Full Moon

How lucky can we get?

I thought we’d spend the evening answering that question. I was treating a client to dinner at a restaurant that I couldn’t afford. But my company was paying. Lucky me. My dinner partner, Scott, was even more fortunate—he could easily afford the restaurant.  Lucky him.

The conversation headed in the direction of space, but we weren’t counting lucky stars. Way back in 1969, when Scott was a young boy, he wrote an effusive letter to Neil Armstrong, his hero. I had a space hero at the time, too. His name was Gigantor, an animated robot that did a lot more to save planet Earth than Neil Armstrong ever did, but I digress.

As it happened, Neil Armstrong obliged Scott with an autographed 8 X 10 glossy that became a most prized possession. Had we been counting lucky stars, Scott would have ended there. Then I would take a turn at topping his story with a brag of my own. . . . I never got the chance, because Scott was building up to a real jaw-dropper.

Time took a toll on that autograph, and it was close to vanishing. By now, Scott was an extremely resourceful adult who managed to get a hold of Mr. Armstrong’s email address. Having lost none of the innocence of that young boy, he wrote to Mr. Armstrong of his undiminished adoration and the predicament with the signature. Would Mr. Armstrong mind re-signing the photograph? 

Not a chance.

That was the extent of Neil Armstrong’s reply. Short and sharp.

Scott was wounded. As the signature on the photograph continued to fade, the hurt from the rejection only intensified. Months earlier, Scott carried that hurt to a prestigious dinner that was crowded with dignitaries. Two people at his table stood out in particular. One was a space shuttle astronaut. The other was Harrison Ford. Both were just as gripped as I was with Scott’s Neil Armstrong story. The space shuttle astronaut sitting beside him was bewildered by Mr. Armstrong’s response. But when Scott asked this astronaut to use his influence to get that signature, the astronaut politely refused.

You know what I say? Who needs an astronaut when you’ve got Harrison Ford.  So, Scott did what I would have done. He turned to Mr. Ford to ask a favor. “Maybe, one legend to another, you could make a simple request . . . .” Unfortunately, Mr. Ford said no, too.

At this point, I stopped counting my lucky stars. I was too busy counting Scott’s. It was hard to keep up. After he recovered from telling me his Neil Armstrong story, he told me about his upcoming family vacation. The first stop was Paris, and I forget if yachting for a week on the Mediterranean came before or after Istanbul. A few months after that dinner, I left the company. Scott and I stayed in touch for a bit, and like the autograph, our association faded. If I ever see Scott again, I’m going to tell him that I’m on Mr. Armstrong’s side. The snub is exactly what Scott needed. It’s far more permanent than a fresh autograph and ensures that Scott will never forget Neil Armstrong. And thanks to Mr. Armstrong, I will never forget Scott. Some people really do have all the luck.