This is Space Camp, Charles thinks. My zero G tank, referring to Guy’s pool and the floating chair suspending him in the just below the surface.
Being lit on Guy’s scotch helps feign weightlessness, too. Good stuff. Glenlivet. 18 year.
Space Camp, what’s got to run? Maybe two grand? Charles’s kids are in soccer camp. $130 and he griped. No lodging or food; just high schoolers showing 8 year-olds how to kick. Where’s the money going?
He should really have brought his kids over to swim. They deserve at least that. Charles empties his scotch and admits why he didn’t bring them. He’d basically be saying that his supervisor’s kid is gonna play with rockets, but you can sneak into his pool while they drive down to Huntsville.
Deck. Drink. Refreshed. Bottles’s empty now. He told himself just one or two; Guy would notice any more. Screw Guy. Charles shoulda had Guy’s position if Guy hadn’t ratted him out for keeping a bottle in his desk. Had to be Guy, back when they shared an office.
In the pool, Charles jettison’s his trunks. Now that’s zero G. Coulda sent the kids to grandma’s. Invited Shelia. Make her reconsider this “trial” separation. But that’s not Shelia. Such a damn wet-blanket, she’d never abuse the house-sitting role. Can’t understand vice, that woman.
So that’s why Charles is all alone, buck naked and in full orbit when the police show up, responding to a call from a concerned neighbor.