Riding Rockets - Mike Mullane [187]
“Are you guys astronauts?” We were all wearing our blue flight suits with patches reading “NASA” and other patches with renditions of space shuttles. Then there were our gold navy and silver air force wings, our Mach 25 patches, and American flag patches. We were either astronauts or Epcot Disney characters. It must have been the blonde in her asking the question.
Under my breath I whispered to Hoot, “I’ll be anything she wants me to be.” Hoot, no doubt, was thinking the same lecherous things I was thinking, but he played the gentleman and answered, “Yes.”
“Have you been to the moon?”
I whispered fiercely to Hoot, “Tell heryes !” But he stuck to the truth, damn him. Maybe she would have taken us home if he had lied.
She began to walk down our ranks, smiling and asking questions. At any moment I expected her to say, “You mean you aren’t the famous STS-26 crew? How disappointing.” But she didn’t. She seemed pleased to meet us runner-ups.
To my amazement I noticed the rest of the crew were shaking her hand! Even Hoot. He must have stroked out when she walked into the room. There’s no other way to explain his restraint.What a bunch of weak dicks, I thought. You shake Billy Joel’s hand. You shake Commissioner Rozelle’s hand. But you don’t shake Christie Brinkley’s hand.
When she came to me, I embraced her. Her arms came around my back and echoed the hug. Afterward she didn’t even signal her bodyguard to stand between us (and no restraining order arrived later in the mail). I might have a medal I couldn’t talk about, but I sure as hell was going to tell every male in the astronaut office what it was like to hug Christie Brinkley. The others could tell them what her handshake was like.
She remained to ask more questions while the game raged on behind us. Periodically we would hear waves of screams coming from the audience to signify some spectacular play, but with Christie in our company, who gave a shit? Finally, with a breezy wave and a promise, “See you at halftime,” she left the box. Donna smiled at me. “I guess you don’t want me to ever wash that flight suit again.” I laughed and kissed her. Billy Joel had a dream of a woman, but so did I.
A short time later, while I was stretching my legs in the corridor behind the skybox, Billy stepped out for a cigarette break. We fell into conversation. I was struck by how nervous he seemed in this one-on-one situation. His eyes never held mine. It was as if I were talking with John Young or George Abbey. I asked him questions about composing music and he asked me questions about flying in space. I’m sure I was his inspiration for “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” but he had to go and use Sally Ride’s name in the lyrics instead of Mike Mullane. I knew I should have written it down for him. I never asked him the one question I was burning to ask: “What’s it like to sleep with Christie Brinkley?” I would bet he’s been asked before.
As the game approached halftime, our crew was escorted down to the field to await our cue. While idling we met Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon, who were on deck for their performance, a celebration of the 1950s teenybopper Florida beach movies. I marveled at Annette. At forty-six, the mother of several children, she had a shape a woman twenty years younger would have envied. Later, when she was performing the beach blanket dance routines that made her famous, she moved like she was back in bobby socks. I was impressed.
Christy Brinkley held true to her promise and approached us, this time to pose for photos. If she had known what degenerates Hoot, Shep, and I were she probably would have maced us. All three of us were praying she would experience the first Super Bowl halftime show wardrobe malfunction. But, alas, that didn’t happen. I made certain to stand next to her for our group photo. She put her arm around my waist, her hand accidentally slipping across my ass as she did so. I’m certain my hard body and Mel Gibson good looks broke up her marriage to Billy, but somehow the paparazzi