Riding Rockets

There was no clock running this time, so I gave the question a little thought. Anything? Should I come back as a person? Alan Shepard? That sounded like a safe answer. But then it dawned on me, Shepard, like all test pilots, hated shrinks. Was it Shepard who had dismissively suggested the blank page “was upside down”? I couldn’t recall, but I didn’t want to take a chance. I’d better stay away from a wish for reincarnation as an astronaut icon who might be infamous among psychs for trivializing their profession.

I asked for clarification. “When you say anything? Do you mean as another person or object or animal?”

He merely shrugged with body language that said, “I’m not giving you any leads.” Clearly he wanted me to step on one of those psyche mines by myself.

I toyed with the idea of saying I would like to come back as Wilbur Wright or Robert Goddard or Chuck Yeager or some other aviation/rocketry pioneer. Perhaps this would send a signal that being an astronaut was my destiny. But again, my mind’s voice whispered caution. Maybe such a reincarnation wish would identify me as a megalomaniac in search of glory.

Then, in a burst of inspiration I had it. “I would like to come back as…an eagle.” It was a brilliant answer. Clearly it conveyed my desire to fly yet didn’t give the doctor a door to crawl farther into my synapses. (I later heard one interviewee say he was tempted to answer the question with “I’d like to come back as Cheryl Tiegs’s bicycle seat.” It would have been interesting to see how the psych would have responded to that.)

My eagle answer was acknowledged by more pencil scratching.

His next question was an obvious attempt to have me judge myself. “Tell me, Mike, if you died right now, what epitaph would your family put on your headstone?”

Boy, was this going to be easy,I thought. After faking some serious deliberation I replied, “I think it would read, ‘A loving husband and devoted father.’” I was sure I had scored some points. Could there have been a better answer to convey the message that my family came first, that I had my priorities right? In reality I would have sold my wife and children into slavery for a ride into space. I thought it best not to mention that fact.

“What is it that you feel is your unique strength?”

I wanted to reply, “I can hold an enema for fifteen minutes,” but instead said, “I always do my best at whatever I do.” For once, I told the truth.

Psych One’s interview continued. I was asked whether I was right-or-left-handed (right) and what religion I professed (Catholic). He also inquired about my birth order (number two of six). He seemed to write a long time after hearing these answers. I would later learn a disproportionate number of astronauts (and other super-achieving people) are firstborn, left-handed Protestants. Maybe my exclusion from all of those groups was the reason I couldn’t count backward by 7s.

Finally, I was excused to Psych Two. I walked slump-shouldered to another door, certain my astronaut dream was stillborn on the report that Yoda was finishing…Candidate Mullane unable to count backward by 7s.

Psych Two was the good cop in the good-cop/bad-cop routine. Dr. Terry McGuire welcomed me with a robust handshake and an expansive smile. I’ve seen that same smile on the faces of used car dealers. I looked for the diamond ring on McGuire’s pinky but it was absent.

Dr. McGuire was outgoing and talkative. He didn’t have a pencil and pad in hand. “Come in. Take a load off. Have a seat.” Another chair, thank God. Everything about his voice and mannerisms said, “I apologize for that other bozo you had to contend with. He’s got the skills of a chiropractor. I’m different. I’m here to help you.” Just as it is on the car dealer’s lot, I was certain it was all an act. He wasn’t after my wallet. He sought my essence. He wanted to know what made me tick, and, like Captain Kirk facing a Klingon battle cruiser, I was ordering, “Shields up!” My astronaut chances might already be headed down in flames but I was going to continue to give it my best shot until the rejection letter arrived.

After some small talk about the weather and how my visit was going (fine, I lied), the good doctor finally began his assault on those shields. He asked just one question. “Mike, why do you want to be an astronaut?”

I had always assumed I would be asked this question somewhere in the selection process, so I was prepared. “I love flying. Flying in space would be the ultimate flight experience.” Then, I added some bullshit to make it sound like love of country was a motivator. “I also think I could best serve the United States Air Force and the United States of America as an astronaut.”

Boy, did I slam-dunk that question,was my thought. The only way I could have done better was if I’d brought in Dionne Warwick to sing the national anthem in the background.