Can You Hear Me, Major Tom?

It had cooled off a little after last night's rain, but less-hot did not equal not-hot. He was zipping around the warehouse on his favorite little standup forklift, making up for the slowdown of age with greater efficiency, stackin' them skids with all the skill and ingenuity that he could find no other outlet for in his life. Everyone else was outside on break, puffing their cancer sticks, stretching a 15 minute interval into 20 and then 25. He got a beep on his cel from the supervisor: "hey, get out here, my dad called and said the space shuttle is going over us at 10:33!"

He drove up to the front and walked outdoors. All five of them stood in the parking lot, looking to the northwest. "Is that it?" "No, it's moving too slow. Must be a helicopter." "How bout that?" "That's the North Star, you dumbass." But then they saw it, undeniably, unstoppably streaking across the night sky, through the still-purplish early evening clouds. A pair--pair?--of bright lights, cutting diagonally across their small patch of earth with a sense of direction, of purpose, of excitement. He could feel the ambitions of his betters pushing him downward into the asphalt as the best of America streaked past. In less than a minute, it was out of sight to the southeast.

He sighed, went back inside, took a big swig of Coke Zero out of the 2 liter in the fridge, and resumed doing the dumb things he had to do.