Dinner With Mark
Who's coming to dinner? Why it's Mark Watney and a cast of guests—living, dead, real, and fictional. The Martian is copyright 2011, 2014 by Andy Weir, published by Crown Publishers. Image NASA/JPL/University of Arizona, public domain. I do not own The Martian or its characters. Note that Mark curses, as in canon.
SOL 16 Thanksgiving
Roast turkey with gravy
Stuffing
Peas
Pumpkin pie
Mark Watney pulled the steaming packages out of the rehydrator, loaded them onto a tray, and dropped it onto the table. He sat down heavily in the chair in front of it and groaned as the movement pulled at his stitches.
"Happy Thanksgiving," he announced. "Commander, I hope you don't mind that I didn't fix the mashed potatoes. Cooking for one is such a pain in the ass. Anyway, I think I may be needing the potatoes later for some botany goodness."
He looked around the table at the empty chairs. "Shit, I'm starting to lose it already. What is it they say? That you're not nuts if you talk to yourself, only if you answer back? Well, then, I guess we keep these little conversations to ourselves, keep them out of the logs. Sound good to everyone? Right, 'he who is silent is understood to consent.' Who said that, Harrison Ford? I miss the Internet—you had a problem, you had a question, the Internet knew all."
He ate some of the rapidly congealing turkey and tore open the sealed plastic bags labeled "Garden Peas—Vegan" and "Bread stuffing," mixing the peas into the stuffing. "Why'd we have to have peas, anyway? They're interesting scientifically—our buddy Gregor and all that—but they taste like shit. Yeah, I know, be grateful for the peas. When the food's all gone, I'll be wishing I had some peas to kick around."
Taking a mouthful of the mixture of stuffing and peas, he chewed, swallowed, and leaned back from the table. "OK, let's all go around the table and say what we're thankful for. Commander, you go first."
Mark, I left you for dead. How do you think I'm feeling thankful for anything right now? the voice of Commander Melissa Lewis sounded in his head.
"Uh, uh, uh, Commander. My game, my rules," Mark said. "It's Thanksgiving, so we're all gonna be uplifting. Pretend I'm not dead. Which I'm not. Dead, that is. But you don't know that. Shit, now I'm confused."
Mark, I'm grateful for the opportunity to lead this wonderful crew. Better?
"See, Lewis, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Mark squeezed two pieces of turkey into his mouth. "Who wants to go next? Anyone? All right, then. I'll go. I'm grateful that my 10 days of antibiotics are over. Cipro is hell on my stomach."
I am grateful for my wife and children.
"Of course you are, Vogel. Seems like every packet we get from NASA includes the kinder's photos. Good one."
I'm grateful for Chris. He can't hear me, can he?
"No, Johanssen, he can't. He's streaking away from Mars on the Hermes, and you're just a voice in my head. You're all figments of my overactive imagination," he added, irritated.
Mark, you're not being very nice.
"Shit, Beth, what do you want from me? Do you want me to sing "Kumbaya," and we'll all hold hands?" Mark shoved away from the table and took his tray over to the compactor. He yanked the drawer open, dumped in the now-empty packages sitting on the tray, and shut the drawer with a little more force than was necessary.
She's right, Mark. You're not being nice.
"Mom." Mark stilled, both hands on the counter, staring at the wall in front of him.
'If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.' It's a classic for a reason, dear. We miss you. We'd known your job was dangerous. But so many years of successful missions, so many astronauts in space, it started to seem almost routine. . . We're having Thanksgiving at the house as usual. Your father thought it was best for the cousins. And, your arrangements are keeping us busy.
"Oh, fuck."
Mark, please.
"Mom, I'm sorry. My foul mouth again." He began to pace in the small area between the counter and the table. "I've tried not to think about you and Dad. I hope you don't mind. Have to keep it together, you know." Mark eased himself back into the chair.
I understand, Mark. Your father has been the same. He spends most of his time in his workshop working on those model boats.
"I remember those boats. I remember when he used to take me out by the pier when I was little, and we'd race the boats. I remember how mad he got that time I ran his sloop into the pier." Suddenly weary, he said, "Mom, I'm sorry, but I can't do this now. Not right now."
Your game, your rules.
Mark heard the smile in the voice in his head and nodded. "But maybe later?"
Any time, dear.
Mark fixed a cup of coffee and pushed a wedge-shaped package ("Pumpkin Pie—Contains Dairy and Eggs" into the rehydrator. "So, Dr. Beck, what do you have for us?"
I'm grateful for antibiotics, I'm grateful for clean water, I'm grateful for Beth, I'm grateful for an end to the drought in Ethiopia.
"Aha!" Mark crowed, as he pulled the dessert out and opened the package. "The good doctor thinks he can pull one over on us with his platitudes about good health and hygiene. Thought you could slide that in there and no one would notice? It's about time, man. Let's hear all about it. Your secret's safe with me." He smirked as he squeezed the spiced custard into his mouth.
It's safe because she's not going to find out. Lewis has enough on her mind without half of her remaining crew making moon-eyes at each other.
"Chris, Chris, what can I say? 'You don't find a girl like that every dynasty.'"
What?
"Chris, seriously, you can't tell me you haven't seen Mulan."
You can't tell me you have?
"With 6 nieces and nephews under the age of 10, I think I could quote every Disney movie made since 1995."
Please don't.
"Whatever, man. It's only a matter of time. NASA should have known better than to put a bunch of single people on a long-term mission." Mark opened the drawer for the compactor, balled up the crumpled plastic wrapping from the "pie," and arced it towards the opening. The ball bounced off the edge and floated to the floor of the Hab. "And now our trio of single people is a duo. You are fighting the inevitable, dude."
Mark leaned over, wincing, and picked up the wrapping and placed it in the drawer. He pushed a button, and after a brief whirring, the room was again silent. "Seems like there's something I'm forgetting."
So once again the Latino is last. You're lucky I don't file charges. NASA may have put me on this mission to check off a box, but I'll EEOC your ass. Hell, I'm not even going to tell you what I'm thankful for.
"Martinez, amigo! You know I'm saving the best for last. Come on, man. Tell me what you whisper to the man upstairs when you hit your knees at night."
My friend, I thank God for my wife. I thank Him for her long legs that wrap around me every night. I thank Him for her mouth, como miel. And I thank Him for her—
"Not funny, Martinez. Do you have any idea how long it's going to take me before 'All Systems Normal'? See if I invite you to dinner again."
Hermano, in this, sadly we are now brothers in arms. What am I thankful for? I am thankful for you, my friend.
"And I, you, hermano. Next time I have arroz con pollo, consider yourself invited."
With that, Mark dimmed the light and picked up Johanssen's iPad. A few hours with Hercule Poirot would be a better cure for Martinez' parting gift than watching the Commander's crappy 70s TV—Chrissy in Three's Company, Daisy Dukes in The Dukes of Hazzard, who knew the 70s had so many babes?
Would a mid-21st-century man know 20th-century Disney? Who knows, but shout out to MAM and EMM. I have several dinner guests lined up for Mark you may enjoy meeting. Who should have dinner with Mark? Please review or PM! Also, if you think this should be M based on language alone, please let me know.