by Justin Olson
I nod, a heavy feeling in my chest. After so many years alone, I feel undeserving of a friend.
THE THREE-LEGGED DOG AND HIS OBESE OWNER
• • • • •
My next-door neighbor lives in a tiny, faded yellow house surrounded by a chain-link fence, with a narrow walkway leading up to three rust-color stained cement stairs. The yard is mostly dirt spots and rocks and weeds. My neighbor, Geoffrey, hasn’t used his front door in probably a year or more. If he leaves his house, he uses the ramp in the back, which basically goes right to his car. Though, he stopped driving because, as he said, “I can’t turn the wheel with my stomach in the way.”
I knock at the front door, but then enter without waiting for Geoffrey. He told me a long time ago to just knock and enter. He said, “It’d take me eons to answer.” As usual his house is pristine, the carpet always freshly vacuumed and everything dusted. He doesn’t have piles of junk like one might think a shut-in would. Geoffrey once told me he hated pack rats and hoarders. He said that everything has its time and place, and people should realize that and not keep things after their use has finished. Not sure why Geoffrey is so annoyed by other people’s messes, but he is.
He sits on his new green love seat, which has a reinforced wooden base and doubles as his new bed. This is where I find him these days. Geoffrey outgrew his recliner around the time he outgrew his car. “Hi, Charlie.” He coughs; his chins wobble.
He isn’t watching TV like those fat stereotypes would like to have you believe. He has a laptop resting on his massive, quaking belly. He makes money as a freelance web designer. “Come, take a seat.” Next to the love seat is the old recliner. “Do you want something to eat? Cookies? Or something to drink?”
I shake my head as I sit. “I’m okay.”
Geoffrey whistles, which is followed by more coughing. I hear a jingle get louder and louder as Tickles runs into the front room and barks. He runs over to me, and I bend down and pet him. “Hi, Tickles.”
The thing to know about Tickles is that he only has three legs. Well, three real legs. His fourth leg, which happens to be his front right, is prosthetic. It looks kind of like a single ski, but vertical, and the ski curves slightly out in front as it gets closer to the ground. It’s a pretty awesome fake leg. I’m not entirely sure Tickles even knows he has a fake leg.
“Ready to go for a walk?” Geoffrey asks him.
Tickles barks and runs in a circle. Tickles is a small, brown curly-haired dog. He is a mutt that Geoffrey adopted from the Humane Society in Butte. This was back when Geoffrey could walk a dog.
Tickles is getting old, but he still needs his walks. So Geoffrey pays me twenty dollars a week to walk his dog. Not that I do it for the money; I would definitely walk Tickles for free, but Geoffrey insists on paying.
With Tickles on the leash, I tell Geoffrey that I’ll be back in a half hour. “See you soon, Charlie.”
Because I live so close to the woods, I usually take Tickles along this dirt road into the forest. The road starts on the other side of my yard—near the trees. It’s easy enough on Tickles’s leg, but still out of Whitehall.
Our typical walks go something like this: Tickles always runs ahead of me and keeps that pace the entire way until we get to our turnaround spot. For an older dog with a fake leg, he is in remarkable health. He’ll occasionally bark when he sees a bird, but otherwise he just keeps moving those little legs. After our turnaround spot, he moves more slowly and stays closer to me, with more frequent stops on the way back.
I inhale the fresh air as we begin today’s walk. “Such a nice day out, Tickles.” So I’m a person who talks to dogs. Don’t judge; they’re great listeners. Besides that, they never talk back or call you names.
I keep checking out the sky as we walk. “Tickles, did you know UFOs have been seen during the day almost as often as night? Kind of crazy, right? To think a UFO could be hiding in one of those foamy clouds.”
Tickles stops to sniff the same tree he sniffs every time we pass. It’s kind of scraggly, and that’s probably on account of how many times it’s been marked. “I have this romantic notion that it’ll happen at night. Maybe it seems more plausible then. Like, at night our world opens up to let others in.”
We’re walking again, and I can’t help but continue looking up. Up to the sky. Up to the world above me.
“Tickles. Let’s say you’re an artist. How would you describe the sky?”
Tickles ignores me as he stares straight ahead, never really looking up. Never even acknowledging me. “Tickles!” I shout.
He yaps.
“No, that’s a terrible description. Hmm.” I put my finger to my chin. “This one is something I’ll call Haunted by the Unseen, because maybe there’s something behind those foamy clouds.” I like using the word “foamy” to describe the clouds.
About a mile in, we stop at the usual log and rest. Then we turn around and head back. In typical fashion, Tickles slows his pace.
“Tickles, I can’t help but notice that you always slow down on the way back. Is it because you’re tired? Or because you don’t want to go back home? Because if it’s that, I get it. I bet your house is just as dreadful as mine.” I quickly look at Tickles, feeling guilty. “I don’t mean any disrespect toward Geoffrey. I just think that, given his limitations, you probably have to keep yourself entertained quite a bit, huh?”
Tickles doesn’t even acknowledge my words or my existence as he trots by my side.
Geoffrey is in the same place I left him. After I unleash Tickles, he runs past Geoffrey and into the kitchen, bell ringing continuously.
“Good walk?” Geoffrey asks.
“You should come sometime.”
Geoffrey laughs and then coughs. “That’d be the day.”
I stand there. “Did you happen to hear a noise or see a bright light on Sunday night?”
Geoffrey studies my face. “Hmm. I don’t think so.”
“It was around midnight.”
Geoffrey shrugs, and coughs. “I was sleeping. And I could sleep through an earthquake. So I don’t recall anything. Why?”
“Just thought I heard something. And you live closest to me, so there was a good chance you heard it too.”
“UFO, you think?”
Geoffrey is the only person in my life who takes me seriously with the UFO search. I mean, Seth might, but I haven’t fully grasped his intentions. At least Geoffrey entertains that UFOs are real, that we humans aren’t the only ones in the vastness of the universe.
I nod. UFO, I think.
ROD’S DINER SURPRISE
• • • • •
I have no idea who Rod is or if there even is or ever was a Rod. But inside the Whitehall truck stop off Interstate 90 is Rod’s Diner. Tonight’s shift is about as busy as a typical night, which is to say a healthy mix of rushing around for a while and then having nothing to do, before rushing around again. I’m a busboy and have had the job for a couple of months; in Montana I can work limited hours at fourteen years old, and I’m almost fifteen, anyway. I only wanted the job because I’m almost allowed to get my learner’s permit (I took the driver’s ed course last fall), and I’m saving up for a truck. I’m ready to retire my bike.
It’s about seven p.m., and I’m chatting with John, one of our regulars. John has a thick brown mustache with matching thick eyebrows, and he makes a weekly trip through Whitehall on his way to Spokane and back to Fargo. He is telling me about this time when he was driving and saw a Corvette flip right in front of him on some high mountain pass.
“Sos I hit the brakes hard, the tires just smokin’ as they dug into the road. The back end of my truck swervin’ like a fish out of water, almost pullin’ me off the road and off the ledge.” John takes a sip of his coffee. “Sos I get to a stop and jump out, running like a chicken with my head cut off at the car. One of the guys had been ejected right through the damn windshield. Sure as shit.”
“Oh god. Did he live?”
John g
lares at me for interrupting. “And the other was trapped right there in his seat. The car was upside down, of course. Sos I’m yankin’ on the door when—”
The door to Rod’s Diner dings. I look over to see who is entering, out of habit mostly. But I actually recognize someone this time. Standing there is Ms. McLean—Susan—in her nursing scrubs, followed by . . . Seth?
I straighten up from the counter and say, “One sec, John.” I probably look confused as I stare at Susan and Seth, trying to absorb the fact that they are related. Family? Mother and son? This makes total sense in retrospect. They both appeared at the same time: one in class, one at the nursing home. I just didn’t put it together.
Susan spots me. “Charlie? What a surprise.” Ms. McLean has an amazing ability to say everything so warmly, and again she has the largest smile.
Seth looks up from his phone. “Oh, hey, Charlie.” He still has his camera hanging around his neck. Seth towers a good five inches above his mom. He also has on a flat-beaked baseball hat with some emblem on it. I don’t recognize it, but it looks kind of like a Chinese letter to me. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“I’m just the busboy, so you won’t get free food out of me.” Then in this weird German-sounding accent I say, “I don’t have ze power.”
I can be such an idiot sometimes.
I force a laugh to get me out of this awkward situation, and Susan follows. Seth just smiles.
I notice that Tammy is standing near us with two menus in her hands. “Oh, Tammy is ready to seat you.”
Tammy smirks and mocks, “Are you sure ze show is over?” She chuckles. “I could use a few more laughs tonight. Especially because Billy split with me.” She says that last part in a hushed voice. But she also says that last part at least once every month. Billy and her can never stay together for more than thirty consecutive days because it’s against their relationship rules. Okay, that’s a joke. Who knows why they can’t stay together without splitting up and then getting back together. Tammy always says, “Someday I’m not going to take him back. That’ll show him.” But someday has not yet arrived. I’m not sure someday will ever arrive.
As Susan and Seth look over their menus, I try to make myself look busy. But every time I walk behind the counter, John asks, “Ready for the end of the story?”
I keep saying, “Sorry, John. Not yet.” Then I pretend to work, hoping both Susan and Seth will notice all the moving and hustling I’m doing. For some reason I just don’t want them to see me standing around talking.
On my way to the far side of the restaurant with a broom, Seth says, “Hey, Charlie.” He waves me over and then points at one of the items on the menu. “What is Rod’s Diner Surprise? And is it supposed to say ‘diner’ or ‘dinner’? Because wouldn’t ‘dinner’ make more sense? Unless it’s like a breakfast thing.”
“Uh. I think it varies from day to day.” Not sure why I said “I think,” because it does vary from day to day. That’s why it’s called a surprise.
“Do you know what it is today?” he asks.
“Some kind of stew. Not sure, though. I think Tammy knows. But to be honest, I’d stick with eggs or sandwiches. Everything else here is kind of nasty.”
“So that’s a no to the lasagna,” says Susan, smiling.
I shrug. “Some people like it.”
“I’m kidding, Charlie.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I laugh. God, I am feeling so awkward in front of both of them, like I’m not good enough to even be around. So I try to take the attention off me. “So you’re related?”
“You don’t see our striking resemblance?” asks Seth sarcastically.
“Seth mostly takes after his father, but he has my eyes and chin and hair,” says Susan.
“Oh, will your dad be joining you for dinner tonight?”
“He would if he wasn’t in prison”, says Seth.
“Seth!” says Susan.
My face feels like it’s on fire. “Oh. I’m sorry for asking.”
Seth shakes his head. “I’m kidding, Charlie. He lives in Seattle.”
Gulp. “Oh.”
Tammy comes up behind me. “Ready to order?”
Susan says, “Yes, I think so.”
I bow away. “Talk to you later,” I say to no one in particular.
A little while later John stands and says, “I guess you’ll have to hear the ending next time. I’m back to the road.”
“Next time. Of course!” I feel like a jerk for brushing him off. But I’m too nervous with Susan and Seth in the restaurant. I feel like I have to impress them.
Their plates cleaned of food and their bill paid, Ms. McLean and Seth stand to leave. He shouts across the mostly empty diner, “I’ll see you first thing tomorrow in Español, Charlie.” He has so much confidence. And enthusiasm. I could never shout across a restaurant like that—even if there were only a couple of other people around.
I don’t know what to say. “Sure.” Which is a ridiculous response, so I add, “Of course.”
He winks at me.
Then I say, “Sounds great.”
Give it a rest, Charlie.
I finish sweeping the diner and do my end-of-shift cleaning duties. When I finish cleaning, I’m allowed to go home. It’s dark, but I still ride my bike.
NO KISS GOOD NIGHT
• • • • •
When I open the front door and look into the living room, I find my dad watching TV on the new flat-screen he purchased. Never mind that the washing machine sucks or that the lawn mower hasn’t worked right in years. He saved up for a larger TV to replace a perfectly functioning one. I guess that really only bothers me because I am the one who has to deal with the laundry and the yard.
There are five empty beer cans on the coffee table next to his recliner. The living room is dark except for the blue light coming from the TV, which only slightly illuminates my dad. The light makes his vacant, glossy eyes and rigid body appear zombielike. He has been drinking more ever since my mom disappeared. I think he’s mad that the aliens wanted her more than he did.
“Hi, Dad,” I say as I enter the living room.
Without diverting his eyes away from the TV, he says, “You smell.” He’s referring to the grease smell that usually accompanies me home from a shift at Rod’s.
The funny thing is that my dad always smells like alcohol when he gets home. Really, I should be the one telling him that he smells. But I keep my mouth shut—always the safest bet, I’ve found, with anything. Keeping my mouth shut has been how I’ve managed to get this far.
“How was work?” he asks.
“Fine.” I say good night and trudge up the narrow stairway to the bathroom to shower.
After my shower, I’m tired, but I have to stand in front of my bedroom window and stare out into the Great Beyond. I don’t want to miss another opportunity. The aliens have to be coming back soon, right? And why not tonight?
But I grow tired of standing after twenty minutes, so I crawl into bed. I’m comforted by knowing that if a UFO arrives, it’ll wake me up with the loud noise and bright light. Right?
The world outside stays dark, and with my lamp now turned off, my room quickly settles back into its tomb-like feeling.
THE ASS TRIO STRIKES AGAIN
• • • • •
My alarm beeps, and I wonder how many times I can hit snooze without being incredibly late to school. I have to keep telling myself, Only two more school days left before summer. Only two more. But then I wonder if I’ll see Seth during the summer. The thought of not seeing Seth for the summer depresses me.
Before I get out of bed, I put on my glasses and check my email to see if Meridian has responded. When I click on my mail icon, a new email downloads, and it’s from her!
Hello, Charlie,
No one has reported anything to me—
and I didn’t see anything on this side
of the divide! You’re the first I’ve heard
from on this. So thank you for info
rming
me! I will update the website tonight
with your details. And credit you with
the sighting. Do you want just your first
name, or first and last? Let me know.
Best,
Meridian X
P.S. I wonder what they were doing over
there???
I put my phone down and feel a sense of abandonment from her email. I should be elated at getting credit, but I wasn’t writing her to report it. I was writing to confirm it, and now I am left no closer to the truth. I lie in bed thinking about how quickly she believes a random email, until I gaze at the clock, and bolt up.
* * *
I’m running later than normal, so I’m pedaling as fast as possible. (See: why I’m working at Rod’s.) Usually I like to get to class before the school is teeming with idiots.
But this morning I’m not so lucky. I lock my bike and notice that the Ass Trio, plus a few other people, are standing in a group on the sidewalk between the parking lot and school. It would be better to walk all the way around the school than to walk in their general vicinity, but I am already running late, and I want to talk to Seth before class starts. Besides, I figure Joey and his group are all talking and involved in each other’s business. Why would they notice me? I’ll put my head down and walk quickly around them, and they’ll never see me.
They see me.
Matt says, “Hey, Joe. Look at DICK-ens.”
Psych chortles.
My head is still down at this point; I’m trying to ignore them. I stupidly think that if I don’t acknowledge them, then maybe they will leave me alone. It hasn’t worked yet.
Joey laughs. “Charles Dickens. Hey, Charles! Come here.”
Staring straight down at the cracks in the sidewalk, I mumble under my breath, “It’s ‘Charlie,’ you ass.”
“Watch out!” someone yells.
My head snaps up as a paper cup comes flying right at me. I duck out of the way, but what appears to be Coke lands on my left leg and splatters up to my shorts and the lower part of my shirt. Not to mention that it makes my bare leg sticky and my sock wet.
