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I have violated my own rule by posting a story before it's completely finished. It's almost done. Honestly.
“…the Planetary Party Lounge is the ultimate in terrestrial entertainment.”
The evening’s final showing of “Cresco’s Way” was being screened by an audience of three maintenance technicians. Two of them were obviously there to make out in the back row; the third was stuffing handfuls of Mike and Ikes in his mouth and hooting wildly each time the leading lady stepped onscreen.
It was end of month. Commissary points are use ‘em or lose ‘em and people were coming out of the woodwork to buy sodas and candy and whatever else we still had at the concession counter. The only reason the movie wasn’t full was that it was sweeps week back on Earth. The small screens were all glued to god knows what passed for television entertainment these days. I gave up on TV years ago after that awful “Friends” spinoff.
It also didn’t help our cause that “Cresco” was easily the worst piece of cinematic drek beamed to the ship since we left for Alpha Centauri. It might be the worst movie produced by a major studio in the last century. That cop movie starring the Olsen twins was better. I started working in this theater when I was 12. I know these things.
At half past midnight the show mercifully ended. The house lights weren’t enough to break up the couple playing tonsil hockey so I tapped into the ship’s forward screen on my remote. We were only a month out from our new home and good old Alpha C was bright as a Roman candle, especially when digitally reproduced on the big screen. That always clears them out.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Carla said, catching me peaking through the entry door. She was about my age, with curly blonde hair and glasses in those huge, 80s revival frames. She was dressed as I was in the theater uniform of light blue jacket and white cap.
“It’s a mercy killing,” I told her. “I could have played that old Army V.D. film. Besides, if I don’t get them out, Rudy will.” Rudy, our evening custodian, is approximately 130 years old and grouchy as hell. It’s been suggested lately that he actually does in fact remember the Alamo.
Carla went back to count the inventory while I sat by the front door and waited for Rudy. At ten till one I locked the doors and headed back to the manager’s office. Commissary points spend just as well at the Tiki Bar. Rudy might be a while.
Carla was still crunching numbers when I walked in. She had her hair pulled back now and her glasses had slid to the very end of her nose. I kind of had a thing for her ever since we started working the night shift together a few months back, but I tried to keep it low key since we work together.
“How’s it going?” I asked, sliding into the chair next to her. She smelled like popcorn butter and Raisinets and I didn’t care.
“You know how much I love weekly reports,” she said, tapping the PC screen in front of her. “Especially when we’re exactly 14 hot dogs short yet again.”
“Are you still on that?” I rubbed my eyes and then looked at her screen. It was necessary to manage our inventory just as tight if not tighter than we would have done on Earth. The ship’s resources were obviously limited even with the intense recycling program. But 14 hot dogs were not going to be the ruin of the mission, especially given that we were four short weeks from our destination. But Carla was an incredibly detail-oriented person. I found that part of her attractive as well.
“Come on, Carla. We’ll be on AC in one more month. Who cares about 14 hot dogs?”
“It’s the principle of the thing. We’re supposed to be able to manage something as simple as food inventory. And anyway we’re up to 56 hot dogs total – and nine boxes of Junior Mints.”
“Try to remain calm,” I said. “I’ll grab a handful of grenades from the armory while you alert the cockpit crew.”
“Funny. Look, if we’re not eating them and no one on day crew is, then it’s got to be Rudy,” she said.
“Rudy says real hot dogs aren’t made from Peruvian llamas, but why don’t you go and ask him about that?
She turned to look at me from the corner of her eye. “I’d rather take my chances asking the Captain to turn us back to Earth. It’s not like two dogs a night are going to drive us out of business - we lose a box of candy here and there all the time. But this just ticks me off.”
“My money’s on a problem with the inventory software,” I said. “I mean, you’re the one who programmed it to begin with, aren’t you?”
She kicked the leg of my chair lightly. “You’re a real funny guy tonight. Why don’t you let me worry about this and you can go download the new films?”
“Ugh,” I said, grimacing at the thought of what might await me there. Eddie Murphy and Robin Williams in a “Grumpy Old Men” remake? The latest action flick from Chuck “The Hammer” Steel? The mind boggles…
“…the Planetary Party Lounge is the ultimate in terrestrial entertainment.”
The evening’s final showing of “Cresco’s Way” was being screened by an audience of three maintenance technicians. Two of them were obviously there to make out in the back row; the third was stuffing handfuls of Mike and Ikes in his mouth and hooting wildly each time the leading lady stepped onscreen.
It was end of month. Commissary points are use ‘em or lose ‘em and people were coming out of the woodwork to buy sodas and candy and whatever else we still had at the concession counter. The only reason the movie wasn’t full was that it was sweeps week back on Earth. The small screens were all glued to god knows what passed for television entertainment these days. I gave up on TV years ago after that awful “Friends” spinoff.
It also didn’t help our cause that “Cresco” was easily the worst piece of cinematic drek beamed to the ship since we left for Alpha Centauri. It might be the worst movie produced by a major studio in the last century. That cop movie starring the Olsen twins was better. I started working in this theater when I was 12. I know these things.
At half past midnight the show mercifully ended. The house lights weren’t enough to break up the couple playing tonsil hockey so I tapped into the ship’s forward screen on my remote. We were only a month out from our new home and good old Alpha C was bright as a Roman candle, especially when digitally reproduced on the big screen. That always clears them out.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Carla said, catching me peaking through the entry door. She was about my age, with curly blonde hair and glasses in those huge, 80s revival frames. She was dressed as I was in the theater uniform of light blue jacket and white cap.
“It’s a mercy killing,” I told her. “I could have played that old Army V.D. film. Besides, if I don’t get them out, Rudy will.” Rudy, our evening custodian, is approximately 130 years old and grouchy as hell. It’s been suggested lately that he actually does in fact remember the Alamo.
Carla went back to count the inventory while I sat by the front door and waited for Rudy. At ten till one I locked the doors and headed back to the manager’s office. Commissary points spend just as well at the Tiki Bar. Rudy might be a while.
Carla was still crunching numbers when I walked in. She had her hair pulled back now and her glasses had slid to the very end of her nose. I kind of had a thing for her ever since we started working the night shift together a few months back, but I tried to keep it low key since we work together.
“How’s it going?” I asked, sliding into the chair next to her. She smelled like popcorn butter and Raisinets and I didn’t care.
“You know how much I love weekly reports,” she said, tapping the PC screen in front of her. “Especially when we’re exactly 14 hot dogs short yet again.”
“Are you still on that?” I rubbed my eyes and then looked at her screen. It was necessary to manage our inventory just as tight if not tighter than we would have done on Earth. The ship’s resources were obviously limited even with the intense recycling program. But 14 hot dogs were not going to be the ruin of the mission, especially given that we were four short weeks from our destination. But Carla was an incredibly detail-oriented person. I found that part of her attractive as well.
“Come on, Carla. We’ll be on AC in one more month. Who cares about 14 hot dogs?”
“It’s the principle of the thing. We’re supposed to be able to manage something as simple as food inventory. And anyway we’re up to 56 hot dogs total – and nine boxes of Junior Mints.”
“Try to remain calm,” I said. “I’ll grab a handful of grenades from the armory while you alert the cockpit crew.”
“Funny. Look, if we’re not eating them and no one on day crew is, then it’s got to be Rudy,” she said.
“Rudy says real hot dogs aren’t made from Peruvian llamas, but why don’t you go and ask him about that?
She turned to look at me from the corner of her eye. “I’d rather take my chances asking the Captain to turn us back to Earth. It’s not like two dogs a night are going to drive us out of business - we lose a box of candy here and there all the time. But this just ticks me off.”
“My money’s on a problem with the inventory software,” I said. “I mean, you’re the one who programmed it to begin with, aren’t you?”
She kicked the leg of my chair lightly. “You’re a real funny guy tonight. Why don’t you let me worry about this and you can go download the new films?”
“Ugh,” I said, grimacing at the thought of what might await me there. Eddie Murphy and Robin Williams in a “Grumpy Old Men” remake? The latest action flick from Chuck “The Hammer” Steel? The mind boggles…
:thumbup:
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