by Paul Melko
“Timo, you are not suffering from bipolar disorder. You’re just a moody preteen.”
“You’re just jealous of my creativity and its mystical link to my manic-depressive problem.”
“I’m not jealous. Anorexia is a valid psychological disorder, too.” Tricia paused, smiling sadly. “I’m gonna miss you.”
“Then don’t go.”
Tricia sneezed. “It’s either me or the cat.”
“Oh. Okay. Bye.”
Tricia rolled her eyes. As she turned to leave, Timo shouted, “Hey, if you see Plonk, could you bring him up here?”
Over her shoulder, Tricia snarled, “If I see it, I’m gonna kick it.”
“Hey! You’re kidding, right? You wouldn’t . . .” Timo’s voice faded as she ran down the stairs. In the den, her stepfather and stepbrother Chad sat in their two recliners watching the sports channel. In Chad’s lap sat Plonk, a ball of white fluff, like an overweight, albino gerbil. Tricia sneezed, and Plonk looked up at her, pink eyes in a snow white face.
A phlegmy snore slithered from Chad’s half-open mouth. Both of them were asleep, Tricia realized. She walked behind Chad’s recliner and lifted an eyelid. The pupil beneath was huge and glazed, like a greased marble. Around Chad’s nostrils and mouth were tiny white hairs. Tricia sneezed three times in succession.
“You need some monoxidil, cat,” she said. Her eyes were tearing and her lungs felt like they were the size of beanbags. “Fuck it. I’m outta here.”
She stood in the hall at the base of the stairs. She yelled, “I’m running away from home! I told you it was me or the cat. And now I’m leaving.” Silence, punctuated by the sporadic drone of the TV’s sports announcer. “Next time you’ll see me, I’ll be on Oprah!” Tricia paused a moment, her hand on the knob. No one rushed down the stairs to stop her. She half expected someone to tell her to bring back a gallon of milk.
Plonk wandered out of the den, pausing to rub its face against the doorway. Tricia looked down at the animal then kicked it in the stomach. “I hate cats,” she said as she slammed the door shut.
She dumped the contents of her backpack out on the bus stop bench. Her inventory was sparse: thirty-seven dollars, a pack of gum, a can of mace, her address book, an emergency Kotex, a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, and her mother’s Visa card. She noted each item, then sighed. Now that the drama of the act was over, despondency washed over her. She stuffed everything into her backpack, deciding to go wherever the next bus went.
Tricia waited on the sun-warmed bench, sitting in the red-violet of the sunset. The warmth seeped into her, calming her. Her sinuses cleared, and she took pleasure in the simple act of breathing.
Across the street, a young, poorly-dressed man stumbled down the sidewalk. In one hand he clutched a staple gun and in the other a ream of red paper. He paused at the light pole on the corner, then dropped the paper on the ground. He pulled at his earlobe, shook his head, and snorted like a horse. Taking the sheet from the top of the ream, he stapled it to the pole with four randomly-placed kerchunks.
The man stood back from his work, pulled at his earlobe again, and then crossed the street. He spotted Tricia, aimed himself at her.
“Have you seen my cat?”
The man waved a flyer in Tricia’s face. She took it from him, glanced at it, and threw it on the ground. The man surged to pick it up again, but Tricia placed her foot squarely on the flier. The man pulled at it, ripped it in half. He stood straight up, then let the piece flutter away.
“A-a-a simple yes-or-no would have sufficed,” he muttered, again pulling at his earlobe.
Tricia noted the man’s red eyes and jittery manner. She’d seen the symptoms in her mother. He looked like he was coming down off something hard. His clothes were in disarray, his shirt untucked, socks unmatching, pants too short. His hair was uncombed, and his breath was foul. A badge clipped to his shirt pocket labeled the man as Dr. Jerry Wilder of Genomads Inc.
“How much of a reward?”
“A hundred dollars. You should have read the flier.”
“A thousand, and I’ll take you right to him.”
“A thousand? That’s . . . Wait! You know where he is? Tell me.” Jerry grabbed Tricia’s shirt and pulled her to her feet. “Where is my cat?”
Tricia calmly reached into her backpack and maced him.
*
“Are twenties all right?”
“Yeah. Fine. And don’t forget the extra five hundred for not pressing charges.”
Jerry handed the cash to Tricia as fast as the machine would spit it out. She was impressed with the limit on his bank card.
“All right. Let’s go.” The two walked back to Jerry’s car. As Jerry pulled out his keys, Tricia stood in front of the driver’s side door and held out her hand. “I’m driving.”
Jerry paused, eyed her wearily, then shrugged and handed the keys to her. “You have a license?”
“Well, a permit. But that’s pretty much the same thing, right?” she said as she heavily dropped the car into gear.
Tricia sped the car out of the strip-mall parking lot, narrowly avoiding a collision with a shopping cart. Unfortunately, she saw no one she knew on the way home. With a scraping of metal against concrete, she bounced the car into her driveway.
“Come on, Jer.” Tricia popped the door open with a flick of the knob. “I’m home!” she called up the stairs.
Jerry pushed past her, stumbling on the step. “Mendel! Here kitty-kitty! Come here, Gregor!”
“Hey, Sis. Who’s the geek?” Chad stood in the doorway to the den, scratching his crotch.
“This is Plonk’s owner.”
“Really? Cool. Thanks for letting us keep him, man.”
Jerry noticed Chad for the first time. “He’s my cat. I’ve come to take him back.”
“The fuck you are, man. He’s ours now.” Chad turned around. “Hey, Dad, this fuck wants to steal our cat.”
Tricia refrained from laughing and wandered into the kitchen where she filled a bowl with milk. Behind her, she heard her father join the argument.
“Anyone who’s so irresponsible as to lose a cat doesn’t deserve to own one,” he said. “I think you better just leave before we call the police.”
“He’s m-m-my cat, sir. I en-en-en . . . raised him from a kitten. I couldn’t live without him.”
“Well, you ain’t getting him out of this house,” said Chad. “’Cause there’s two of us and only one of you.”
“What’s going on down here?” Tricia’s mother had joined the fray. “And who is this young man? Are you a friend of Tricia’s? Is she finally showing an interest in men?”
“Dream on, Mom,” Tricia said, walking into the front hallway. She had left the bowl of milk on the kitchen counter. “This is Plonk’s owner, Jerry Wilder.”
“Gregor Mendel,” Jerry corrected.
“How do you do, Mr. Mendel?”
“Uh . . . No. The cat’s name is Mendel. My name is Jerry Wilder, and I’ve come to get my cat.” He pulled at his earlobe.
“No, no, no. Plonk’s name . . .”
Tricia leaned close to Jerry. “Why do you keep pulling at your earlobe?”
Jerry whirled on her, turning his head so that his left earlobe was out of view. “Nervous habit.”
“You’ve got some sort of bump, man,” Chad said. “Bad piercing, dude?”
Jerry whirled again, then backed up to the front door. “It’s just-just-just . . . a pimple.”
Tricia edged closer to the man, intent upon his lobe. Jerry stood, back against the door, eyes dancing like butter in a hot skillet. Tricia jumped forward and squeezed the earlobe between her finger and her thumb.
Jerry screamed like a madman, and leaped away. Tricia jumped on his back, wrapping her legs around the man’s chest. She squeezed his lobe, feeling something wet and soft squirm under the pressure.
“You’re gonna OD me!” Jerry yelled. “Let go! Let go! Let gooooo.” Jerry fell face first onto the carpet of
the front hall. “I am soooo high, man,” he muttered, then started to giggle.
“That was pretty cool, Sis,” said Timo from where he stood on the stairs. “I’m glad you’re back.”
Tricia smiled at Timo. “Just for a few laughs.”
“So what’s with the geek?” asked Timo as he bounded down the steps. He and Chad rolled Jerry over.
“Oh, what’s that smell?” said Tricia’s mother in a nasal voice.
“He pissed himself,” said Chad.
Jerry found that exceptionally humorous and began to giggle again.
“I think he’s got a drug gland in his earlobe.”
“Drug gland?” Timo, Chad, and her stepfather leaned close to Jerry’s head.
“Can you do that with a beer, dude?”
Jerry paused in his fit of giggling. “Nawwwww!” He gulped in breath for a moment, then added, “Just en-en-endolphins! Endorphins! Enporpoises!” Drool rolled out of his mouth as he giggled.
“He works for a genetic engineering company. I think he made that drug gland to keep his fix nearby and ever-ready,” said Tricia.
“Hey, that’s pretty cool,” said Timo.
“I think he engineered the cat too.”
“Yeah, I did.” Jerry sat up, coughing. He seemed to have partially recovered from the spurt of drugs into his system. His eyes were still glassy, and his voice was slightly slurred. “I made him to make me happy. Like God.” He vomited on Chad’s shoes.
“Shit. What a waste,” said Chad. He wiped his shoe on Jerry’s shirt. “Being such a loser you have to build your own friend.” He paused. “Can you do me a chick?”
“Fuck you. I want my cat.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Timo said. “Why are we so obsessed about a stupid cat?”
“Yeah,” added Tricia.
“He’s modified,” said Jerry. “His odor is a mild euphoric. Well, actually, it’s a highly addictive depressant.”
“We’re addicted to a cat?” asked Timo.
“Cool, beer-in-a-cat,” said Chad.
“So why don’t you just make yourself another cat?” asked Tricia. “Why don’t you just make a gland to give you the drug? And why not a cute puppy next time?
Jerry shook his head. “It was a mutation. I can’t reproduce the recombination sequence. I thought it was the retrocomb of the iris allele, but when I try to duplicate it, all I get is abortions. I was trying to breed him when he got away from me.” He held his head in his hands and began to cry. “My one big success is a fluke.”
“Here’s a tissue, young man,” said Tricia’s mother.
“Well, I think that earlobe thing is pretty cool,” said Chad.
Jerry sniffed. “I stole that from a colleague.”
“You really are a fuck,” said Timo.
“Well, I just stopped to bring Jerry by,” said Tricia. “I’m outta here now.” She waved at her family. “Bye.”
“Bye, now Tricia, dear,” called her mother.
Her stepfather said to Jerry, “Here’s a solution, Jerry; you can move in with us. We got a room empty now.”
“Really? That would be so . . . so . . . nice of you.”
“See ya, Sis,” said Timo.
Tricia stopped. “Come with me, Timo,” she said softly. “We don’t belong in this family.”
Timo smiled. “I wish I could.” He shrugged. “I’m stuck now.”
Tricia nodded, then walked back to the kitchen. Holding her breath, even though she knew it wouldn’t work, she plucked Gregor-Plonk-Mendel off the counter top and exited out the kitchen door into the backyard.
She managed to stifle the sneeze until she reached Jerry’s car. Seven straight sneezes left the windshield speckled with mucus.
“I hate cats,” she said to her companion, who blinked pink eyes at her.
Tricia gunned the car, flying out of the driveway. She threw the car into drive, and floored it with a screech of tires. In minutes she was in downtown Ormdon, headed for the interstate.
Tricia made one stop on the way.
“Oh, he’s so cute,” Wendy Morse said, taking Plonk into her arms, and squeezing him. Tricia knew Wendy from her gym class.
“Could you take care of him for just a few days? We’re going on vacation.”
“He’s neutered, right? He’s safe to put with Princess Gwen?”
“Oh, yeah. I think they’ll be great pals.”
“All right. I hope you and your family have a nice vacation.”
Tricia turned around as she pulled open the car door. She smiled and said, “Thanks. I’ll try.”
Tricia adjusted her Raybans. She wondered how long it would be before the world was full of Plonks, then shrugged. As she sped up the highway, she rolled down the windows and inhaled the fresh air.
FALLOW EARTH
The spaceship crashed through the tree tops, splintering the boughs of a gangly locust, and landed in the Olentangy River on top of Mr. Joyce, which was okay with Nick and me, since Mr. Joyce was drunk most of the time and liked to flick matches at Nick when we waited for the bus.
Nick looked up from his pile of skipping rocks, then back down again. I dropped my reel, tossed my ponytail over my shoulder, and watched the six-inch wave slide down the river. Splinters of wood spun through the air, while steam rose from beneath the spaceship.
It was built to resemble an old Volkswagen Beetle. The paint job was good; they’d even added rust around the wheel wells. If I hadn’t seen the vapor trail and heard the sizzling as it sliced through the atmosphere and crashed on top of Mr. Joyce, I’d have thought it was some old car Harry and Egan had rolled down the hill below the Case Road bridge.
I slipped down the slope to the bank where Nick was piling his skipping rocks. I followed the bank upriver to within fifty feet of the ship, then I had to step into the deep part of the river. I heard Mama’s voice in my head, and I felt her husband Ernie’s swat on my butt as my shoes sank into the mud of the Olentangy. They’d have a fit if I tracked dirt into the trailer.
The Olentangy was a broad, slow river. I could walk it from the trailer park to the reservoir dam, two miles north, stepping from flat rock to flat rock without getting the tops of my knees wet. Up by the spillway was where the sporting fishermen cast, catching the occasional walleye. Down here by the trailer park, we got mostly small bass and bluegills.
The water hissed from beneath the Volkswagen spaceship. Its single occupant, a figure slumped over the steering column, looked like a man. He had a head with hair, not at all what an alien should have looked like.
Dirt swirled in the water, masking the river bottom, and I flung my arms out to balance myself, finally grabbing the door frame of the Beetle. I saw Mr. Joyce on the other side, face-up in the river. The ship hadn’t landed on him after all, just near enough to the old drunk to knock him down and out. He hadn’t drowned because he’d landed on his back on a wide, slimy stone.
The window of the Bug was open. I peered in and caught the odor of old vinyl. The alien’s Volkswagen was well made. I popped the lock and pulled the door open.
The driver was dressed in tan slacks and a light tan jacket. He had on Nike shoes and a black belt. Horn-rimmed glasses, like the ones my real dad used to wear when he was young, were tilted across his face.
I leaned him back and noted where the skin had fallen away from his face to reveal red flesh. An alien, as I suspected.
“What the hell was that?”
I recognized Harry’s voice up the slope, heard the rustle of brush as he and Egan came to investigate. Harry was fifteen, a year older than me, but because he’d flunked the fifth grade he was going to be a freshman just like me in the fall. Harry had started some nasty rumors about me because I let him touch my breast during truth-or-dare the summer before. That wasn’t the only reason I hated him. I sure didn’t want him finding the alien. Harry had once forced three younger kids to hollow out a pile of concrete blocks; he’d threatened to beat the kids up unless they spent the day hauling rock
for him. They’d done it too. Harry was a user, with no conscience. I decided to help the alien out, at least until he could take care of himself. Maybe I could help him with his mission or something. This was the most interesting thing that had happened all summer, and I wasn’t going to let Harry spoil it.
“Come on, fella,” I said, tugging at the alien’s arm. “Let’s get you outta here.” I didn’t want to see the alien cited for hit-and-run. He needed to be someplace safe until we could clear this all up, get him back to the mother ship.
He groaned, but he moved, his eyes half-open. His legs splashed in the water and he nearly fell, but he leaned on me and we managed to stumble away from the spaceship.
Nick watched us for a moment, then returned to piling the skipping stones. We called them skipping stones, not that he’d ever throw them; he just collected them. He’d had me throw one once. I slung a beauty, fifteen skips at least before it sank to the bottom of the Olentangy. But then he became angry when he realized it was gone. I’d had to wade in and find a stone that looked reasonably close to the original. Now, we didn’t throw them at all. He made piles.
I dragged the alien onto the bank, where he slumped onto the muddy sand. From the other shore, I heard voices. Harry was just beyond the tree line. I saw his red-and-white middle school jacket between the vines and short maples.
“Nick, help me get this guy up the bank,” I said.
Nick didn’t look at me, but I knew he heard. He can fool Ernie, but I know him too well. I kicked him on the butt with my wet tennis shoe.
He grunted. “Help me,” I said.
Together we rolled the alien up the gentle slope and over its far side. When the river was high, it would flow around the little peninsula where I liked to fish. On the far side were rocky puddles where a few crayfish lived.
“What the hell!”
Harry was wading into the river toward the car.
I picked up my pole and cast a line into the river.
Harry circled the spaceship while Egan sat on the shore tossing rocks onto its hood. Harry peered into the front seat. He reached in and touched his finger against something on the steering wheel: blood.
