Meteor Mayhem

It has long been theorized that bacterial life forms on asteroids and comets contributed to the formation of life on the planet earth. In the earlier days of transformation on our world, when a stabile atmosphere was still in it's developmental infancy, cosmic debris rained down on earth without the significant stress and heat that currently affects heavenly material intrusion.
From these diverse off world bombardments, ranging in composition from ash to iron, and mineral to complex crystalline formations, the percentage of probability for these astrobiological infusions are relatively high. Within this wide range of composite material it is feasible to assume that dormant microorganisms breaching the vacuum of stellar travel have been instrumental in both the destruction and renewal of species upon this world. Some may have changed the very nature of known life forms, others having no impact upon the planet, and some still undiscovered in their dormancy, buried within the earth.
Wilt Stresson knew nothing of such things. His interest lay in the family florist shop where he worked for his dad. He liked musicals and Broadway plays, meeting with his two closest friends on Sundays to cruise the malls and maybe catch the latest movie. A timid and insecure fellow of skinny build and homely features, he was now into his early thirties with no prospects or hopes for being more than he already was. A liberal arts washout from NYU, he'd given up on all the desires that once consumed his youth. A person used to standing in the wings of life, he'd always felt on the outskirts of society at large. His never certain views on politics, relationships, and the social standards of his fellow citizens, though rarely expressed, generally followed the progressive dogmatism he heard from those around him. A man lacking in both courage and conviction, his path of destiny was a one way journey to insignificance.
"Hey Wilt, take those foam rings up to storage, we've got more than enough here, and they're starting to get in the way", his dad said, coming into the store front from the small office behind the sales counter.
James Stresson was a man's man, standing over six foot four inches, and weighing almost three hundred pounds, most of it muscle. His deep baritone voice spoke with nonsensical character and authority. A veteran of the Vietnam era, and decorated Marine Corp. Sargent, he was the antithesis of his weakly son. Now almost reaching retirement age, he knew that he would have to continue operating the business he'd started more than twenty years ago. His hope had been to leave the shop to Wilt in a couple of years, allowing him to continue the family business and provide his son with a profitable stable occupation. However this was not to be, as Wilt showed no sign of being capable of running the small family florist.
Ring,ring,ring. "Hello, Stresson Flowers", James answered the phone sitting on the sales counter. "Hey Paul, how's my favorite brother", James said, chuckling at his own words, Paul being his only brother. "Oh really, all right great, Yeah I'll send Wilt up tomorrow, He can help you get them together, and bring them back in the van so we'll have them here on Monday. O.K., no he'll be there, this is business, all right, say hello to Shandra and the kids, uh huh, Okay, talk to you soon, all right, bye".
"Wilt", James voice boomed.
"Yeah, what dad", he called back from up in the storage attic.
"Come here".
Wilt finished stacking the foam rings used in the flower arrangements, and headed down to the store front.
"What's up",?

"I need you to head up to your uncle Paul's tomorrow, take the van, he's got a new budding crop of baby's breath that need to be harvested. Plan to spend the night, and then get them back here on Sunday so we can prep em".
"Ahhh man", Wilt whined, "I got plans to go to a concert on Saturday with Billy".
"Well the concerts going to have to wait", was James retort, with a finality that told Wilt this wasn't up for discussion.
"Jeessss", Wilt muttered, shaking his head and picking up the next load of rings and heading for the attic. His stomping up the stairs told his dad he wasn't happy with the directive, and he'd love to tell the old man to kiss off, and storm out of the front door saying, "I quit"! But that wasn't in him any more than the inclination to go find another job. He couldn't cope in the reality of a competitive world, it was just to scary.
James just shook his head, dismissing the childish attitude of his son, only reaffirming his earlier thoughts of how he couldn't leave his business to Wilt. He felt a little self pity for a moment, wondering at how his only son had turned into such a dinky character. He knew the answer even as it came to mind, but quickly erased the truth of it, not wishing to dwell upon bad thoughts of his deceased wife. He had loved Ellie dearly, though they rarely saw eye to eye on any subject. In truth she had been the one that brought about Wilt's feminine demeanor, enrolling the youth in ballet, and stressing so called cultured activities in his life before the age of five. She had been adamant about his not being involved in stressful sports like baseball or hockey, and watched over the boy like a brooding hen until she passed away from cancer when he was eleven. By that time the pattern had been irreversible, and though he'd tried to bring about some masculine changes in the boy, it had proven pointless.
For the rest of the day Wilt didn't speak to his dad, his halted conversation relaying his pouted disappointment of having to drive the five hours from the Bronx to the Lake George region of the Adirondacks. Hicksville, as he referred to it, wasn't his kind of place. The only bright side to the trip would be seeing his cousin Laney, but even this wouldn't lighten his dark mood.
Later that evening after the shop closed, Wilt called Billy to tell him that he wasn't going to the concert, whining about his indentured servant status and the unfairness of life in general.
After finishing the call he packed a bag and went to sleep, wondering whether his life would always be a continuance of disappointing fate.