Izzy’s Fifth Mission to Mars
Nestling a room temperature Sprite between both hands, Izzy sits alone at the Denver airport during her 2 hour layover to Reno. With a FICO score of 722 (a point of pride to Izzy, who subscribes to theories of Numerology) she rents a nondescript condominium in Miami, leases an Audi, and makes $68k a year as a lab technician. Izzy is going to Burning Man for the fifth time. She’s camping alone. And she’d like to keep it that way.
Izzy doesn’t make friends easily.
A boring conversation compels her to:
- stare longingly into the horizon
- twirl braided black hair that reaches to her lower back
- knot her thumbs behind a dusty “dragon” leather utility belt
Boring conversations include:
- drug use
- politics
- movies she hasn’t seen
At Cantina Grill, she rebuffs a man in a yellow vest offering to buy her a drink, “Nope. Just Sprite.” He doesn’t get the message. Izzy rolls her eyes at the bartender, keenly aware her discontent is hidden behind neon sunglasses.
“Are you going to the Burn?” asks the Yellow Vest.
“Burn in hell,” Izzy offers as retort.
“Jesus. Was just trying — ”
“Ok, fine. What if I told you one of these planes idling on the runway was my spaceship. And we have an extra seat to colonize Mars. You can come, but you can’t tell anyone. You have to give up your life. Right now. You can’t call your family. You can take nothing with you. Would you come?”
Yellow Vest considers the question seriously before deciding, “Yes. Yeah, I’d go. I’d be… sad. But I’d rather be sad than bored. Who else is going?”
Izzy perks up. She’s pleasantly surprised by this answer, and continues: “No one. The flight is full.”
“Is there a pilot?” inquires Yellow Vest.
“Of course there’s a pilot. She’s a robot. What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
“Fair enough,” Izzy retorts. “Let’s go.”
Izzy grabs the Yellow Vest by the hand and they sprint by Panda Express, down past Red Rocks Bar & BBQ, and into a deserted section of the terminal, beside a bathroom that is CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. A bell-bottomed teenager naps on the floor, charging her iPhone. Flickering lights and… ozone? No, just recycled AC mixed with fumes from decaying urinal cakes. Izzy’s heart is racing; a rare mix of fatigue and emotion she hasn’t felt in years.
Jumping behind the gate agent’s podium, Izzy mimes an intercom:
“Now. Ladies and… gentleMAN, we are about to begin the boarding process. I’ll start by asking for anyone needing special assistance to please stop blaming your immigrant parents for your lack of motivation. As a reminder, there will be no small children allowed on this flight. Please check your boarding documents to ensure they contain elicit pornography — it’s the only entertainment you’ll have during the six month trip to the Red Planet. Be sure that your emotional baggage will fit under the seat in front of you or we’ll have to chuck it. Elite MarsMiles members? We love you, we love you, we love you, we love you. We will now begin boarding row 22, and only row 22. Welcome aboard.”
Mouth wide, Yellow Vest stammers as Izzy grabs him by the cheeks and whispers, “Wait here,” before dashing away down the empty jetway, disappearing around a corner and into the dark.
Yellow Vest stands, hands in pocket, alone and astonished. He waits—giggling—anxious for Mars Girl’s return. A minute passes. Three. Nothing.
“Um… hello? Are we still going?” his call echoes into the jetway. But there’s no response. He tiptoes past the podium and peeks down the dark passageway, but—
“Sir! What are you doing? You don’t belong back there,” a security guard barks from the main concourse.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just …”
“Don’t care. Let’s go. You crazy hippies always have to explore. This isn’t your… Fire Man festival.”
Stealing a glance over his shoulder as he’s escorted back to the main concourse, Yellow Vest sees no sign of Mars Girl. What the hell just happened?
He plods slowly up past the Rocky Mountain Cafe, then Pour La France! and finds his luggage still squatting alone underneath the bar at the Cantina Grill. If anyone saw something, they said nothing. He orders a Sprite and Ketel, takes a swig, and nestles flushed cheeks between his shaking hands.
Over the intercom: “Final boarding call, Flight 1122 to Reno. Please report to gate A4.”
Oh shit. He signals to the bartender for one more round. Then from behind, he hears,
“Excuse me sir? Are you going to the Burn?”
The Yellow Vest spins around to find the young woman in bellbottoms, arm fully extended.
“Some chick told me to give you this.” She sticks a yellow post-it adorned with elaborate purple Sharpie on his vest, smirks, and walks away. Heart busting from his chest, he looks down to read:
“Sorry. I have a big imagination. And I fucking hate this planet. Find me on Mars?”
During Burning Man I had a series of “Difficult Conversations” with friends and strangers, with the intent to turn elements of those conversations into a series of fictional essays. This is the second entry in that series. If you’d like to have a “Difficult Conversation,” shoot me an email: evan.cudworth [at] gmail.com
