“Has anyone mentioned anything about that incident yet?” I asked the woman behind the Kennedy Space Center information counter.
“Incident?” she shrugged.
I was referring to the astronaut-love-triangle scandal, of course. You know. Wigs. Steel mallets. Diapers. That whole thing.
We’d planned to drive out to the Cape to pick up annual passes weeks ago. Our four-year-old son, Aren, has seen every shuttle launch since Columbia, and our youngest son, Iden, loves rockets.
Coincidentally, it was also the weekend after what we in the South might refer to as that unpleasantness between those astronauts.
And really, that’s what everyone behaved like.
The security guard at the front asked me if I had any steel blades or cutting instruments in my diaper bag. A silly question.
“No,” I replied. “Not even a can of pepper spray.”
He didn’t get it.
“Just diapers,” I added, volunteering to show him one.
He still didn’t get it.
“You folks have a nice day,” he said, waving us through without a smile.
It wasn’t our first visit to the Space Center. We’re here every year or so to check out a new exhibit or to admire the former greatness of the United States space program in the spectacular Apollo/Saturn V Center, which always impresses on me how far we once soared and how far we’ve since fallen.
Just for the record, I’m a longtime supporter of the space program, but I see many unfortunate parallels between the NASA of the 1960s and pre-deregulation airlines. Sadly, both now seem to be a shell of their former selves. But I digress.
And yet, having said that, it’s still impressive. The tours of the launch pads, where the next shuttle mission is scheduled to launch in what promises to be a spectacular pre-dawn lift-off, remain awe-inspiring — even if it’s on a smaller scale.
And our bus drivers/tour guides kept a stiff upper lip, even though they probably knew what everyone on that bus was thinking. What are they saying about the love triangle story? How are they holding up? It must be difficult.
But no one said a thing about the amorous astronauts. Maybe the only clue that they were not feeling their usual chipper selves came in occasional comments that seemed, under the circumstances, to be slightly out-of-place.
“Y’all have a great day,” our bus driver said before pulling up to the International Space Station exhibit. “And perhaps a better tomorrow.”
All of which brings me back to my conversation with the information counter lady.
“Incident?” she asked again. I could almost see the wheels in her head turning.
And then, just as soon as she knew what I was talking about, she gave a sigh of relief.
“Not our problem,” she said. “That’s Houston’s problem.”
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