Lost Bag in Space

Heidemarie Stefanyshyn-Piper lost her tool bag while cleaning and lubing a gummed-up joint outside the space shuttle Endeavour with fellow astronaut Stephen Bowen.  msnbc.com


"Anybody seen my bag?"

HOUSTON:  Have you guys exited the shuttle?

ASTRONAUT BOWEN:  Yep.  It's a beautiful day out here.

ASTRONAUT HEIDEMARIE STEFANYSHYN-PIPER:  I can't get my name tag out the door.

BOWEN:  Lean forward, then tilt your head back . . .

HMSP:  Like this?

BOWEN:  Sort of.  Did you ever do the "Limbo" in high school?



HMSP:  Yeah.  Let me try it again.  Unh-unh . . .

BOWEN:  Attagirl!

HMSP:  It's not going to fit.

BOWEN:  Maybe if you left a couple of your names in the cabin.

HMSP:  That's a good idea.  Let's see, most people just call me "Heide", and we're on a first-name basis now . . .


Does this outfit make me look fat?

BOWEN:  Right--so you could tear off the last three names.

[SOUND OF NAMETAG RIPPING]

HEIDE:  There we go!

BOWEN:  You got all your stuff?



HEIDE:  Right in this little bag!

BOWEN:  That's cute.

HEIDE:  Thanks.  Now, do I just hold the bag and hand stuff to you or what?

HOUSTON:  Everybody has to participate in the repairs, Heide . . .

HEIDE:  But I cooked and washed all the dishes!

HOUSTON:  Doesn't matter.  Suppose everybody else on the crew died and you had to go outside to remove a flyer from under a windshield wiper?



HEIDE:  Uh, I don't think there's a lot of Chinese restaurants up here.

HOUSTON:  Maybe not now, but China has entered the space age.

HEIDE:  All right.  What are we going to do?

HOUSTON:  We need to clean and lube a gummed-up joint.

HEIDE:  Icky!

HOUSTON:  Take the grease gun . . .

HEIDE:  Okay . . .

HOUSTON:  And don't squeeze it yet . . .

HEIDE:  Oops.



BOWEN:  Jesus, Heide--watch it!

HEIDE:  I didn't know it was going to sploosh all over the place!

HOUSTON:  You need to clean that up--if it gets on the windshield it could impair your vision on re-entry.

HEIDE:  Do we have any Handi-Wipes?



BOWEN:  They're back in the glove compartment.

HEIDE:  What if I just--here, hold my bag.

BOWEN:  What?

HEIDE:  I said . . . oh shit.

HOUSTON:  Uh, guys, remember--school kids can listen in on the spacewalks.

HEIDE:  I dropped my bag.

BOWEN:  There's zero gravity up here--you can't "drop" anything.



HEIDE:  You know what I mean.

BOWEN:  Good God--look at all that crap!  What's that stuff doing in your bag?

HEIDE:  I don't go anywhere without my mascara, and I need my checkbook and my cell phone, and I always carry Cool Mint Listerine Pocket Paks with me . . .



BOWEN:  What for?

HOUSTON:  To freshen your breath, stupid.

HEIDE:  Yeah--remind me not to kiss you when we get back.

HOUSTON:  Can you reach any of that stuff?

HEIDE:  Steve--would you mind picking it up?

BOWEN:  And run the risk of a drifting away from the space station to suffer a cold, lonely death in space and never see my family again?

HEIDE:  Is that too much to ask?

HOUSTON:  You could do one-potato, two-potato . . .



BOWEN:  That never works with just two people.

HOUSTON:  I could be the third.

BOWEN:  How do I know you'll put a hand behind your back when it's "out"?

HOUSTON:  Trust me . . .

HEIDE:  I've got a better idea.

BOWEN:  What?

HEIDE:  Why don't I go back inside and call triple A?



HOUSTON:  I don't think they do roadside service calls when you're orbiting the earth.

[SOUND OF DOOR OPENING]

BOWEN:  Hey-where are you going?

HEIDE:  I've got the fantods.

[SOUND OF DOOR SLAMMING]

HOUSTON:  What are fantods?

HEIDE:  They're like "the vapors".

BOWEN:  You mean, like being "indisposed"?

HEIDE:  Right.  It's an excuse for a lady of refinement to leave the room without being too . . . specific.

HOUSTON:  Heide-open the door and let Steve in.

HEIDE:  Not until he apologizes.

BOWEN:  Apologize?  For what?

HEIDE:  (Sniffling) For being mean to me.

BOWEN:  You're the one who lost the stupid bag!

HEIDE:  Forget it.  It didn't match this outfit anyway.