by Stanley Gray
“How do you convince twenty fucking thousand people to lie and ignore reality?” he wondered.
Alan was an avid conspiracy theorist. Since he also happened to work for the federal government, he possessed some idea of how it worked. The idea, that even a small crowd of trained bureaucrats could keep a secret seemed laughable. When Obama planned the raid on Osama Bin Laden’s compound, only a small handful of people knew anything. Up until the fatal strike was launched, even the tiny cabal only understood what could happen. Afterwards, most of the people, including the former President, willing to go on record expressed surprise that the secret never got out.
The more people that know something, the more people that know. It’s just one of those strange quirks of the human psyche, where momentum builds, and things fall into a herd state.
Yet, another discrepancy asserted itself. Alan felt tired of all the anomalies. The fact that he’d walked into a media blackout AND a town full of blind, deaf, and dumb people defied logic.
“How?” he asked again.
He stared vacantly off into the distance, his mind inundated with thoughts. None of them particularly stood out. Alan could only ride the waves, plucking out stray bits as they passed.
Alan flinched. He felt something touching his arm, and he reached out to swat it away. But, as he moved, he caught a glimpse of his interlocutor. He saw that her lips were moving. Blinking, he tried to focus. After a moment, words began their swift journey as soundwaves deep into his ears. After another brief period, those words hatched and became a conversation.
“…and you could just threaten to file fraud charges, right?” she asked.
It didn’t seem like she knew. She leaned forward, an eager smile sliding across her young, cherubic face. Those eyes. Those pretty green eyes offered a glimpse into her heart. Passion radiated from her pores. Perhaps it was that fervor that helped eclipse her ability to read him.
He blinked. He still felt trapped in a fog. Licking his lips, he took a sip of wine. He pretended to savor the aroma, to experience the myriad flavors as they washed over his tongue. Alan poked and prodded his mind as he stalled, trying to foment their cooperation. Smiling, he looked at her. “I’m not sure who to even threaten.” he admitted. And that much was true.
Something stuck him. Not physically, but the sensation sent a ripple of discomfort through him, nonetheless. Alan experienced a pang of guilt, as if by concealing his escape into the tattered mess of madness, he were lying by omission. It seemed so easy. To hide. To lie. To pretend. And he wanted to stop faking it. He desperately needed to stop the superficial bullshit.
But, he couldn’t.
He realized that, even as Sharon went on talking, seemingly oblivious that she was engaging in a one-way conversation. He intuited that he could not stop pretending. Not now. That was his only weapon, and his only armor.
Alan needed to not only pretend, he needed to act so fucking good, that even he believed his own lies.
Because there was a pissed-off alien in his living room, right now, and that little creature could probe his fucking brain.
Nausea overcame him. Leaning forward, he threw a hand to his stomach. His face turned a disgusting shade of pale green, and he braced himself against the slight table before getting up and racing away. He stumbled down the hall, vaguely aware of Sharon shouting behind him. Locking the bathroom door as he slammed it shut, he practically fell on the toilet. Collapsed there in a sweating, heaving ball of complexity and shame, puking hot vomit in waves, Alan saw the future.
He had to pretend.
Because that was the only way to protect this precious woman.
The thin wooden door began to splinter. The entire frame, along with the wall, painted a silly pastel color and decorated with sea stars and touristy kitsch, rocked with the impact of Sharon’s forceful blows. Alan ran the sink, wiping his face and trying to compose himself. Looking in the mirror, he saw only a haggard wisp of the man he had been.
He unlocked the door before she hurt herself. She rushed into his arms, and Alan fought to stay upright. She hit his chest. The blows hurt. All he could do to stop the unconscious flurry of fists and frenzy was to wrap his arms tighter around her and wait.
Eventually, her aggression subsided. It was replaced by a cruel, heart-wrenching mewling.
She sniffled and looked up at him. Black, goopy stains ran down from under her eyes. She wiped at it, smearing it.
Seeing that her makeup had been rendered obsolete, a fresh wave of panic and anger rocked her. Alan tightened his arms around her once more, again waiting for whatever emotions she experienced to fade to black.
Looking down at her, so vulnerable, so powerful, a walking dichotomy, he wanted to kiss her. He did. His lips brushed her forehead, and he inhaled the wonderful perfume of her hair. “I will always think you’re beautiful.” he whispered.
She straightened and peered up into his eyes. “Really?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse.
Alan ran a finger over her cheek, wiping away a tear.
The words had tumbled out, like kids pressing too close to the door to hear what mom got them for Christmas. But they were real. He’d meant them, even if he never would have spoken them on his own under normal circumstances. “Yeah. Of course.” he said.
He lifted one arm and glanced at his watch. It was only 7. They might still have time to go to the beach.
“Hey, let’s go down and see the water. What do you think?” he asked.
They rocked back in forth in near-perfect synchronicity, the bathroom still redolent of puke and fear sweat. Neither one of them cared. They simply existed in each other’s arms, two broken beings sliding through space on a giant fucking spiraling rock known as Earth. Alan sensed in her desperation that she, too, knew how things would likely end. She’d never expected a full commitment.
The only thing she’d wanted was to finally have her emotions, her sexuality, her womanhood validated.
Alan chuckled.
Sharon looked up, confusion in her eyes. Residual hurt lurked in the background of those brilliant jade orbs, waiting to reassert itself arbitrarily at the slightest hint of provocation.
He shook his head. He knew he shouldn’t say it, but also understood he had to. Just like he had to pretend sometimes. “I, uhh…I just thought it was…a little ironic. That, uhhh…. well, you were technically stalking me not too long ago.” he said.
After a pause, Sharon erupted into laughter. She collapsed onto the brown-and-white tile and laughed so hard, he thought she would pee her pants. She still wasn’t wearing a shirt, and her chest jiggled with each movement. After a few seconds, she was on her side, slapping the floor as tears cascaded out of her face from seemingly every pore.
Her peals eventually created a dizzying sense of mirth in Alan. He laughed because she was laughing. And this only served to make her laugh more.
They wriggled around on a foreign bathroom floor, her shirtless, he with vomit flecks staining his shirt, and laughed hysterically at nothing.
Eventually, they had to breathe.
The recovery process stretched itself out like a slinky. She leaned against the tub, and he scrabbled his way into a semi-standing position, propped against the sink. They laughed a bit, then paused, then laughed a little more, until the emotions petered out.
After that, Alan again experienced a sense of calm. Even euphoria. That odd burst of laughter had dive bombed his resurgent pre-occupation with the stellar visitor languishing in his home way back in Klamath Falls. The “home,” he hadn’t even finished moving in to.
“I needed that.” he said.
He reached out a hand and helped Sharon up. Their bodies once again were close, and he could feel heat emanating from her. “Did you really mean that?” she asked.
Alan needed no clarification. He knew what that meant. He nodded. Words formed in his head, but a lump in his throat impeded their progress.
“Let’s go down to the beach.” he said, finally.
They walked out of the bathroom, and Alan experienced something akin to déjà vu. The kitchen and living room of the quaint little beachside house seemed familiar, yet it felt like they’d arrived so long ago. “Put a shirt on, at least.” he said.
Sharon stuck her tongue out at him. “No. I could use a tan, anyway.” she said.
Alan shrugged. She wasn’t going to get much of a tan strolling the Oregon coast on a late September evening. In fact, she might even catch a cold, with how bad the wind seemed to be. He could hear its ferocious, bellicose howls as they assaulted the glass panes of the back window. Turning, he could see trees bending under the pressure of the wind’s threats and insults.
“Should we even bother?” he asked. The idea seemed good, back when they were locked in a lover’s embrace and laughing like two stoned college kids who’d just heard about a super sale on Ramen noodles. Now, confronted with the logistics and hectoring wind, he was having some reservations.
She playfully punched his arm. “What are you? A chicken?” she asked. Then she proceeded to flap her arms and squawk as she circled him, doing the universally annoying chicken dance.
He couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okayyyy….” he said.
“But, I will put a shirt on. I didn’t realize it was so windy.” she said, disappearing into the bedroom.
His stalker had conveniently booked them a house with only one bedroom. Alan wasn’t exactly sure what to read into that, but he was pretty sure it meant he was getting laid. Why complain about that?
As they walked in the sand, the treacherous wind shouting and shrieking in protest at the encroachment of these two solitary lovebirds, they held hands.
The sun tried its best to win the round of hide-and-seek, but the night was winning. Darkness descended, though splashes of colors painted the heavens and gave Alan and his lover some light to guide them. It felt intimate. It felt right.
“You said you weren’t a virgin.” Sharon said, her tone laconic and wistful, as if she were nestled in a dream.
The question disguised as a stray statement caught him off guard. Alan stopped. He looked up at the sky. Wind slapped his face. He felt suddenly aware, of the fresh air, the slightly salty taste and texture of it. A part of him hated it, he realized in that moment. Because that scent represented freedom. Alan was a rigid man. He wanted to control his environment. Freedom was a vice in the complex world of a man trying to flee his fears and insecurities. Alan needed authority like those creepy bodybuilder guys in South Beach need creatine.
Yet, freedom felt good.
Fuck that, freedom felt great.
But, that small little boy, trapped in the basement, remained a part of him. And that sliver of his being abhorred freedom because it gave people the ability to leave him.
“I’ve only had sex…with…hookers.” Alan said. He began to walk again, though he let go of her hand, for fear of crushing it. He balled one hand into a fist, clenching and unclenching it. Memories came back, as did his soul-crushing anxiety. The obscene urge to drink nearly toppled him.
“Alan. Alan! Come back.” Sharon said.
He blinked. Focused. Then nodded his head.
He could only hold her hand and allow himself to be guided through the ever-expanding blanket of night. Much as he wanted to fight it, he was helpless.
Truth was, he’d been helpless all along.
Chapter 8
He hated his life.
He reflected on the dualities of his increasingly complex existence as he sat in the passenger seat, idly watching the trees and fence posts as they flew by. They were headed back to Klamath. Alan dreaded his reunion with his paranormal housemate. He wanted to believe he could wrap himself in a cloak of self-deception, and thereby trick her.
Alan shivered.
In a sinister twist, a part of him wanted Xenobia. As an ethereal alien force with superior powers, he wanted to reverse the roles and dominate her. It. Alan enjoyed the idea of that. It felt like a challenge. A puzzle. It might be harder than finding a vegan casserole in the heart of Mississippi, but it would be fun. At least, in his mind’s eye, he thought it might be.
Sharon seemed distant. When they’d first met and eloped to the coast, she’d been more loquacious than a lawyer after an oil spill. She’d been bursting with questions and answers, filled with the adolescent-like euphoria of incipient love. Now that the flame had faded, she retreated back into the banality of life. Apparently that banality included long bouts of silence.
He looked over at her.
Sharon Stone. Not the Sharon. She’d probably win a few awards for her masterful performances, except those acting gigs were real. She’d been faking it for virtually her entire life, and the process had turned out somewhat lucrative. Though she would rather have her dad. Nonetheless, few would ever know this Sharon Stone.
Alan sensed an impending flood of sadness as he reflected on how petty and cruel the world can be. He was one of the undeserving few whom would ever part the curtains of this young woman’s heart. Yet he was going to hurt her. Not necessarily intentionally. But, he could offer her anything. Worse yet, he felt impelled to play the enigmatic games of his newfound celestial companion.
“You’re awfully quiet.” he said.
Sharon’s jaw tightened. She clenched his fists around the steering wheel. She refused to meet his eyes. “Driving.” she said.
Alan returned to watching the pasture land speed by. A large patch of trees loomed ahead. When they wound around the corner, he saw on a digital display they were going 70 in a 40 mile per hour zone. A yellow sign warned of falling rocks, and another one alerted travelers to watch out for elk. When they entered the woods, the canopy overhead betrayed the sun and gave their fealty to the shadows. It was disorienting, to go from near-blinding radiance to a sylvan realm of variegated darkness.
“Slow down.” Alan said.
When he turned to look at Sharon, he winced. Her slender hands gripped the steering wheel as if it were a powerful necromancer’s purloined staff. Her body was rigid. She refused to meet his gaze. Alan felt the first inkling of fear in that moment. But, he checked his seatbelt and then sat back, resting his head against the seat. He took a breath. And then he closed his eyes.
Somehow, he’d fallen asleep. He woke up when the car stopped. Blinking away the fuzziness of fading slumber, he yawned. Alan resisted the urge to stretch when he realized Sharon was staring at him. He felt it. The force of her gaze might have melted plastic. A dozen questions competed simultaneously in his muddled mind, but he fought to ignore them as he hastily groped at the seatbelt buckle, suddenly anxious to make a hasty exit.
The abrupt, violent change in moods disturbed Alan. He’d wanted to believe. A part of him needed to believe. If love and hope didn’t exist in the world, what was the point of continuing on. You die and return to the base organic compounds that made you you. It’s the in-between that makes us human. But, what if all the stuff you did while you waited to die just absolutely fucking sucked? What if life turned out to be nothing more than a varying supply of measured dosages?
It was hard for him to reconcile the beautiful woman who’d whisked him away with the stern, angry person now impatiently waiting behind the wheel. Same tits, same face, same hands, except now Sharon seemed ugly. As if life had been drained from her, and now she existed on a plane where the only goal was to continue surviving at the expense of others.
The trunk popped, and Alan grabbed his things. Almost as soon as he’d shut the back compartment, Sharon raced away, trailing smoke and the shriek of racing tires.
He stood there, weighted down by baggage. He watched the Jaguar vanish around the corner, partly expecting Sharon to circle back and tell him the whole charade had been some elaborate, ill-conceived joke. But, as the minutes merged into a interminable mass, he realized belatedly that was not going to happen.
Shaking his head, he walked towards his house. And then stopped.
He smiled. He almost wanted
to laugh. But, he also almost wanted to cry. The dichotomies besieged him. Alan somehow had again forgotten an alien awaited him. The Grunke casa was no ordinary home.
Taking a breath, he steeled himself for whatever may lie ahead, and then advanced up the cobblestone walkway. A flag fluttered in the slight breeze. Autumn’s halitosis almost broke up Alan’s resolve. But, he had to move forward.
And, he thought, at least Xenobia might help him forget Sharon.
He felt mildly amused as he reflected on the irony that his life currently seemed to be a ceaseless attempt to forget something. His entire early life had been spent as a prodigy, the boy wonder who possessed a special innate talent for recall. Now, as his hair faded and his belly became soft and pudgy, he only wanted to escape. He had no desire to recollect, because there was nothing worth remembering.
He paused at the door, staring at the dark brown surface. He focused on the door bell, glowing orange and softly beckoning. He wondered if he should press it. Even though this was Alan’s home, he felt a strange urge to ask permission to enter.
Having an extraterrestrial roommate can do that you.
Slowly, breaking free from his reverie and dolefulness, he reached for the doorknob. It didn’t shock him. He turned it, and the door creaked open. Alan walked inside.
A sense of disbelief shook him. He glanced around, eyes darting across the room like a terrier puppy. Instead of random boxes, the room was clean and tastefully arranged.
[Hello, Alan.]
Alan tensed. He’d known it was coming, but that was not adequate preparation. Nothing could fully ready you for telepathic communication with this creature. You could almost feel it slithering through your brain as it talked.
“Hi, Xenobia.” he said. He tried to fake a smile. Something about the way she’d just suddenly appeared bothered him. He’d walked right in, looked right at the spot where his illicit roommate now stood, and had not seen her. He felt fatigued, and overwhelmed. But, not THAT tired.
