To the Moon… But Not the Mall

Anyone who knows me knows I have a soft spot for anything that flies—with the notable exceptions of mosquitoes and the terrifying winged monkeys from The Wizard of Oz. I was convinced as a kid that one of those flying demons was going to swoop down in broad daylight and snatch me out of the backyard. To this day, I still can’t watch that movie without feeling a tad anxious.

That said, if it flies and doesn’t cackle or drink blood, I’m a fan. I’m particularly fond of fixed-wing aircraft (i.e., airplanes). I like helicopters, too, despite their apparent defiance of basic aerodynamic laws. But rockets? Rockets have always held a special place in my heart.

As a kid, I built and launched model rockets, all of them powered by what were marketed as “engines” but were, in reality, firecrackers on steroids. Somehow, despite numerous close calls and at least one near miss involving my sister, I still own all ten fingers and both eyes.

Like most kids growing up during the golden age of space exploration, I regarded astronauts as gods encased in white flight suits and bubble helmets. I’m old enough to remember every Apollo mission. Years later, as a newspaper reporter, I was assigned to cover the landing of the Space Shuttle Columbia at White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico. Watching it glide silently onto the runway after returning from orbit was like seeing Zeus himself descend from Olympus on a flaming chariot.

Readers of my Cordell Logan novels probably won’t find any of this surprising. Logan may spend much of his time chasing killers, but at heart he’s a pilot, and I’ve probably devoted more pages to airplanes, instrument approaches, and the sheer joy of flying than any sensible mystery writer should. Aviation has always found its way into my fiction because it’s always been part of my life. Rockets simply occupy a different corner of that same fascination. They’re airplanes with even loftier ambitions.

These days, I get my rocket fix a little closer to home. I live not far from Vandenberg Space Force Base, where launches of SpaceX rockets carrying communications satellites into low-Earth orbit have become frequent enough that I’ve started recognizing the size of the rocket merely by the severity of the window-rattling sonic boom it produces. (Pro tip: a Falcon 9 sounds like God kicking a dumpster full of anvils.)

Naturally, my enthusiasm for spaceflight led me to acquire a few SpaceX T-shirts on eBay. They’re comfortable, reasonably priced, and they have rockets on them. What more could a guy ask for?

I wore them proudly.

At least, I used to.

This is where things get complicated.

As most people know, SpaceX is owned by Elon Musk, a man who is either a visionary genius, a chaos agent, or possibly just a very rich guy with too much time on his hands. Regardless of how you view him, one thing is beyond dispute: he’s polarizing. And in my household, let’s just say he isn’t exactly winning any popularity contests.

My wife—who is every bit as rational and tolerant as she is politically aware—has gently but firmly informed me that wearing SpaceX apparel in public is, in her opinion, “not a great look.”

She hasn’t banned the shirts outright, mind you. That would imply I have no autonomy, which I do.

In theory.

But she has made her feelings known through a highly effective combination of sighs and subtle-but-devastating observations like, “Are you sure you want to wear that to dinner with the neighbors?”

So now, my beloved SpaceX T-shirts have been largely relegated to in-home use, joining the ranks of other seldom-seen garments, including my extensive collection of Denver Broncos jerseys and the “Parrot Head” tank top I bought years ago at a Jimmy Buffett concert.

Even inside the house, wearing a SpaceX T-shirt can draw a look that silently communicates, I can’t believe I married this man.

I try explaining that I’m not endorsing Elon Musk.

I’m endorsing rockets.

The marvel of science. The improbable elegance of controlled explosions powerful enough to leave the planet. The astonishing fact that thousands of gallons of burning propellant somehow become grace.

But nuance, apparently, doesn’t fit comfortably on a cotton-poly blend.

I wish everything wasn’t so political these days. Can’t a guy simply wear a comfortable shirt with a rocket on it without feeling obligated to issue a disclaimer? I’m not aligning myself with any ideology. I just happen to like things that go whoosh and defy gravity.

If the rocket also happens to have been designed by a weirdo billionaire with fourteen children, that’s…well…unfortunate.

But it isn’t really the rocket’s fault.

It’s hard being a rocket enthusiast in the era of outrage. I feel like I need to carry a little card in my wallet that reads:

“The opinions expressed by this T-shirt do not necessarily reflect those of the wearer. He just likes things that fly.”

Still, I wear them.

Not to make a statement or start an argument. Just quietly, when my wife is out of town or working late.

There’s no rebellion in it.

There’s simply something about pulling on a shirt with a rocket emblazoned across the front that makes me feel a little more like the kid who believed astronauts embodied The Right Stuff and that humanity’s greatest adventures still lay ahead.

My wife doesn’t love the association, and I respect that. Marriage, after all, is built on a thousand tiny negotiations and accommodations. She gives me room to indulge my quirks, and I try not to wear my quirks in public.

But every now and then, when the coast is clear and the house is quiet, I’ll put on one of those SpaceX T-shirts, step outside, and look toward the western sky, just in case something is launching.

For a few moments, politics fade into the background. All that’s left is the unmistakable rumble of possibility and the same sense of wonder I felt as a boy watching rockets climb toward the stars.

Sometimes that’s enough.