The Man Who Dreamed of Rocket Ships

From an interview with Randolph Brightman, March 2052

I used to dream of being an astronaut when I was young. Read almost nothing but science fiction of the pulpiest kind, spent countless hours in front of the television taking in every iteration of Star Trek, and watched all the NASA launches as if witnessing the resurrection of Christ. I was twelve years old when the Challenger exploded on live TV, and though it had left me shaken, it had not shaken my dream of traveling in a rocket ship someday.

A dream is all it remained, however. A poor kid from a backwater southern town who had trouble passing his math classes, I had not been able to attend college and right after high school took a job cleaning bathrooms at a manufacturing plant. It paid enough for a cheap apartment and a used car that ran more on hope than gasoline. I settled in and that became my life.

I switched jobs a few times. Janitor to bag boy to cashier at a convenience store then finally a security guard at a textile plant. That was the one that took. One year became two became ten.

I never forgot my dreams of being an astronaut, even though that dream faded so far into the distance that I could only wave at it on occasion. Sometimes at night I would sit out on my little balcony and look up at the stars, naming the constellations to myself, remembering when I had once wanted to walk among them. The nostalgia was tinged with sadness, and I may have shed a few tears out on the balcony though I would never admit that to anyone. At least not until now.