“No. How do my boobs look?” Her hands were cupped around her sizable mams, adjusting her black push-up bra that lit through her thin white blouse.
“Hot.” We were tooling up the curvy half-mile driveway of Dennis Tito’s estate for a small cocktail party thrown to celebrate his fifth anniversary of being the first private citizen who bought his way onto the space station. Around the last bend stood a house that’d dwarf the Carrington mansion with a full staff of valet parkers and butlers and lots of other people waiting around to wait on someone.
Luckily, I left Steve home, but his snot still coated all of the windows in my car with a murky white film and the experience of driving it now is one of a mobile kennel. I pitied the poor valet, in his crisp white suit, as he climbed into a car of black hair and dried drool.
The main butler, young and handsome and not at all like John Gielgud, ushered us into one of the public rooms in what I’d soon learn was a thirty-thousand square foot house. Cozy in that solid marble floor and Roman statue way that’d make Charles Foster Kane comfortable. We went straight to the bar; wine for Mickey and seltzer for me, a wedge of lime, please.
We started to look around the enormous room in a Holy shit and Where the hell are the finger food trays-kind of way, and tried to blend, difficult in a room filled with ghastly plastic surgery, beaded dresses barely covering sun damage, and blue blazers with brass buttons. “We have to find Mack,” I said, but we made absolutely no movement, just craned our necks around.
“Look.” Mickey was practicing her ventriloquism when she directed me with exaggerated eye movements to my left. Buzz Aldrin. Maybe he’s the third most famous astronaut, maybe most know him from the Ali G interview, but just as I saw him speaking with the host and another man, the other guy’s wine glass spilled all over the coffee table and a rug that looked as if it came from an ancient dynasty. The host calmly looked to his right and someone with a white towel immediately appeared to mop it up.
We wandered outdoors onto a patio that led to a lawn that was larger than most college campuses. Mack and his wife were leaning against one of the cocktail tables set up for the event. He’s the star of one of our new shows, Future Weapons, a former Navy Seal whose handshake is a walnut crusher. His wife was all-American sexy, and we made small talk while eating tiny food made out of duck and comfit (whatever the hell that is) and other stuff that couldn’t possibly make the meal my stomach expected.
Staff came around with baby xylophones that announced the start of some presentation, and I wanted to get out of there and Mickey was tipsy enough to start calling the host “space dude” but not to his face, yet, and before we knew it, we were in an even larger room with giant tapestries littering the walls.
The diminutive host started to blah-blah-blah, and Mickey and I got the church giggles, grabbing at each other and nearly toppling a marble statue twice my height. Then another guy who went into space droned through a slide show, but the food stopped and I was starving. The hands of my watch seemed to be going backward, and with no escape possible, Mickey and I played grab ass until some of the partygoers turned to tsk and shhh.
After the Here’s How We Poop In Space and the Dangerous Landing portions were over, and no one in the audience had questions, Mickey and I headed for the door. As we were leaving, she stopped to shake Buzz Aldrin’s hand while I said hello and thank you to the tiniest astronaut and host, Dennis Tito. Did you ever shake hands with someone who had absolutely no grip?
“Shit. Buzz Aldrin looked at me like I was a dirty whore,” Mickey said once we climbed back into my moving kennel.
“What’s your point?”