I sat in the lift, gripping the arms of my seat until my knuckles flashed white.  The flickering light from the fluorescent bulbs blinded me through the gold sheen of my space helmet.  For a moment, balancing on top of the hydraulic hazard felt as though I was landing on Mars and not just in the “Mad Mission to Mars” presentation at the Kennedy Space Center.

“You’ve reached the red planet!” screeched the overly-enthusiastic woman who led the show.  Volunteering to be a “spaceman” in the “Mad Mission to Mars” presentation was the biggest regret of my short life.

In the middle of my fourth grade year, my family went to Orlando, Florida.  After enjoying countless rides at Universal Studios and seeing as much Shamu as we thought we could handle, we decided to travel to the Kennedy Space Center in Cape Canaveral, Florida.

“Why not?  Kennedy’s only an hour out of the way.  We could be back by dinner,” suggested my mother.

“I like space,” replied Jake, my brother.  He did; he owned models of the solar system, shirts with constellations, and puzzles of the planets.

The debate was settled.  We could drive out to Cape Canaveral and be back in time for the smoldering onion volcano that the hibachi chef created for us nightly.

When we arrived, it was sunny and clear outside.  The air smelled like an ocean breeze, the scent that all tropical places seem to have.  My brother and I ate space ice cream and carried our newly-bought tektites.
“Mad Mission to Mars!” Jake shouted, pointing.

We followed his finger, still caked in pieces of freeze-dried Neapolitan, and saw that he pointed at a huge building with an appropriately huge sign that read, “Mad Mission to Mars.”

“I want to go in,” I whined.

“Okay,” sighed my mother, desperate for shelter from the heat.  “Everyone inside.”

We walked into a darkened room with multiple chairs and a stage.  On the platform, children dressed as planets wrestled each other.  Jupiter had Halley’s Comet in a headlock.  The sun and the moon spanked Saturn.

“What’s going on?  Where are we?” wondered my father aloud.
“Let’s get out of here.  I think this presentation’s for younger children.  Quick.  Go out that door,” groaned my mother, gesturing towards the exit.

“Hello, and welcome to Mad Mission to Mars,” cawed a voice, seemingly from nowhere.  The woman who the bird-like vocalization belonged to walked out onto the stage.  She had her eyeshadow made up to look like stars, but her face looked more like she had two black eyes.  Being a true hipster, she wore galaxy print leggings before they became stylish.

Awkwardly avoiding looking like we tried to leave, we sat down.  The room was practically empty.

“I’m Jennifer, and I’ll be your cosmic tourist guide today,” she continued.  “On average, 140 million miles separate Earth and Mars.  Today, we’ll send one of you lucky children to the red planet.”

Assorted gasps resonated among the audience, mostly from children.  Uninterested, our section remained silent.

“Now I need a volunteer,” Jennifer almost whispered.
The crowd lingered in silence for about ten seconds.
“Come on; I know you want to go to Mars!” she encouraged a four year old in the front row.
The preschooler shook his head, afraid of the lady with two universes plastered onto her eyeballs.  “No,” he squeaked.

“I’ll go to Mars!” I declared.  I wasn’t thinking of my terrible fear of heights or of the dread that overcame me when placed in front of strangers.  I wasn’t thinking at all; I was going to go to Mars and I was going to love the trip.

“How great,” Jennifer sneered.  She walked into the audience towards me, grabbed my arm, and dragged me onto the stage.  “What’s your name, little boy?”

“Isaac,” I replied.

“Well, Isaac, you’re going to travel up to the red planet,” Jennifer shrilled.

“I’m not actually going to Mars, am I?” I asked.

“No, silly.  You’re going up there,” she laughed.  She gestured upward, and I looked.  What I saw on the ceiling in the “Mad Mission to Mars” building astounded me.  There was a plastic “red planet” hanging high in the trusses.  To my fourth grade, acrophobic self, the sphere seemed unimaginably distant.

“Oh, no.  I can’t do that.  You don’t understa–,” I tried to explain, but it had no effect on Jennifer.

“We’ll return in a few minutes.  We have to make sure Isaac is dressed to endure the harsh temperatures and conditions on Mars,” she droned, ignoring my pathetic appeals.

She dragged me backstage and shoved me in a musty space suit.  The outfit must have been older than Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space.  I coughed as I inhaled the cosmic dust that coated the shimmering gold dome.

“Be quiet!” Jennifer snapped.  She seemed much angrier when we weren’t in front of a crowd of preschoolers.  She zipped me up, and we were on our way.  “Just wave a few times, and don’t fall off of the lift.  You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to do this,” she added, giggling at her own joke.

“Wait, Jen,” I pleaded.  “I’m afraid of heights.  I don’t want to go to the ceiling.”
“Don’t call me Jen.  It’s Jennifer!  Anyway, you should have thought of that before you volunteered,” she replied, coldly.  “You’re going to Mars, and you’re going to like it.”

We returned onstage, and with a little harsh nudging from Jennifer, I waved.  She shoved me into the “rocket chair,” which was just a hydraulic lift with an attached bench and a cardboard cutout of the space shuttle duct taped on the front.  She buckled me in, stepped back, and pulled a hidden lever.

“Three, two, one, blastoff!” cheered Jennifer and the crowd.  Jennifer smiled up at me cruelly.  I lurched forward and began my agonizingly slow ascent to the polyurethane “Mars” on the ceiling of the warehouse.  I felt the hydraulics straining beneath me.

Jennifer continued to list facts about Mars as the people and chairs got smaller and smaller.  From Martian geology to the Phoenix Rover, she outlined every subject imaginable.  As I grew nearer to the red, inverted dome, she observed, “Look!  Our explorer is arriving at the red planet right now.  How is it up there, Isaac?”
I sat silently, teetering on the lift.  I felt as if a slight breeze could knock me off.  I couldn’t bring myself to answer her.

“Okay then, Isaac.  I think that’s a ‘yes’ in Martian,” chortled Jennifer, wittily.

The crowd laughed hesitantly. 

“Well, that’s all we have time for.  You can come down now.”  She flicked the lever to the other side, and I came down.

As I got off of the rocket chair, I ran into my mother’s arms, almost crying.  I felt so relieved to be off of the horrible machine, but I also felt angry.  So many thoughts flooded my head:  How could someone be as mean as Jennifer?  How did the “rocket chair” get approval to be used in the presentation?  Did Jennifer receive healthcare benefits with her career?

After we exited “Mad Mission to Mars,” we returned to our resort and sat down for our hibachi dinner.  The onion volcano smoldered less than it did on the previous nights.  Jennifer ruined the entire experience of the Kennedy Space Center, and even Florida, for me.

Although I regret volunteering to be a spaceman and will forever fiercely hate “Jen,” the experience taught me the most valuable lesson that anybody can learn:  don’t volunteer for anything until you know what the act entails.