a goofball, a genius, a madman. Don’t call him Sweetie, don’t call him Honey, Darling, or Baby. Clichés annoy him and they annoy you too.

If he asks to meet your family, say they live two hours away, it’s a lot of gas. He’ll say that’s nothing at all.

Don’t tell him how much you envy him, his artistic genius, his creative mind, his insuperable morality. Tell him how much you love the freckles on his cheeks, the little gray patch in his hair, the mole on his left forearm, the twitch in his ears when he’s real hyper.

It takes a few months, but he’ll gather the courage to try lifting up your shirt. Pull his hands away and kiss him hard. He only tries it once, because he respects you more than anyone else can.

At Christmas, meet his family. Perfect. All smiles and those same blue eyes—feel out of place, because you are. Feel a minute growing sourness in your stomach, your feet become numb. Suppress it, it’s a hindrance.

After almost five months, when you’re absolutely, undoubtedly, indisputably certain, tell him,

“I love you.”

Wait. Four seconds will pass.

He’ll say, “I think I may love you too.”

Kiss his forehead and rub his ears (because he goes crazy when you do that); whisper “really?” and he’ll nod.

He loves the country because he grew up in the city. You love the country even though you grew up in the country. You’ll both be out of town, walking along an overgrown, spider web-infested trail in the wetlands, the cool April air brushing against your naked feet and tickling your nostrils. Stand up on your tippy toes so that you can just barely brush his chin with your lips; say “I love you.”

He won’t respond. You’ll have noticed a change in him; his jaw has been a little more tense, his voice less squeaky and fluid, his eyes less fixed on yours. Stop walking and rub those little knobs on his shoulders. Look him in the eyes and wish they were your own.

Let him explain how he’s not feeling as certain as he once did. Let him say you are emotionally vacant, you won’t tell him anything beyond the exterior. He wants in, but you won’t let him. Apologize, and he’ll shrug it off. Head back to the car. Don’t let him hear you sniffling as he drives, don’t let him see your fingertips gripping onto the seat cushion.

As May approaches, start to feel that growing sourness in your stomach, extending deeper and deeper. You don’t want to, but it’s out of your control. You want to say something, but how can you? He invites you, and you almost lose grip, but this he doesn’t see. Accept, and on Saturday arrive wearing that floral dress that brushes your knees and covers the chest real well. He greets you with a kiss and leads you into hell.

You last a couple hours, but the sound is as nauseating as the reek of the room. Cast this aside when you see him enter, sober as always, and lead “Happy Birthday.” When this is over, watch as he blows out the twenty plus one candles, takes a hug from his best bud, then handles a bottle and swallows its down. Give yourself a minute, plant your feet firmly, clinch your fists. Finally, sprint to the restroom and lose your dinner. You didn’t want to, you really didn’t want to. God, get out of there. Another minute and you’ll pass out.

Leave, don’t even stop to tell him. You can’t talk to him now. Sunday afternoon, after church, he’ll call. Don’t answer. Later, tell him you’re sorry, that you got ill and couldn’t stay. Tell him you hope he had fun, and try not to squirm when you say so. He’ll say it’s fine.

It’ll be the week before finals and still he won’t be able to look at you the way he did in September. He won’t be able to kiss your nose like he did in September. You’ll be in your dorm, reclining on your futon and listening to Ray LaMontagne when he switches off the sound, stands up and starts talking. Stare at the tile and scratch the fabric of your jeans with your stubby nails.

“I don’t think I can take this much longer,” he’ll whisper, as brutally gentle as always. “I told you about my uncertainty with God,” he’ll remind you. “I told you about everything I could never talk about before. How can I expect to have a meaningful connection with you if you can’t return the effort? You won’t let me in.” Remain silent and break off a stray thread from your jeans. He’ll wait a sum of two minutes before facing his back to you. Each step he takes will be like a wave of fire searing through your veins and into your stomach. But you can’t bring yourself to speak. You won’t have a voice and you won’t feel your feet. You won’t be able to blink, but look at him and meet those enveloping eyes.

Do you honestly love him? Because if you do now is the time to act. If the answer is yes, stand up, take his hands, and pull him onto the futon. Slowly descend next to him, never releasing his fair-skinned broad hands, and bring them closer to your body. He’ll be confused at first, but make his rough fingertips sneak under your shirt, touch your navel. Steadily guide them up toward your ribcage and he’ll flinch. Don’t stop, feel the grooves of his fingerprints run along the extra-coarse, ballooned skin, all the way to the bottom of your breasts. You’ll let go and his fingers will stay there for only a moment before carefully receding. Now you must explain.

Again, the burning starts and you feel fragmented, but focus and take your time. Take the deepest breath you can, letting the air expand and grow within you. You’ll need the air.

It had been inevitable, or had it been preventable? Don’t say that, but think it. Explain, you loved your father regardless, because he wasn’t a bad person in essence. Tell him things weren’t so bad for a long while, and then they were bad. Bad especially when you all left during his rehabilitation, especially when his own parents excluded him from Easter family dinner and he was left alone in that archaic house full of ghosts.

Tell him how one night he was really struggling. Not violent, just disheartened. Tell him how he wanted to go see that movie, The Astronaut Farmer, the one about the farmer who becomes more than a farmer. You knew he shouldn’t drive, but you didn’t say anything. You got in the old Ford with him, forgot to buckle up, turned up the radio and sang with him as he drove out, as the truck danced from side to side on the highway, collided with a railing and soared into the Kansas River. Tell him how you woke up and you were alone.

It will take him a long time to say anything and he’ll be crying. You won’t be, that river having drained out all the tears and left you withered. Kiss his hands and then kiss his lips. Kiss his red flooded eyes and tell him you love him.