“It does top ‘He had good hygiene,’ or ‘He never had an overdue library book,’ doesn’t it? You know what I’d say about you?”
His wife looked into his eyes, and returning her soulful gaze, he said, “I’d say, ‘Wanda Plum has over a dozen handmade blouses made out of fabric printed with fruits and vegetables.’”
“Oh, thanks a lot!”
“And that at their request she painted Vikings on the walls of her daughter’s room and dinosaurs on her son’s and when he got scared because the T-Rex was so lifelike, she redid the eyes so they looked crossed and painted a beanie-copter hat on its head!”
Wanda laughed and Fletcher drew up his pretty blonde wife in his arms, and his lips lingered a long time on hers, tasting the salty tang of the ocean on them.
“Hey you!” he shouted to the teenaged couple when their kiss ended. “Never forget to eulogize one another!”
“What?” came their voices, made faint by the wind. “What?”
Fletcher and Wanda were holding each other, laughing hard as the young couple climbed the rocks, getting closer to them.
“Be the mayor of her universe!” said Fletcher.
“Be the mayor of his!” said Wanda.
“What are they talking about?” the girl asked the boy.
“Just ignore them,” said the boy. “Coupla freaks.”
But when Fletcher dipped Wanda backwards and planted a mighty kiss on her, the teenagers stopped their climb to watch, and if their adolescent selves didn’t understand it, their primal ones did: something grand and glorious and very strange—awaited them.
Epilogue
Decades have passed since aliens dropped into Fletcher’s bedroom on a cold and windy November night. The Lodges that make up the communities in outer space and beyond had great expectations for the inhabitants of the planet Earth, but unfortunately, they have come to realize that evolution does not always move in a forward motion.
There was much argument and no consensus as to who should assume the title of Mayor of the Universe. Many Lodge members wondered why it was that the UHC thought this officeholder would be found on Earth; oh sure, humans had managed to retain archaic notions like hope and love, but hadn’t they been stymied by the very same things? There was such heated debate about the unworthiness of each Lodge’s candidates that eventually the Universal Head Council disbanded, recognizing that it may, in fact, know nothing (giving those scientists who believe in the chaos theory of space much to support their arguments).
Lodges that had previously thought the members of 1212 trivial and their behavior childish now recognize the worthiness of their pursuits.
“Who knew,” said a member of 720, the spiritualists, “that it wasn’t cleanliness that was next to godliness but fun?”
There have been hard and wicked times on the blue and green planet, and while there are those arguing for a galactic intervention, Charmat chooses to believe its inhabitants are figuring out for themselves what needs to be done. If he were a cheerleader, he would shake his pompoms for the human race, for every day metaphysical touchdowns, goals, baskets, and holes-in-one are being made.
“Rah,” Charmat shouts. “Goooooooo, Earth!”
He sees progress.
The complexities of Thai food are now appreciated all over the world. A farm boy visiting Des Moines and eating pad thai for the first time realizes that yes, his mother makes the best macaroni and cheese, but someone’s mother from across many oceans does something completely different, and wonderful, with another kind of noodle.
People are taking better care of their bodies, realizing the holiness of dancing, of sex, of napping. The practice of yoga has skyrocketed, and Wall Street hustlers and radio talk show hosts are calming down in Downward Dog and Half Pigeon poses. Fake food and trans fats (which Lodge 527, the refrigerator scavengers, wouldn’t even touch) are being phased out.
Music, which arguably has lit more fires than matches, is taking its rightful position next to spoken language. International choirs are being organized and people are finding that it’s hard not to like someone you jam with, or stand shoulder to shoulder with, singing.
One über-alpha golden retriever is behind the therapy dog movement, whose message is being spread by urine on fire hydrants, saliva on abandoned balls at dog parks, by howls in the night. For now the movement is content to aid and assist, to soothe and charm those whose minds or bodies are in disrepair, but it gives Charmat great pleasure to know its eventual goal is to infiltrate world governments. Presidents, prime ministers, and emirs, emerging after deadlocked meetings, will be in such good humor from dogs who greet them with wagging tails and sloppy kisses, from dogs who happily play the twentieth game of fetch as if it were their first, from all the raised endorphin levels that a good dog causes that peace will for once be considered something more than a slogan, and good men and women will get to work on ensuring it, while absently scratching behind the ears of their Lab, their corgi, their Portuguese water dog.
The poet Hammar, previously known only in Cairo’s literary circles, is now published worldwide, and her poems about loneliness cured by curiosity, about love being the Sequoias and hate being the crab grass are recited by schoolchildren and studied by scholars everywhere.
In Samoa, there is an international oceanography group that has been building artificial reefs out of recycled Nerf balls and restoring life to dying oceans. On the island of Tonga, two brothers have figured out how to corral wind power with break dancing and use gum tree extract to patch the ozone layer.
A widow in Moldavia, whose husband beat her, is teaching inmates ballroom dancing as a form of anger management. A master gardener in Tokyo is trying to graft a walnut tree to a cocoa plant to sugarcane, his goal being an instant candy bar. A zoologist in New Orleans is training alligators to act like carrier pigeons and sends riddles and Sven-and-Ole jokes through the waterways. Thanks to Fletcher’s co-option of Tandala’s favorite phrase, “Hoola, baby” has entered the worldwide lexicon and is used to express any number of emotions.
Charmat looks at all of this with great pride, but it is the senior citizen in South Dakota who gives him the most hope.
Fletcher’s seminars have become a global sensation; the title Mayor is a form of address that is now commonly used to replace Mr. or Fru or Senora or Sahib. Study groups gather to debate what exactly a mayor of the universe is and what the mayor’s duties are. Charmat sees a day when there are billions of mayors of the universe, understanding, of course, that the universe needs every single one.
He still checks in on Fletcher and was pleased to see him the other day, standing in a shorn wheat field outside Pierre with his granddaughter, Alice.
“I used to come here and dance,” said Fletcher, who has a slight stoop now and whose cowlick is about all that remains of his hair.
“Why?” asked Alice.
“Because the ladies begged me to,” said Fletcher, with a swivel of his artificial hip.
“Gross,” said Alice, using a word that like cockroaches will never die, and yet she did not pull away when her grandfather grabbed her hand.
“This is what they called the Twist, said Fletcher, demonstrating the dance move. “And this is the Bugaloo.”
The old man and the girl danced, kicking up snow.
“This is the Snarl,” said Alice, winding her arms around each other. “And this is the Owie-Wowie.” She flailed her body as if she were holding on to the electric fence that surrounded the cow pasture down the road.
They hopped and gyrated together, their laughter making little visible puffs in the frigid air.
When it got so cold that even the wild moves of the Bugaloo or Owie-Wowie failed to keep them warm, Fletcher held the driver’s side of the car door open for Alice.
“Can I really drive, Grandpa?” she asked.
“Sure,” said Fletcher, handing her the keys.
She wouldn’t get her permit until next year, but they were out in the country and the old in
surance man had measured the risk (the likelihood of passing another car was low and nothing in the girl’s personality suggested an untamed need for speed) and decided the fun and thrill factor outweighed it.
Charmat watched as grandfather talked granddaughter through the steps.
Alice buckled up, checked her mirrors, and started the engine, and even though the roads were empty in all directions, Fletcher advised her to turn on her blinker to indicate her merge into traffic.
The windows of the sedan were closed against the winter cold so the old man and the young girl didn’t hear the low rumble of laughter, which is, really, when all is said and done, the universal way of saying thank you.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Erik Anderson and everyone at the University of Minnesota Press for giving Fletcher Weschel a second chance. He and I are thrilled.
Mike Sobota, Patti Frazee, and Mark Thomson were all a big help at the beginning, and I’m grateful.
Special thanks to Sarah Stonich for her generosity and to Pat Rishavy, who kindly offered to help me clean up many typos those rascally aliens had put in.
Sometimes kind and encouraging words, a good laugh, or a big “Rah!” are delivered just when you need them, and for those I thank Renee Albert, Doug Anderson, Cindy Benton, Stephen Borer, Susan Davis, Anne Gandrud, Mary Gielow, Cynthia Glock, Judy Heneghan and Peter Staloch, Kimberly and Killian Hoffer, Lynn Ketleson, Ruth Krebs, Jennifer Lund, Janice McCormick, Joanne Messerly, Terri Mickelson, Brian Motiaytis, Nancy Olson, Vicci Pederson, Kirsten Ryden, Kimberly Sabow, Joel Sass, Karen Schwartz, Barb Shelton, Jim and Cindie Smart, Wendy Smith and Dave Drentlaw, Dawn Stattine, Kelly Steinwand, Karen Stuhlfeir and Walt Cygan, Sandy Thomas, Anne Ulseth, Kristin Van Loon, Bonnie West, and Brenda Young.
Tusen takk to the Norse women of Lakselaget, for the salmon lunches as well as the continued support and interest in my work. Merci beaucoup to the patient profs at Alliance Française who put up with me in their classrooms. A big thank you to all the book clubs who uncorked a bottle of wine or two and welcomed me into their homes. Namaste to my yoga teachers—sorry about all the sweat.
Thanks to Sue Krieg for generously sharing her lovely cabin.
To my friends and colleagues at the Loft Literary Center, thanks for doing the good work of supporting writers and readers.
WWW: I’m so glad to be one of ten in this most excellent literary sorority.
And to Charles, Harleigh, and Kinga: thanks for being the biggest stars in my celestial skies.
Questions for Book Clubs Reading Mayor of the Universe
1. As the author was writing the book, she claims she was surprised when aliens suddenly showed up in Fletcher’s bedroom. Were you surprised? Were you expecting a different kind of story?
2. How did Fletcher impress you at the beginning of the book? Did your feelings for him change as the story progressed?
3. Fletcher was bullied as a child, and we don’t see a lot of adult intervention. How did your school/neighborhood/parents treat bullies?
4. Dodd Beckerman was Fletcher’s childhood nemesis. Did you have one? If so, who was she or he and how did she or he treat you?
5. Fletcher escaped his loneliness by creating fantasies as well as dancing in farm fields. What unusual method have you used to make yourself feel better?
6. The author claims it was fun to imagine a universe populated by alien lodges. Lodge 1212 could turn themselves into any human form they wanted. If you had that talent, who would you turn into and why?
7. Fletcher and Wanda are reluctant to tell Wanda’s parents about their alien experience. Have you ever protected your loved ones from information you didn’t feel they could process?
8. What does it mean to you to be a mayor of the universe? How do you think our world would change if everyone took on this role?
9. Tandala is enamored by many Earthly delights. If you were trying to impress an alien about your world, what would you show her or him (or it)?
10. Wanda Plum feels privileged to be a second-grade teacher. Who was your favorite grade-school teacher, and why?
11. The author claims she doesn’t consider this book sci-fi despite its alien visitors. Do you?
12. If you were given the opportunity to go on a space mission, would you? What would you bring with?
Lorna Landvik is the author of ten novels, including the best-selling Patty Jane’s House of Curl, Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons, and Oh My Stars. She performs stand-up and improvisational comedy around the country and is a public speaker, playwright, and actor, most recently in her one-woman all-improvised show Party in the Rec Room. She lives in Minneapolis.
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