Riding Rockets - Mike Mullane [33]
How different was Rick’s speech from John Glenn’s “keep your peckers stowed” speech of twenty-five years earlier. As documented inThe Right Stuff, Glenn cautioned his six peers against adulterous activity because of the scandal that would result if they were discovered. Now, a quarter century later, Rick’s comments were aimed at the spectators, not the perpetrators. Zip your mouth, not your pants. How the moral compass had swung. Adultery and divorce had lost their stigma. Neither was going to affect a TFNG’s career.
Philandering wasn’t the only thing shocking the post-docs on these trips. The art of alcohol abuse was another, and some military TFNGs were true Picassos.
“Who wants to try a flaming hooker?” was Hoot Gibson’s question at a Cape Canaveral bar one night. The recipe for the drink included a prodigious quantity of high-proof alcohol served in a brandy snifter. The drink was servedon fire. I stuck around for this. Fire and intoxicated astronauts were material for David Letterman’s stupid human tricks.
As always, there had to be competition. Winners were those who could throw back the complete shot in one gulp without burning themselves, then slam down the glass with the residual alcohol still burning. Needless to say, it helped to be at the bulletproof level of intoxication before attempting this trick.
Like a circus barker, Hoot roped in a crowd of unsuspecting post-docs. None thought it was possible. Hoot smiled at the challenge, unstuck a cigar from his mouth, slicked his mustache into order, grabbed the flaming drink, and quaffed it back. He slammed down the glass. A blue flame hovered over it.
The gauntlet had been thrown down and several suckers readied themselves to duplicate the feat. The bartender served up more glasses and torched them. With fear-tightened faces the post-docs picked them up and hesitantly brought them to their lips. Soon a new smell mingled with the miasma of cigar smoke, perfume, and beer…burning facial hair. There were cries of pain as flaming alcohol scorched mustaches, lips, and chins. Through it all Hoot smiled and puffed his cigar with an expression saying, “Why do I do this?” Periodically he would down another drink to keep enticing the wounded scientists back to the flame. Each time he remained uninjured and the glass retained the blue flicker of success. Each time it emboldened another post-doc to attempt self-immolation. As the hour drew late, Hoot finally explained the trick. “You have to be fearless. Toss the entire glass. Don’t sip. There isn’t enough oxygen in your mouth to feed the flame so it’ll go out. If you do it fast enough, the flame will stay with the glass.”
The formula for success had come far too late. At breakfast the next morning a few embarrassed, miserably hungover post-docs sat at the table nursing multiple blisters on their faces. Some of those victims, no doubt, were dreading having to explain to their spouses the source of their injuries. “Honey…you’re not going to believe how this happened.” Indeed, they wouldn’t.
At every opportunity the military TFNGs also introduced the civilians to our lively, sometimes sick, sense of humor. During our tour of NASA’s California facilities, Steve Hawley made the mistake of asking Loren Shriver, Brewster Shaw, and me to dinner with a former colleague of his. In the course of the meal Steve’s friend, a male astrophysicist, became overawed with the Vietnam aspect of our past lives. Like me, Loren and Brewster were combat veterans of that conflict. The young scientist was relentless in probing for information on our experiences. “Mike, what did you do in Vietnam?”
I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to play with his head, so I seamlessly replied, “I flew a candy bomber.”
“A candy bomber? What was that?”
I had a fish on the line and began to reel it in. “In the villages