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Moon Walk

John Rachel

    Malcolm Timberlane was surprised when he stepped out onto the surface of the moon. He felt very comfortable and had no problem breathing. He had always understood that the moon was a very inhospitable place and lacked oxygen, that it was immersed in a total vacuum. That to survive required sophisticated protective and breathing gear. But there he stood in his favorite brown leather sandals, white Bermuda shorts, an orange ‘I want my Oompa-Loompa NOW!’ t-shirt, and a navy blue baseball cap that said ‘I ♥ the Dodgers’.
    So much for science class.
    They did get one thing right. That was the gravity. The moon was the perfect place to instantly lose weight. He felt extremely light and could easily jump over ten feet straight up. With 1/6th of the gravity of earth, he only weighed 27 pounds and effectively was six times as strong. He felt like a super-hero, maybe Spider Man or Mr. Incredible.
    How did he get here? That’s a long story. But in a nutshell, Malcolm was a gazillionaire. And NASA, with all of the budget cuts for the past ten years, needed the money.
    The moon is a strange place for a vacation. Especially alone. But the truth was, he was not here to sightsee. He was here for his fourth –––– and he hoped final –––– attempt to commit suicide. So far he had been an unqualified failure at ending his own life. Alone on the moon, it seemed like a safe bet that no one would interfere.
    Malcolm had found out six months ago that he had incurable bone cancer. The fancy name was malignant fibrous histiocytoma and it was extremely rare. But definitely bad news. So far he had experienced only mild pain but his doctors had made it clear he was in for some rough times.
    He had always had it good. His parents took good care of him. And recently life had been served up on a silver platter sparing none of the finest trimmings, all as a result of a simple but clever piece of software he had developed when he was only fifteen. This was an application used all over the world to “unlock” cell phones, disabling the manufacturer’s code which pre-determined user options, like for example who they could buy their service from. Malcolm made a fortune until someone hacked his code and stole it. But by then his biggest problem was where to put all his money and how to spend it fast enough. He retired at nineteen.
    But no amount of money was going to save him now. He had gone to the best specialists all over the world –––– Zurich, Tokyo, Stockholm, Seattle, Boston, the Mayo clinics in Minnesota and Arizona. Medical opinion was unanimous. His days were numbered and the last few weeks would be hell.
    Malcolm hated pain. More than loneliness. More than death itself.
    So here he was. On the moon. Fully expecting when he opened the hatch door of the lunar delivery vehicle, POOF! He would be sucked into the infinite nothingness of space, guts and bones and muscles and blood exploding and dispersing into a molecular vapor.
    He kicked up some moon sand. Looked around. Pinched himself. Still here.
    What now? He circled the base of his spaceship. Scanned the local terrain.
    Suddenly he noticed what looked like a door. Could it really be a door? It was mounted almost vertically at the base of a small crater escarpment. There was no window but centered at about waist-level some sort of metallic plaque deeply engraved with odd squiggly writing. He walked the fifty or sixty yards to get a better look.
    As he approached, the door started to glow. Then it literally dissolved, exposing the interior of a foyer and a long hallway. He entered and immediately heard voices, which seemed to be coming from a room at the end of the hall.
    Malcolm was surprised that he felt no anxiety or fear as he stepped toward the chattering. Then again, he really had nothing to lose, if whoever might be inside turned out to be hostile.
    He stepped into the room. This was the last thing he expected to see. It looked like the lobby to a Marriott Hotel. Sitting and milling around were hundreds of pint-size men and women –––– or were they boys and girls? –––– talking, laughing, throwing fluffy balls of phosporescing string, squirting at one another from the tips of their fingers a shimmering liquid, which on contact sent a shockwave of light rippling across their skin but then vanished.
    They noticed him but seemed completely unfazed. A few smiled, then went back to their frantic conversation and play. No one expressed the least bit of shock or surprise that this giant –––– by their standards –––– earth creature had entered their midst.
    They wore no clothing, were completely hairless, had large enthusiastic eyes, and chatted away in what sounded like a cross between the cooing of pigeons and the squeeking of gerbils. It was of course some incomprehensible language. But one thing struck Malcolm immediately. They were all extremely alert and seemed to find everything very entertaining.
    Finally, one of the creatures –––– who towered over the others by at least a couple inches, hence seemed to be in some leadership capacity –––– came up to Malcolm, took him by the hands and started dancing. This drew the attention of a few others, then more still. Soon Malcolm found himself surrounded by dancing, giggling, skipping moon people.
    Abruptly, the dancing, celebration, and conversation stopped. Malcolm had no idea what prompted this but now found himself the exclusive center of attention. All eyes were staring at him in rapt anticipation. He was at a loss for what to do. Maybe introductions were in order.
    “Hi. I’m Malcolm Timberlane.”
    They just looked puzzled.
    He glanced around the room.
    “Nice place you have here. Do you shop at Ikea?”
    Malcolm couldn’t imagine what they thought he had just said, but instantly the entire room was filled with laughter. Outrageous, hysterical laughter. He assumed it was laughter. It didn’t sound like human laughter but everyone was again animated, holding their bellies, rocking back on their heels, slapping each other on the backs, and generally seemed very amused by what they had just heard.
    This went on for a while. Then abruptly the leader held up his hands. Everyone became silent, almost brooding.
    The leader looked up and down at the full length of Malcolm, who could not fathom what the little man was looking at or thinking. After a couple minutes of this, he spoke.
    “Dzu ferna cowlee zmist po bekla cruda.”
    Everyone gasped.
    The leader then leaned forward and stuck out his tongue. It kept extending until it was over two feet long and the tip came to rest on Malcolm’s chest. The leader’s eyes became as big as saucers –––– literally –––– bulging to the point where Malcolm thought the little guy’s head was going to explode. Then quite instantly the leader’s eyes shrunk back to normal and closed. Behind their veiny lids they started to glow bright yellow.
    As distinctly and smoothly as Tom Brokaw announcing tonight’s news headlines, Malcolm heard the little guy’s voice in perfectly neutral Midwestern English.
    “You don’t have to die yet. We can fix the problem with your bones.”
    Before this thought could even sink in, they took him through a maze of hallways and a series of doors. They eventually entered a tiny room containing what looked like a tanning bed. They had Malcolm completely undress and lay down on its crystalline lower surface.
    He barely remembered what happened over the next two hours. He shuddered, shivered, was plunged in and out of major hallucinations, was massaged by invisible hands, tossed and turned, bounced and deconstructed. It was wild but not particularly unpleasant. When the machine finally powered down, all of the sensations through his body and the swirling sheets of imagery stopped. He felt simultaneously calm and exhilarated.
    Malcolm got dressed, was handed a thermos-size shiny metallic receptacle containing a milky white substance for him to drink –––– it tasted like marshmallows and hazel nuts –––– then was led through the maze of corridors and rooms, back to the very same door he had originally entered.
    As he stepped back out, the little people crowded at the entrance and jumped up and down excitedly, chattering, giggling, squirting, and generally treating the spectacle of the departing earthling with enormous fanfare. They obviously had enjoyed his visit but wouldn’t miss him.
    Malcolm kept turning around to look back. Each of his glances seemed redouble their enthusiasm. When he got about halfway back to his spacecraft, the crowd noise suddenly stopped. When he looked back, there was the door but not a trace of the moon people. It was as if they had just instantly disappeared.
    The trip back home –––– it took three days –––– was uneventful, in fact pretty boring. There isn’t much scenery along the route between the earth and the moon.
    Finally, after a scorching rough-and-tumble re-entry into the atmosphere which almost shook the teeth out of his head, his space capsule splashed into the Pacific Ocean near the Marshall Islands and was hoisted onto an aircraft carrier by a huge helicopter with the NASA logo prominently displayed on the fuselage. Underneath the logo, someone had spray-painted ‘If you can read this, you’re following too close.’
    Malcolm was airlifted to Honolulu. His personal Gulfstream G550 was waiting there to immediately take him to California. He was exhausted but too agitated to sleep. As they were landing in L. A., he called his attorney’s office.
    “Cantwell, Brewster, Klein and Farber.”
    “I’m calling about the Timberlane estate.”
    “Of course, sir. I have instructions to tell all participants in that matter that the reading of the will for the late Mr. Timberlane will be starting promptly at 2 pm. That’s in 37 minutes. Do you need directions?”
    Traffic being what it is in Los Angeles, it took over an hour for his chauffeur to drive the ten miles from LAX Airport to Century City, where the law offices were located.
    Before leaving for the moon, he had drawn up a last will and testament with his attorney. He made it clear that he couldn’t face the horribly painful death the doctors had predicted, thus he would not be returning from the moon, that this would be the last time they would ever meet. It was a very emotional moment, touchingly summed up by his attorney’s reaction.
    “I assume, then, Mr. Timberlane, that you will pay whatever balance is due on your account before you leave today.”
    Malcolm had tons of friends. At the same time, he had lots of money. There would be plenty to go around.
    After he initially made a list which ran into the hundreds, he finally narrowed it down to the twenty three individuals he considered to be his most loyal buddies. The ones that were always there with him, night after night, in the bars, the clubs, on his jaunts around the world to the best party spots, beaches, hotels and casinos.
    A net worth statement from his accountant and a little arithmetic, Malcolm concluded he could comfortably give each of them $20 million, with plenty left over for various charitable contributions, trust funds and foundations he had set up to do some good in the world.
    He was quite pleased with himself. $20 million should make them pretty darn happy!
    And they deserved it. They had been right there with him through thick and thin.
    Thick and thin? Hmm.
    Actually . . . there was no thin.
    They had been there all along alright, as long as the drinks and food, the accommodations and limo rides were free, as long as the money and the good times kept on coming.
    Malcolm started to have second thoughts about his largesse.
    He went back and forth. Did they or did they not deserve to inherit all of this money from him? Back and forth. Back and forth.
    Then it finally hit him.
    Hey! It’s only money. He’d be dead and gone. Someone might as well make use of it.
    But to make sure they didn’t take it for granted –––– to have them “earn it”, so to speak –––– he would put just one condition on their receiving such a generous windfall.
    When Malcolm burst into the conference room, sweating from the dry heat of southern California and out of breath from huffing the smoggy Los Angeles air as he hustled his way to the 32nd floor suite of Cantwell, Brewster, Klein and Farber, the reading of his will was almost finished.
    “Hi! I’m back.”
    Everyone looked at him expressionless. Stunned. Dumbfounded. Stupified.
    Not because he was still alive.
    But because the attorney had just read the condition he had put on their money.
    The silence could be cut with a chainsaw. It went on for what seemed like an eternity.
    Finally, a girl he had recently flown to Madrid with in his private jet spoke up.
    “You’re . . . you’re not dead.”
    “Glad to see you too.”
    More silence.
    Malcolm walked around the huge conference table. But now no one would look at him. He went right up to each of them. Tried to get them to turn and look his way. Say something. Grunt. Belch. Ahem. The slightest movement would have been a major breakthrough.
    Nothing.
    Malcolm slowly worked his way around to the head of the table, next to the attorney.
    Looking at the sides and tops of all of their heads, he then announced a decision he had just spontaneously arrived at.
    “I’ll tell you what. I don’t want any of you to go home empty-handed. So the money is still yours even if I’m not dead.”
    A chorus of cheers went up. Spirits were high.
    “But . . . I’m still holding you to the one condition.”
    A chorus of jeers and yelling. Everyone was pissed.
    He was chided and derided.
    Are you completely nuts?
    You can’t be serious!
    You are a freak!
    This is sick!
    No way!
    Dick!
    “Come on! It’s no big deal. Just like it says here.”
    He grabbed the will from the attorney and read it.
    “For each designated party to receive the $20 million inheritance alotment, he or she must moon walk not less than ten feet in a continuous motion, the fidelity of said performance to that of Michael Jackson who popularized this dance move, to be assessed and judged by an independent entertainment industry expert with widely recognized credentials in the dance arts. So all you have to do is moon walk, and you get a check. A big check. And since conveniently I’m not dead now, I will be the judge. Let’s get started!!”
    Malcolm ended up keeping the money. All of it. Not a single one of them could do anything resembling moonwalking, though the attempts, if pathetic, were amusing –––– sometimes hilarious.
    As his “friends” left the room, he was lambasted with a steady stream of vitriol and assaults on his character.
    Give me the money, you bastard!
    “Money isn’t everything.”
    I always hated you!
    “Glad that’s out in the open.”
    You give me the creeps.
    “You’re not leaving empty-handed after all.”
    You are a disgusting, self-absorbed son-of-a-bitch!
    “And that’s on a good day.”
    Why are you doing this?
    “It’s fun to be mean.”
    After they left, Malcolm sat there and stared out the window of the conference room.
    His face settled into kind of a Zen mask.
    Maybe it was a bit much asking them to moon walk.
    He couldn’t say he could moon walk either.
    On the other hand . . .
    He could say he walked on the moon.

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