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A Mission by Bobby and Hank Lawson, Aged 7 and 9

At exactly 09:02 Earth Standard Time, the launch sequence was initiated.

The Retronaut-X Delta Firebird, a two-seat atmospheric-gravitational breacher, sat poised on Launchpad 3B (adjacent to the old cattle guard), steam pluming from its flarion vents. With auxiliary umbilicals detached and the secondary EGR thrusters online, the countdown echoed from Command Central:

“Five… four… three… two… BLAST OFF!”

Ignition came not in the form of fire, but a sudden and thunderous whoomp as all systems flared to life: velocity turbines, plutonic stabilizers, flux-capacitor converters, and the quantum sandwich array. The Retronaut-X shook with controlled fury as its Vortex Launch Arms retracted, sending the craft skyward.

From the outside, it may have looked like a red-and-white 1958 DeSoto Firedome Sportsman, hoisted on the hydraulic lift in the service bay of the Fort Stockton ESSO station. But inside—deep inside the retrofitted fuselage—it was the most advanced craft ever devised by mankind and stocked with just enough Juicy Fruit and Bazooka to survive a moonshot and back.

Nine-year-old Commander Hank Lawson held the push-button gear selector steady in “Lunar Drift Mode” as his younger brother, Bobby—Flight Navigator First Class and Snack Procurement Officer—tracked incoming solar disruptions on the forward dash cluster (which most observers might mistake for a speedometer and radio dial).

Suddenly, static filled the cabin.

“Command Central, come in! Come in!” Bobby cried. “We’ve lost contact! Sun flares!”

The screen flickered. The new paperback novel MANDINGO in the glove compartment vibrated with energy (unknown to Bobby), amplifying the already tense atmosphere.

“Switch to backup communicators,” Hank ordered, flicking a peppermint patty across the dashboard as an emergency counterweight.

The brothers worked quickly. Hank adjusted the deflector stabilizers—cleverly disguised as hooded quad headlights. Bobby rerouted control flow through the fender-mounted side mirrors to regain starboard thruster balance. It was all touch-and-go, especially as the tail fins began to flutter under gravitational resistance.

“Orbit is holding,” Hank said, squinting out the side porthole.

“You see it?” Bobby asked, breath caught in his throat.

There it was: the Moon. Pale, cratered, mysterious. And somewhere on its pockmarked surface—maybe under one of those shady craters—an answer awaited.

“Set course for Circum-Lunar Trajectory Alpha,” Hank commanded.

“Engaging cheese-detection protocols,” Bobby replied, twisting a knob labeled Climate Control Fan Speed to “HI.”

As they entered the Moon’s gravity well, things got dicey. The 361-cubic-inch V8 hyperdrive began to shudder, warning lights blinking across the dashboard like Christmas in July. An abrupt gravitational swell—caused by unexpected lunar cheese magnetism—pulled the Retronaut-X toward the surface at a concerning angle.

“Full burn on the twin tailpipe thrusters!” Hank shouted.

Bobby slapped the dash. “We’re spinning! We’re gonna crash!”

“Not on my shift!”

Gripping the ivory wheel with all the might his 55-pound frame could muster, Hank steadied the descent. The DeSoto’s TorqueFlite auto-stabilizers kicked in—three speeds of correctional override working in harmony. The push-button gear selector blinked as they shifted from D to R to Neutral Enlightenment Mode. The hood ornaments aligned with the Sea of Tranquility.

And just like that, they touched down. A clean landing.

“I think… I think we’re here,” Bobby said, peering through the windshield.

There was no sound but the soft purring of the V8 and the gurgling of the in-cabin Slurpee tubes.

“Suit up,” Hank said.

The brothers climbed into their modified astronaut gear—bike helmets wrapped in aluminum foil, winter gloves, and Mom’s old rain boots. With a hiss of pretend hydraulics, the cabin doors opened, and they stepped onto the surface.

But it wasn’t powdery lunar dust that greeted them.

It was concrete, slightly stained with motor oil. They were standing on the rubber mat beside the hydraulic lift in Bay Two of the ESSO station. Beyond the haze of cosmic imagination sat their father, perched in a cracked vinyl chair in the corner of the office.

A styrofoam cup of Taster’s Choice steamed gently on the desk. His FIELD & STREAM magazine—slightly swollen in the middle with a hidden PLAYBOY—lay open to an article about tackle boxes. He looked up without alarm, barely registering their return from orbit.

“You two done orbiting?” he asked, not moving the cup from his lips.

“We landed on the Moon,” Bobby said, breathless.

“We had to override the cheese fields with evasive maneuvers,” Hank added.

“Uh huh,” Dad replied. “That so?”

Tex ambled over from behind the workbench, wiping his hands on a rag that hadn’t seen a wash cycle since Nixon. “Got your 3,000-mile service all done, Mr. Lawson,” he said, nodding toward the DeSoto still on the lift.

“Changed the oil, lubed the chassis, checked the brakes. Tailpipe’s got a little soot—could be that dual-exhaust resonance acting up again. She’s runnin’ smooth though. That 361’s purrin’ like a housecat on a screened-in porch.”

Dad nodded, appreciating the language. “Appreciate it, Tex.”

Tex glanced at the boys. “They’re still livin’ up in that rocket ship, huh?”

“Yup,” Dad said. “Keeps ‘em occupied.”

Tex chuckled. “Well, tell ’em not to touch the carb linkage or they’ll be orbitin’ for real.”

The boys climbed back into the DeSoto as Tex lowered the lift. Bobby took up the co-pilot seat, examining the rocket readouts again. Hank adjusted the side-view mirror to check for alien pursuit.

“Dad?” Bobby called out through the open window.

“Yeah?”

“The Moon’s not made of cheese.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

The lift hissed as it reached the floor. The DeSoto, resplendent in red and white with tailfins like rocket stabilizers, rolled backward under Tex’s careful guidance. The chrome glinted under the morning sun. Its quad headlights—moon-tested and brother-approved—faced the street once more.

Tex handed Dad the keys. “She’s ready for reentry.”

Dad nodded again and slipped into the driver’s seat, taking one last sip of the coffee before setting it on the dash.

The boys resumed their mission chatter in the back seat.

“I think next time we should try Mars,” Hank said.

“Do they have snack machines on Mars?” Bobby asked.

“They better,” Hank replied. “Or we’re turning around.”

From the driver’s seat, Dad glanced in the rearview mirror at his two astronauts. Still in their helmets. Still rubber-booted. Still seven and nine.

He flipped the magazine closed, the corner of the PLAYBOY poking out like the moon from behind the Earth. He slid it under the seat.

He started the engine. The DeSoto rumbled to life, ready for any planetary or interplanetary excursion.

And as they pulled out of the ESSO station, Dad couldn’t help but wonder: When they’re out of her hair like this… what the hell does their mother get up to?

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