EDS

Tom Svinver barely missed the weight limit designed by the National Space Administration who claimed that his extra twenty pounds would cost a quarter million dollars to make him weightless. It was cost-prohibitive to send obese people to space. He had tried diet and exercise but at 43 years of age, tethered to a lab all day, Tom was desperately attempting a side-experiment with the dissolution of fat by a chemical alternative. All the rats had died. 

Two weeks before lift-off and final weight test he asked General Brodrick, “If I find the gas money can I still go?” 

The General liked to say “No” but in this case Federal Budgets were very low and the new administration was slashing everything. They even took the windshield wipers motors off the Soyuz because those twelve extra pounds were so important – and it didn’t rightly matter if the rocket launched through a rainy cloud because the vehicle was computer-controlled and would guide the rocket all the way to the new laboratory in space where Svinver could continue his work on pelletonone once again. 

The General was very good at gambling and had already found a co-pilot who was less than nourished, might suffer from EDS (Ellen Degenerate Syndrome), and had low bone density. The fact was, the General wanted Doctor Svinver to suffer. “We expect your payment in 6 days.” 

He starred at the fat scientist. “If any word of this leaks out we’re gonna deny it and launch Shultzey instead. Get to it then.” 

Tom Svinver wobbled home and made final arrangements with this Gerber Grow Up Life Plan Administrator to borrow against the value of his pay-out for no longer living. He took out a ”hard money” debenture on his house from the local mafia. liquified his Toyota Prius by a title loan and tried selling a few ounces of blood and plasma but the market was down. 

At long last, he took out a 1892-S Barber quarter that his father had left and said “Don’t ever sell this coin unless your life depends on it” It was a rare high relief absconded from the mint in San Francisco at a time when old pure metals were told to be melted down for the silver standard. He dragged this over to Latum Pawn and Jewery and eagerly waited while the expert appraised its total value. 

Tom got just enough! He could go to space. 

Unfortunately…Tom was a stress eater and sadly got on the scales to see that all of his running around town hadn’t helped the situation at all. The man had actually gained 3 pounds while suffering. What could he do? 

He tearfully called his college roommate who had made a great amount of money in business. They were all businesses that didn’t make sense like Unionized Conversation Hostesses, a coffee cafe for mushroom enthusiast and similar offerings. He explained to Oliver all his pain, how he had failed the BMI and would lose his opportunity to win the Nobel Prize. 

“Hold on buddy,” Oliver hit some buttons on his phone and suddenly the chorus to Pigs in Space came over the cell tower and into Tom’s ear, loud and clear. The businesman giggled and said, “Just kidding.” then he asked how much Tom had gotten together to pay for his weight. 

“Around 220. I’m all tapped out.” 

Oliver was just so good at business he said not to worry about anything and meet him over at the Nicolai for a drink. It was Oliver’s version of a home office and he had many strange characters who liked to play pirate at the old wharf. 

With nothing else to lose but weight, Tom put on his twenty year old Metalica Concert shirt and requested an Uber because his car was in finance prison. He looked at the large pile of cash and knew it would take 3 days to make a certified check, even if cash used to be King it was now considered filthy by COVID standards and the General would like to see a donation made in NASA’s name to orphans, or a rebate, or … argh… it hurt to think. His blood sugar was low and he went to the cupboard and took out a Nature Valley chocolate and peanut butter wafer pack. 

When the men got together, they didn’t hug, but Oliver made him climb a ten foot rope ladder to get to an upper deck where the bar stools were on a circular bird’s nest shape so that they had an ariel view. “It’s better up here so that no one can hear and no one can stab us in the back.” 

Tom held his duffle bag of money dear and whispered, ‘Is that a thing?’ 

Oliver took a sip of his Tom Brady (a mixture of rum left in leather over the night, garnished with a cherry) and said, “Look buddy. You might want them to stab you in the back because a coccyx can be nearly 3 pounds and anything else that dangles can be another …” He looks at Tom’s slight elongated belly, “Well, you might squeak over the line.” 

Oliver listened as Tom explained the great lengths he had tried to shrink from 206 to 184 and that the military didn’t care about “curb weight” but allowed men at 5’10 to go into space because shorter people are more religious but taller men continue to outrank on intelligence surveys. It wasn’t genetics. It was good nutrition. 

Just for fun, Oliver asked if he had more weight allowance by injecting Tom’s head with silicon implants? This had worked for a very short tsumo wrestler in Japan but Tom said that the turbulence had ripped off a woman’s chest thirty year’s back and it as going to be very difficult for the government to keep her off camera when her family and colleagues were so excited. 

“Do you remember the Space Shuttle Challenger?” 

“Nah. No way. You’re kidding me.” Oliver took another sip and his aged pirate suit felt grungy. 

“You’re saying that we blew up the Challenger because a woman had generation 1 silicon implants and they ruptured on lift-off?” 

Tom explained it was about putting the most beautiful people in space, that even with the work arounds of reused rockets it was still reliant on the cost of launching each ounce beyond the planet, “like 10,000 dollars a pound.”

“11,999,” Oliver corrected. “Let me see how much weight you brought.” 

The money was all rolled like a drug deal in rubber bands, mostly hundreds with a few stacks of twenties. 

Then Oliver got very serious, “You say they weight you with atomic scales, no funny business on lifting a corner or modifying the scales?” 

“You’d have to be a coder better than Wozniak. It’s that precise.” 

This was truly a problem for his friend. Oliver loved business problems and might tell people he was a social engineer but there were only so many ounces he could save by shaving the man from head to toe. hIs friend Tom was thinning (in hair) with age and it was almost time to be serious about surgical solutions. 

He called down to the bar wentch to hoist up another round, his head danced on its body pole and the short gleam of solution would not come. Oliver needed to pace but there was only one tight rope that went to the forward deck. Doctor Tom wouldn’t make it, the man was less stable than a blimp in a hurricane. Oliver said he would have to go and pace alone, to enjoy his rum and that he'd be back after a time. 

Oliver looked over the brilliant sea from the upper deck, saw how she sparkled as the moon reflected the ephesural kelp and rolled problems onto their coast from far and wide. Nature is a natural balance, like water. Nature has a way of fixing most everything because the planet loves us. The Planet cares that we are happy. 

Oliver walked back on the top rope, which was also a test if a drinker was of clear balance to drive themselves home. All of the thematic bar was ready to be modernize as needed. 

“We’re going to saw you in half, buddy.” 

Tom was getting pretty happy on rum and swinging pirate hymns and noticing that the ladies in the bar had mostly push-ups and wonderful pirate gowns. 

“Ok.” 

“You’re not going to ask me how? “

Oliver wanted to explain that by the American Disability Act, NASA only needed the brain and hands of his friend, some central mass for basic digestion but there weren’t any reason for legs in space. Tom didn’t even seem to care. 

“Go ahead and do what you do. I’ll be ready.” 

Oliver was astounded and even thought for a moment, ‘We just need to take the minimal amounts, maybe half a spleen, cut out the pancreas, put him on glucose shots.’ They could take out all the vistigial organs and send a modern man to space. 

Yet.. it was simpler to make one cut and there was a friendly after-hours timber mill in the Carmel Valley were people don't ask why you wanted to shape your logs or legs at night. They didn’t care so long as you didn’t slip and tell anyone you were pulling a building permit. All the world loves a do-it-yourselfer, especially a committed personality whose passion is so obvious that CNN and the BBC will want to get the backstory. 

He looked. He looked at his blobby friend who was one of those guys who never had a date for his own on a saturday night. How many times had Oliver had to bed both of their ladies and Tom the lovable bear would always say, ‘I hope you gave them some pleasure in my name.” He loved this man and couldn’t fully think of a world where little Tommys weren’t floating around because their father succumbed to the ruthless addiction to go to space. 

__

 Now wheelchairs are only twenty seven dollars at the Goodwill in Marina. You don’t need two hundred dollar IV bags from the Community Hospital. Don’t need to pay for Registered Body Spongers and toothpaste which they charge around twenty-thousand dollars for the hospitals of America, the land of the perfect smiles. 

Home surgery is all the rage. 

There are some people who have taken to Istanbul, Mexico City or even Calcutta but there’s nothing like patching your buddies femoral artery in a loop and deciding at the last minute to give him an extra ten pounds of option at the mid-thigh instead of the knee caps. If he ever gets back from space and those mafia guys want him to pay them back there won’t be any kneecaps to break. It’s gonna be a very Civil discourse and they can wheel him around to the Courts if that is their want. Oliver didn’t pay for the fancy motorized chair. 

Tom is totally stoned after the surgery and His buddy, his pal, wheels him to the airport and gets him past security. One of the tricks is to call the AAA tow truck drivers if they have an emotional departure and the short term parking at San Jose International is annoyingly expensive and the saying ‘Good-bye’ takes too long. 

"Now, Tommy, I went ahead and researched your lady friend who you will be stuck with in space for a long time. I can’t figure out if she’s still fertile but I want you to take this little vial as your ‘plus one’."

Oliver made sure it was marked “Bun” because their old joke was always about a bun in the oven and there’s nothing like an international space station to make the mood right. Two lonely travelers set a million miles in the air, hopelesslessly rolling to their mutual satisfactions, monitoring the air supply for their passions. 

“Hey Tom?”

Tom looked up with stoned eyes. “Tom, just in case the science thing doesn't work out, remember there’s never been proof of sex in space, never had a baby born in zero gravity. You can’t do it bud.” 

Oliver sure hoped that zero competition would let nature take over. He hoped his buddy got a million dollars from the Swedes (Nobel Prize) for proving that mankind could expand past their natural boundaries. And people wonder why we’ve had two astronauts stuck in space for over half a year? Why the rescue missions seem to always burn on the launchpads. Why the new administration is devoted to nothing else but cutting more cost? 

We are waiting to see what happens when you leave two people alone long enough. 

Saundra J Goopta, Professor of Immunology, is a pioneer. She’s going to have to pull down the solar visor, blast the David Bowie for as long as it takes because logic and curiosity will eventually win over. If not, Oliver put a magazine in Tommy’s space bag called Modern Bride. 

After nine months of being stuck in space, Sandra finally turned to ¾ of a fellow astronaut, Tom Svinver and exclaimed,

“We’re late!”