Aliens, Tequila & Us: The complete series

by Michael Herman

  “No. The light is fine. No pain.” I blink a few times.

  He leans in and tilts my head back. “I’m going to put some drops in your eyes. This may sting. Let me know if it causes you discomfort.”

  But it doesn’t. “Better,” I say. The drops help bring the world into focus. He leans back and describes my condition to me. Then he tells me of my planned treatment, but I’m not listening. I’m staring at the small fortune in orchids covering the table and floor beside the table, and surround the chairs near the window. They are the most beautiful sight I have ever seen, and I’m sure I know their meaning.

  “Messenger? Are you listening?” He brings my attention back to him.

  I smile and say, “Good work, Doctor. This boy can see.”

  He puts me through some eye exam paces to test the extent of recovery then, satisfied with his transformative powers, lets me know he’ll be checking in with me tomorrow as a follow-up. When he leaves, I ask Zia about the orchids.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” she says. “I didn’t tell you of their arrival because I wanted them to be a surprise, something for you to see when the bandages were removed.”

  I grin and tell her that the surprise is well-received. I thank her and ask if I could be alone with my flowers for a while. She says she understands. She points to the table next to me and tells me, “Your cell phone, Messenger. Now that you can see, I brought it here for you to use. Call me if you need me. I programmed my number into it under Zia.”

  My cell phone! The fact that it works at all, after what it has gone through, is no less a miracle than my being alive. The surprises for today just keep on coming. After she leaves the room, I look over at the orchids and think, “Soliloquy.” She must still be alive somewhere. Only she would have the temerity to send orchids. But why has she not come to visit? Is she disabled and sending them from some other hospital room? Has she been in this same hospital that I’m in this whole time? Is she okay? Or is she deathly injured and just holding on? As the questions flow through my mind, my distress increases.

  The phone rings. It startles me out of my self-inflicted anxiety. I reach over and pick it up in bandaged hands. I fumble with it for a second then say, “Hello?” with no expectations.

  “Messenger,” is what the all-too-familiar voice says to me in that sulfur breathy tone. I nearly drop the phone. It’s her, my Supergirl! I don’t know how to react or where to begin so I go with the all-encompassing and brilliant “Soliloquy?”

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment. Do you miss me?” I can tell she’s playing with me.

  I stutter something then say in relief, “I thought you were dead. When we were separated, I thought the worst.”

  “I know you did, Messenger, but it had to be. There were and still are other things to attend to.”

  “But you’re alive! And I’m alive! I mean, how can that be? We should be dead. No one should be able to live through a blast like that.”

  “I never left you, Messenger. You had my protection even when I was unable to be with you; I was still with you. I could not let anything happen to you.”

  I hear voices in the background, voices that send a shiver down my back and make my skin tingle with joy. “Twizzle? Is she there with you, Soliloquy?”

  “Everyone is here with me, Messenger.”

  “Everyone!?” I take a moment to assimilate this possibility. “My mom, Dad, Forbes, my uncle? They’re alive?” I’m screaming on the inside, hopping up and down, doing a touchdown jig in the end zone.

  “We need you, Messenger. Everyone needs you. Your recovery is most anticipated.”

  “But why haven’t you come to see me? Why hasn’t anyone come to see me? I thought you were all dead. I was so miserable.”

  “I’m sorry for that, Messenger. We were all preoccupied. But we knew you were in good hands. We made sure of that. Zia is working out so well, isn’t she?”

  That hits me. Zia knows? No. She couldn’t know. Why would she ask me for details of the alien event when she already knew? I don’t get it. Was it just part of the therapy?

  “Soliloquy, when will I see you? I need to see you.”

  “Look to your doorway, Messenger.”

  I turn my head to the doorway but see only a closed door. Moments drag on and still all I see is a closed door. My heart is beating inside my ears. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Then I hear something outside the door and the handle turns, the door is pushed open and in walks Soliloquy, as beautiful and impish as she was the morning of the day the aliens arrived. Right behind her is Forbes and Twizzle followed by my mother and then my dad and my uncle. I’m floored, or well since I’m bedridden, I guess “mattressed” would be the more appropriate description.

  Everyone is here, alive and looking like they always have. I understand even less. My mother rushes past Soliloquy, plants herself on my bed and wraps her arms around me in a tearful hug. I hug back, reciprocating her tears. Twizzle and Forbes stand at the foot of my bed, just staring, saying nothing. My dad and uncle are on the other side of the bed congratulating me on being alive, apologizing for dragging me into everything. My mom releases me and leans back to appraise the damaged me. There is worry in her eyes.

  “You look terrible,” Forbes informs me.

  “Like the mummy,” Twizzle says with a wrinkle of her nose.

  By the way, my dad and uncle are slowly shaking their respective heads; I guess I was right about me looking like a burn victim. When I turn to Soliloquy, she’s wearing that trademark Soliloquy impish smile. She puts her hand on my mother’s shoulder and says, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Brown, he’ll not look like that for long. We can bring back his old Messenger looks...or maybe we could improve on that and make him actually handsome.”

  My mom smiles at me, her eyes sparkling. “No, I think I like the old Messenger looks.” She stands, moves behind Twizzle and Forbes and then pulls them in close. I see in her face she is relishing just being a whole family again.

  “And Gi?” I ask in what is the first of a million questions.

  “Gi is dead,” my mother informs me.

  Soliloquy sits on my bed, leans into my ear and whispers, “But there is more than one Gi and it needs us.”

  Then I hear my name being called.

  “Messenger.”

  It's Zia in her sing-song voice. I feel her hand on mine and she says softly,” Messenger, time to take the bandages off.”

  And just like that, I am blind once more.

  I am pained to realize that the family reunion was all a dream. I am still in bed covered head to toe in bandages, still alone, still the only survivor of the explosion. I choke back a sob and mumble, “Just dreaming, just dreaming.”

  “I know, honey. You spend much time in precious sleep. You need it for your recovery, but it’s time to see what progress you’ve made. Doctor Santangelo is here to remove your head bandages and check your eyes. Can you sit up in bed for us?”

  I mumble a mild protest and then push up to a sitting position. I’m still groggy with sleep when Dr. Santangelo asks me in an unmistakably feminine voice, “Messenger, how are you feeling? You ready to see daylight?”

  This perks me up immediately. Aren’t those the exact words the doctor in my dream used? Is it coincidence? Or is it déjà vu? Or in this case “dream-a-vu.” Or am I prescient? I stammer a reply that I guess I am ready although I am completely unnerved by the dream I just awoke from.

  The doctor proceeds to unwind the gauze, layer by layer, just like in my dream. I begin to see daylight. Before she removes the final layer, she asks Zia to close the drapes to the room. She says she doesn’t want to shock my eyes. I hear the cord zizz through its pulley as the room darkens. She pulls the final wrap off, but unlike the doctor of my dreams, she is seated on the edge of the bed and pulled back from me, watching inquisitively. She holds up her hand and asks how many fingers I am able to see.

  “All of them,” I say.

  I know. It’s a smart-ass response, but I
’m not feeling one hundred percent cooperative. I’m grumpy from discovering that my family reunion was just a dream. Disappointment can make a person mean.

  Zia admonishes me with a stern, “Messenger.”

  “Four,” I say, “a little blurry, but four in all.”

  She leans in for a closer look. “I’m going to have to use a penlight to examine your eyes. Let me know if it’s painful and I’ll stop.” She proceeds and I remain silent, studying her face, thinking she is attractive but wears a bit too much makeup, nothing Tammy Faye Bakker-ish, but still. Why wear any? She’s a doctor. Why do doctors need makeup? My sixteen-year-old mind wants to know. And perfume. Really? Doctors need perfume?

  She performs a few more tests of my vision by having me look at images on a laptop she brought in. Once she’s finished, she hands Zia an eye drops bottle and gives her instructions for my daily applications. As she exits, I notice a huge potted orchid plant on the table by the window.

  Okay. This has me wondering about coincidence or prescience again. I ask Zia about the plant and she tells me our hired ranch hand, Don Juan, who missed out on all the alien action because he was not at the farm that day, sent it up to my room in hopes it would make me feel better. She reads to me the get-well card he signed, then she asks about his name, says she meant to ask me about it earlier.

  “Don Juan? Yes, that’s his real name. Not sure if his parents had a sense of humor or just didn’t know. He never gave me any clues.”

  She asks me if I want the curtains opened, but I decline and say I want to be left alone with my orchid, thanks anyway. My tone is bitter-bland and it’s obvious that I’m presently not good company. She excuses herself and starts to leave, but pauses and asks if there is anything she can get me. I look over to the plant which has orchid blooms I am unfamiliar with, and I ask in a less-than-pleasant voice if she could move it closer so I can bask in its radiance. Her facial expression shows that the misplaced sarcasm in my voice almost drives her away, but being the professional she is, she complies. I thank her, thinking to myself I am being such a jerk. She doesn’t deserve this kind of treatment, but the residue of frustration of being woken from my dream, unfortunately, colors my actions. She’s a victim of my lack of self-control over being disappointed.

  When she’s gone and I have the room all to myself, I turn my attention to the flowers. They are large, multicolored, deep purple and blue with black spots, very regal-looking; something for nobility that certainly is not me. The deep blue color fades to an iridescent light blue at the edges, making the plant seem to glow unnaturally. The longer I stare at it, the more interested in it I become. On a whim, I reach out and pluck one of the flowers, bring it to my nose and then inhale deeply.

  Bam! It’s a huge eye-opener. I am suddenly in Don Juan’s tiny living room back on the farm. He is watching some Mexican TV comedy and laughing. A beer bottle is on the small table next to his chair. He has a glowing purple-blue sheen over his body. In the corner is an orchid just like the one in my hospital room. Surrounding it is a network of wiggling streams of light dancing from leaf to leaf and arcing over to him.

  Then I am in the orchid greenhouse where he’s helping my mother repot orchids. The orchids all radiate wiggly lines of electricity. Both my mother and he have an electric sheen about them while the two of them discuss their work.

  Now I am in among the agaves. Don Juan is pulling a hose along the ground, spreading water from plant to plant. The wiggly electric lines are everywhere here and bounce off of Don Juan’s sheen, sending out tiny sparks.

  Now I’m in the hospital lobby. Don Juan is carrying the orchid to a reception desk. Interestingly, he is the only one with a sheen to his body. He hands the orchid over to the woman at the desk and gives her a card to put in with the orchid leaves. He pulls a package from a bag and hands that to her as well.

  Then I’m back to the “now,” lying in my hospital bed, studying the flower that’s in my hand. I look past the flower and see the package, unopened, sitting next to the orchid bush and wonder why Zia never said anything about it. I guess she, like the dream Zia, was probably saving it as a surprise for when the wraps on my eyes came off. Unfortunately, my obnoxiousness probably squelched that.

  “Aagh!” I think to myself. I need to get over the disappointment of the dream.

  I set the flower down and lift the package up. Sloshing sounds emanate from inside the box. Obviously, there’s liquid inside. The box is the same size as boxes that hold wine bottles. It makes me think he has sent me, a sixteen-year-old boy, a bottle of wine to ease the pain. “Why not?” I think. I decide Don Juan is cool after all.

  I open the box lid and tilt it so the contents slide out. Lo and behold, it’s a bottle from our tequila orchid reserve. I smirk. “Don Juan has been sampling the forbidden,” I think.

  Now, I’m not a fan of tequila or any alcohol for that matter. The taste was rarely anything I appreciated. Maybe I’m too young for all that stuff. But lying here in bed, drugged out to minimize my pain, I’m thinking a single shot might take the blues away. Unfortunately, I have no shot glass so I decide a small swig will have to suffice. I pop the glass-and-cork cap with some difficulty, and then place the opening beneath my nose to get a preview of what I’m in for.

  “Ugh!” is my immediate reaction. “And people actually like this stuff?” I wonder.

  “An acquired taste,” is what adults usually say. But I’m committed. I hold my breath, tip the bottle to my lips and take a big gulp. Surprisingly, it’s not nearly as bad as I expected. In fact, it seems to have a bounty of flavors that attack various parts of my mouth. The most unexpected taste is cotton candy. I swear, it really has a mild cotton candy back taste to it. How cool is that?

  I sit back and let the liquid warm my throat and stomach. The sensation is not nearly as brutal as other tequilas I’ve sampled, not that I’m a connoisseur. My experience with hard alcohol is intentionally limited. But I like this. When I glance over to the orchid, I notice I am now able to see faint wiggly electric lines surrounding it like the ones from my visions. I frown and watch as, over the space of a minute, they increase in intensity, no longer faint, but clear and present. Additionally, a solid beam of light shooting straight up through the ceiling becomes more and more apparent. The longer I stare at the beam, the noisier it appears, like it’s filled with static or something. I reach over to it and place my finger within its diameter.

  Wham! I am linked to what I can best describe as a mainframe where I feel the presence of millions of life forms, trillions—an inestimable number. I pull my finger back in shock.

  “Holy crap!” I think. I study the bottle in my hand then look back at the plant. So this is what my parents were brewing. Wow! But I decide I really have no idea what it is. Sort of like a caveman being introduced to a modern color TV. What is it? To me, it’s all just so much noise.

  That’s when I become aware of being able to see my own sheen that is now purple-blue. No longer the color I had seen earlier in my visions. A voice inside my head is nudging me to relax. I lean back in my bed, close my eyes and let my mind open. “Think of what is most important to you and it will come,” I tell myself. I follow my intuition and let my mind wander to thoughts of Soliloquy, moments I enjoyed with her, times spent together, and incidents of shared activity.

  I smile, remembering a joke she once made. But my enjoyment is brief, cut off by a different recollection that rudely displaces that one. The image of Soliloquy inside Gi spouting out her mother’s speaking-in-tongues message to me is there. The memory becomes so vivid I hear her words spoken clearly and with force. “In your dreams, you will find her, Messenger. In your dreams, you must trust. She is not gone. She is in you forever.” I’m sure that the “she” is Soliloquy.

  A distant ringtone disturbs my reverie. The sound comes from where the plant and box sit. Cocking my head I source the melody to within the box. I pick it up and see that inside is taped a cell phone, ringing pleasantly. I rip the phone
from the box and hit the receive button.

  “Messenger?” It’s Soliloquy’s voice. I hear voices in the background, voices that send a shiver down my spine and make my skin tingle with joy. They made it. All of them!

  End of Book 1

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 1

  10 Years after the Alien Invasion of the Organic Tequila Distillery and Ice Caves

  I completely miss the naked man Forbes sees in the snow-covered field off to our right. No surprise. Navigating north on the winding two-lane Highway 79 to Julian, California might be called “fun” when the weather is dry, but in snowy conditions, it requires hard-core tunnel vision concentration—both hands on the wheel, eyes dead ahead, and right foot ready to decelerate or break.

  “Soliloquy, wait!” Forbes yells, “Slow down. Pull over and turn around.” He’s twisted in his seat and looking behind us. Since he’d been sulky-quiet up to this moment, the surprising outburst breaks my focus.

  Turning to me, he exclaims, “There was a guy with no clothes on back there walking around in circles in that field. You didn’t see him?”

  My reaction is disbelief. The outside temperature is near zero. The winds are whipping the snow into drifts. The ground is icy. “Forbes, come on. I’m trying to NOT have an accident. Driving is difficult enough without you pranking me.” I don’t turn to him when I speak. I’m re-focused on the road in front of me, trying to see through the falling snow coating the windshield and clouding the air ahead.

  “No. I’m not joking,” he says. “He was there. You have to find a spot to turn around and go back.”

  “A naked man,” I say doubtfully. “You’re sure it wasn’t someone in flesh-colored ski clothes?”