Marianne Dyson - Fly Me to the Moon

Illustrated by Mark Evans

“Good afternoon, Mr. Smith,” I said as I plopped my backpack on an extra chair in the Lakewood Retirement Center’s dining room.

The white-haired gentleman looked up from his coffee and riveted his eyes on me like a security guard verifying my identity. I saw by the relaxing of his shoulders that I was recognized, and that he’d read my nametag. “Good to see you, George,” he said. “I wish you wouldn’t call me Mr. Smith. Makes me feel old.” He smiled at his own joke. I didn’t know his exact age, but I guessed he was in his late eighties.

“Okay, Bob,” I said, returning his smile and adding a wink. We went through this same routine every day when I arrived for work as a volunteer caregiver. On one of my earliest visits, he surveyed the dining room as if looking for spies and whispered that Bob Smith was a fake name. He explained that he couldn’t tell me his real name because the press (he never called them news media) might find out. I promised not to reveal his secret. I suspected he was an actor whose family wanted to hide him from the paparazzi. They had done a good job of it—or maybe he’d had plastic surgery? In any case, I hadn’t been able to figure out who he really was. All the staff would tell me was that he had checked in after his wife died in a car crash in the late 2020s. He had some grandchildren and great-grandchildren, even great-great-grandchildren, but I was his only regular visitor. New treatments had slowed down the progression of his Alzheimer’s disease, but I wondered how long it would be before he forgot that Bob Smith wasn’t his real name?

I pulled my laptop out of my backpack, connected the dual hand controllers, and set them on the table in front of Mr. Smith. “Got a new simulator to fly with you,” I said. This one was actually for little kids, but I had found that Mr. Smith enjoyed holding the hand controllers and flying various aircraft. Sometimes we flew against each other, and sometimes as pilot and copilot, me always the copilot. The only time I could out-fly him was in those games where spaceships could jump through wormholes or something that real aircraft could never do. He didn’t like those games. He liked the simulators. I had told Mr. Smith that I was thinking of joining the military so I could become a pilot. That’s when he’d told me he was a pilot, but that I shouldn’t tell anyone because they might figure out who he was. Whether he really had been a pilot or not, I was happy to discover we both had an interest in flying.

“This one is a simulator of the old Apollo lunar landers,” I said while booting the program. “You know you don’t even have to be an astronaut to go the Moon now? You just have to be rich enough to buy a ticket from the Russians.”

Mr. Smith frowned at me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. We beat the Russians to the Moon!” He crossed his arms.

His angry reaction startled me. Obviously this was a touchy subject for him. “Yes, of course you’re right, Mr. Smith. We beat the Russians to the Moon.”

“Darn right!” he said.

“But that was a long time ago. Now lots of people go to the Moon.” I glanced to the lounge area of the dining hall. “Look, there’s a scene from the Moon on the TV right now.”

He stared at the big screen like it was the first time he’d seen it. “I remember that movie.”

Now I was confused. “What movie?”

“That movie about Apollo. The one with Tom Hanks.”

I saw the “CBN LIVE” label in the corner. “No, sir, that’s a live broadcast.” I read the captions and summarized for him. “There’s been an accident at an old Apollo site. A lunar shuttle computer failed and shut down the engine just after liftoff. The pilot was killed on impact, and one passenger remains unconscious. The other passenger, a historian named Ms. Clara Phillips, is okay, but only has enough spacesuit battery power to last eight hours. A Russian rescue ship can’t arrive for several days. Wow, get this,” I continued, “They’re talking about launching the Apollo lunar ascent vehicle! The original one was used and discarded by the Apollo crew—this is a replica built by the Apollo Restoration Project that they claim is fully functional. Only trouble is, Ms. Phillips isn’t a pilot, and they need someone to tell her how to fly it!”

Mr. Smith looked down at his age-spotted hands. “I’m a little rusty, but I could do it,” he said.

“You could? Where did you learn how to fly a lunar module?” Maybe he hada part in that Apollo movie. I’d have to check the credits when I got home.

Mr. Smith ignored my questions and continued to watch the screen. He nodded. “Yes, I can do it,” he decided. He scooted his chair back and stood looking around the room. “We’re in the cafeteria,” he stated. I nodded. “I have to get to Building 30,” he said.

I didn’t know they numbered the buildings at Lakewood. “Where is that?”

He gave my nametag a puzzled look. “What kind of badge is that? Are you a reporter?”

“No, sir. I’m George, remember? I was about to show you how to fly the new lunar simulator.”

“Oh. A training instructor. Okay, then. We’d better get moving if we’re going to save that crew. Can’t let the Russians get there first.” He shuffled toward the exit somewhat bent over, but amazingly fast for someone his age. I caught the eye of the receptionist and nodded toward my game setup. She would watch it for me until I lured Mr. Smith back. She didn’t need to remind me that Mr. Smith wasn’t allowed to leave the grounds. My job was to redirect him somehow.

“Mr. Smith, I think we should take a different way to Building 30.”

He stopped. “Why? Is there a media circus out there already?”

“No, no,” I assured him quickly. “We just need to use the elevator to avoid all those stairs.”

“I like the stairs. Keeps me in shape,” he said.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Smith, but you had surgery on your knee a few months ago, remember?” He’d fallen trying to take the stairs two at a time—something he must have done a lot in his younger days. If he were an actor, he probably did his own stunts.

Mr. Smith stopped and looked down at his knees and feet. “I can’t wear these slippers outside. Mother will yell at me.” He paused, deep in thought. “Before I go, I need to call her. She always worries when I travel. Is there a phone in this building?”

He’d obviously forgotten that he no longer had a mother, and that everyone used cell phones now. He had an old phone in his room, though. It was hooked up to the front desk. The staff was great at explaining that mothers and wives and other deceased loved ones were not home for one reason or another. But often, by the time we got to his room, he’d have forgotten he wanted to call someone. “There’s a phone upstairs, sir,” I said.

“All right,” he said. After he got his shoes on, I’d take him for a walk in the garden. We both enjoyed watching the birds.

We got into the elevator. I waited for him to select the floor. If he had forgotten, then I’d remind him, but it was important to give him a chance to remember. He stared at the buttons. “This isn’t the cafeteria,” he said. “Only Building 1 has nine floors.” He pressed the OPEN DOOR button and walked back out of the elevator.

Now what? I wondered. It didn’t hurt to ask questions. “Mr. Smith, what is it you want to do when we get to Building 30?”