Tinfoil Heart

by Daisy Prescott

“What’s the proof? Where’s the hard evidence?” I ask before sipping my water. I never drink on first dates in case I need full sobriety to make a quick getaway.

  Jared rattles off the names of several of the biggest alien conspiracy websites and YouTube famous names. Millions of people have read their theories and watched the videos. Yet after years of following them for answers about my dad, not one of them has convinced me aliens are real. UFOs are slightly more plausible.

  “In today’s world of smart phones and global tourism, is it possible aliens walk among us and not a single person has photographic evidence?” I ask, throwing down my favorite skeptic answer.

  “No one’s snapped a clear pic of Big Foot either. Yet people still believe,” he argues back. “Sasquatch could be an alien life form. A real life Wookie. Anything is possible.”

  I appreciate his optimistic embrace of Star Wars as proof. One of the reasons I keep hanging out with guys like him is their belief in the impossible. I may be a skeptic, but I can relate.

  Alien abduction is the story my mom held onto as the years turned into decades and answers never came.

  I guess she decided aliens were the better option, rather than imagining the love of her life swimming with the garbage and fishes in the foul water off Manhattan or married and happy with a new family under a new identity.

  Strange that Dad could be abducted and no one else in the house woke up. The dogs didn’t bark and the neighbors didn’t notice. No late night security guard saw a spaceship take off over town.

  Which is why, when I could’ve gone anywhere in the world, I came to Roswell.

  After Mom died, my reason for staying put in New York did, too. She was the last of my family. My grandparents passed within months of each other several years earlier. I think his heart broke and he couldn’t stand to exist without his love. Their story almost gives me hope true love is real, but I think they were luckier than the lottery odds most of us get when it comes to relationship.

  “Aliens crashed in 1947, two years after the first atomic bombs are dropped in war. And about twenty-three months after the Trinity bomb was tested at White Sands. Coincidence we test an H-bomb and within a couple of years there’s an alien crash not two hundred miles away?”

  “Some people would say there are no coincidences.” I try to make my voice sound deeply serious.

  While my date talks about government cover-ups and NASA’s true mission, I stare at his face. His full lips move rapidly as he hits his conspiracy theory stride. Smooth cheeks and a pale complexion remind me of veal cutlets, and I wonder if he lives in his mother’s basement or ever ventures outside during daylight hours. I’m half tempted to ask him about his Vitamin D levels. I’m pretty sure he photoshopped facial hair in his profile pic. And maybe lied about his age.

  Then again, I’m the one who said yes to a date with him. At a place that doesn’t serve booze even. Why didn’t I suggest we meet for coffee instead of a full meal? I’m betting he’s the type to split the bill right down to the penny.

  “As you can see, it’s pretty obvious the shadow governments that truly rule the world don’t want us to know about our origins or who is really in control.”

  “Girls run the world. Beyoncé reveals this truth in her song,” I deadpan, hoping to discover a sense of humor in the man.

  “I don’t really follow pop music.” He chugs some water and inhales before speaking again. “There would be chaos on a level the world has never seen before. Banks and governments might be able to hold on for a few months, if we’re lucky. Once the paramilitary alien police forces arrive, order will be restored, but we’ll all be slaves to our extra-terrestrial overlords.”

  It’s like he didn’t even hear me as he continues mansplaining his weird reality to me. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Sounds like a sci-fi movie plot. I think I saw something similar starring Dwayne Johnson and Benedict Cumberbatch. Pretty sure Benedict played the alien.”

  He blinks at me behind the smudged lenses of his glasses. From his frown and blank stare, I know my joke falls flat again. What is it with these guys and their lack of sense of humor? Why does the thought of alien overlords have to be so serious? When E.T. gets picked up at the end of the movie, those guys seem nice enough and he’s clearly happy to see them. What if our new alien rulers like Reese’s Pieces and cosplay? Would that be so terrible?

  “Maybe our new alien rulers will be benevolent and bring world peace to this planet. I’ve seen Star Trek, not everyone in deep space wants to kill us and destroy Earth.”

  He tips his head and gives me a look I might give a toddler with ketchup smeared all over her face, happily eating chicken nuggets without a care in the world. “I like your naïve optimism. And with your looks and body, you’d probably be selected as a mate for one of the Panaeons.”

  My laughter snorts out of me and I choke on the fry I was chewing on when I try to breathe.

  He doesn’t get up or ask if I’m okay as I wheeze and cough. After sipping some soda through my straw, I regain my ability to breathe and speak. Guess he does have a funny side after all. “You’re hysterical. Are you one of those guys who writes sci-fi fanfic and posts it online? If not, you totally should.”

  He wads up his napkin. “I don’t appreciate being made fun of for taking the time and energy to educate myself about the truths of the world instead of treating everything like a joke. This is serious. If you don’t want to prepare yourself, then it’s your loss. I have better things to do than try to inform the helplessly ignorant.”

  Given his angry tone, I suppress the smile fighting to break free.

  Is this guy for real?

  “So, that’s a no on the fanfic?” I ask with a blank face.

  With a huff, he stands and zips up his hoodie. “I didn’t say that. It would all go over your head even if I told you my handle.”

  Oh, burn. I think.

  “I think it’s pretty obvious we’re not a match, so let’s not waste each other’s time any longer. Have a nice life, Lucy. I hope you survive the invasion.” He gives me a curt nod of his chin that feels oddly formal and then leaves.

  “Well, that went worse than I imagined,” I mutter to myself and stab a fry into some ketchup.

  “Did your date just leave?” The waitress appears holding the check.

  “Yep.” I wipe my hands off on my napkin. “And he stuck me with the bill.”

  Her eyes fill with concern and I can feel her pity.

  “Oh, don’t feel sorry for me. I’m fine, trust me.”

  She twists her mouth the side. “If it makes you feel better, he does that a lot.”

  “Comes here on blind dates?” I pull my wallet out of my purse and hand her a couple of bills. Knowing I’m not the only woman to get duped into a date with him gives me some comfort.

  “That, but I’ve never seen him pick up a check. Always manages to leave before I bring it over to the table. Sometimes I swear he sees me coming and bolts for the door. King of the dine and dash.” Her white smile contrasts with her tan skin.

  “You’re kidding me. He’s a serial date ditcher?” I’m stunned. Not by his character, but that he gets away with this on a regular basis.

  “Sorry you were his latest victim. Did you meet him online?”

  I nod.

  “I think he trolls newbies to town. I can’t imagine he ever gets a second date with someone.” She scrunches her nose in disgust.

  “Figures. I’m definitely a magnet for the losers and weirdos. At this point, I should save myself the effort.” I don’t mention I tend to say yes to dates solely for research purposes. Not interested in potential love matches. A relationship would be a distraction. I’m not looking for a boyfriend.

  “This town is full of weirdos. If you haven’t noticed.” Her wrinkled brow tells me I’m crazy if I haven’t caught on to the above average ratio of weird to not-weird in this place. I’m not even saying normal because that’s a loaded word. What’s normal to one person is cra
zy to someone else. Like going on dates to research alien conspiracies.

  “It’s the aliens,” I answer. “They’re to blame for everything.”

  She blinks at me, waiting for me to indicate if I’m serious or joking.

  “I’m kidding,” I say with a laugh.

  She audibly exhales. “Okay, phew. Thought you were one of them. You know, the true believers. Most people around here go along with the whole little green men thing because it brings tourists to this town. But it’s a heavy price to pay when we have to listen to every whackadoo conspiracy theory and alien probing stories. So many probing stories.”

  Our shudders mirror each other. I’m grateful for my oil men customers. I’d rather have to listen to commodity prices over more stories involving spaceships and anal probing. People are weirdly obsessed with invasions of their own butts.

  “If you ever want to hang out with some normal locals, there’s a bar on the east side of town, away from the tourists. Cowboy Pete’s. Live music on Friday and Saturdays. On Sundays they set up a couple of large grills in the parking lot and have a big cookout. Come by some time.” She seems friendly enough and the invitation is genuine.

  My weirdo radar doesn’t ping and I could use a friend closer to my age than Wanda, who could be my mother. Or maybe biologically even my grandmother if she was a teen mom.

  “Sounds fun. Thanks for the tip.” I give her a friendly smile. “I’m Lucy.”

  “Shari.” She flashes me a genuine smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry to stick you with the whole bill.”

  I pull the check from her fingers. “Don’t apologize. At least I got out of the house.”

  “Come by Pete’s. I’ll buy you a drink and we can share horror stories. Like the time my date showed up on a horse. With a spare horse for me to ride.”

  My mouth pops open. “No way. Was he a cowboy?”

  Not that being a cowboy would be an excuse given it’s 2018 and we have cars for transportation now. “Wait, was he an Amish cowboy?”

  Her laugh is a short, quick bark. “Ha, that would’ve been better. He had a fascination with King Arthur and knights.”

  “Shut up.” My laugh comes out a snort. “Was he taking you to a renaissance fair? Medieval jousting place where you eat turkey legs and drink out of fake pewter tankards?”

  Pressing her lips together, she fights her own laughter. “No, the Sonic Drive-In south of downtown. For burgers.”

  Her words barely register because I’m laughing too hard to hear. “Why the horse? Can you even park a horse there?”

  “Apparently.” She wipes tears from the corner of her eyes.

  “Stop. Hold on.” I catch my breath. “You went with him? On the horse?”

  “I did indeed. I figured it would make a good story someday. Hold on, I have pics.” Pulling out her phone, she scrolls until she finds visual proof. “Here.”

  Sure enough, the picture shows her sitting on a horse in the Sonic parking lot. Her grin says everything.

  “I can’t believe you went. Did you ever see him again?”

  “Like romantically? Hell no. But he still rides in local parades in full Charro costume. Last time I saw him, he was wearing a wedding ring.”

  “Wow.” I wonder if they got married on horses.

  “Wow,” she echoes me. “I see it as proof positive there is someone out there for everyone.”

  “I like your optimism and I hope you’re right. I tried to adopt a dog at the local shelter and was rejected.”

  “Ouch.”

  I bob my head. “My ego is still recovering.”

  A customer a couple tables over makes the international sign for the bill and I apologize for taking up her attention.

  “Don’t you dare leave me a tip.” She points her finger at me.

  “Fine, but if I see you at the bar, I’m buying you a drink.”

  “No way. You need free drinks for surviving the serial ditcher. And you should definitely show up some night. We’re a good bunch and no one will bring up anal probing,” she says the last part loudly over her shoulder as she walks over to the impatient customers.

  I laugh when their eyes bug out.

  Welcome to Roswell.

  Wanda’s car’s gone from our shared parking area when I arrive home. The three casitas that make up our complex face a central courtyard. Nothing fancy, but the small adobe buildings are still charming to my Yankee eyes. If the landlord called them tiny houses, he could probably make more money on short term rentals to hip travelers. I’m grateful he’s probably never heard of this trend and still charges us peanuts. Otherwise, I’m not sure where else I could afford to rent without a roommate or two.

  Not that I’m planning to stay here forever. I’m giving myself twelve months, and if I don’t have answers at the end of the year, I’ll move on. To where? Who knows. I have a second or third cousin someplace in California. The weird thing about not having family is I can go wherever I want. My roots are inside of me, not planted deep in any one soil. I’m a potted plant.

  Jim, the retired Navy pilot who lives in the third casita, steps out of his front door. He’s hooked up to oxygen but carries the tank in a little backpack on wheels.

  “Evening.” He stretches to reach the bottom of his flag as it glides down the pole. Every morning he raises it and then lowers it in the evening.

  Observing him perform this ritual, I feel like I should do something like salute or hold my hand over my heart to honor his devotion. With a straight back, I choose the latter.

  From the corner of his eye, he catches my pose and a smile breaks over his face. “Good to see today’s youth still respects Old Glory. I’d lost hope for you.”

  I don’t know if he means me in particular or the greater you of Millennials in general. Now I’m happy I didn’t go so far as to stand at attention and salute.

  “My grandfather served in Vietnam, and had a flag pole, too.” Maybe this knowledge will give me some credibility in his eyes, although I’m not sure why Jim’s opinion matters. I guess because he’s the same generation as my grandpa.

  He unclamps the cloth and it dips close to the ground. I leap forward to pick up the edge before it touches the dirt.

  After telling me thanks, we silently begin to fold the flag together. I follow his lead, folding my sides like he does. I love how solemn he is and appreciate the quiet.

  “Good job.” He takes the folded triangle from me and tucks it under his arm. “There’s hope for you yet.”

  Should I thank him? Should I be insulted? I could go either way.

  “Don’t get too optimistic there, Jim. I’ll probably screw up something tomorrow.” I touch his shoulder.

  “Eh,” he coughs out the word more than speaks it, “you seem like a decent kid. Your parents should be proud of you.”

  His words of praise cut deep.

  “Unfortunately, that’s impossible. My mom’s dead and my dad left when I was little.” I’m so used to explaining these facts, I remain emotionless.

  He stares at me for a few seconds before saying, “That’s too bad. If you make cookies this weekend, I prefer oatmeal raisin to chocolate chip.”

  Opening his screen door and stepping inside, he ends the conversation.

  One time I dropped off a couple of chocolate chip cookies from work and ever since he acts like I’m holding out on him.

  The guilt is real. I don’t know how he does it. His grumpiness reminds me a little of my grandfather. Only Jim is alone. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have any family and only few friends. We’re kindred spirits.

  Even though I hate raisins in cookies, I’ll pick up some and make a batch using my grandmother’s recipe.

  Jim’s grumpy personality also reminds me of a certain oil worker.

  He probably likes gross, shriveled, dried out grapes in his cookies, too.

  With a sigh, I make the short trip to my front door.

  Inside, I locate my laptop and bring it with me into my bedroom. After stripping
off my date outfit, which is really just a clean pair of jeans and a top that doesn’t smell like bacon from the diner, I take a quick shower to wash away the evening’s bad mojo. Pink and warm from the hot water, I pull on my pajamas before crawling into bed.

  “Let’s see what’s new in the world of aliens,” I say to myself, clicking open my browser.

  If the government is monitoring my internet searches, I first click on some celebrity gossip sites I have bookmarked. Throw them off the scent.

  I avoid Facebook and other social media. No interest in seeing smiling, happy pictures of people I graduated high school or college with. Calling them friends would be a stretch. More like educational colleagues. Anyone I want to actually keep in touch with can text or email me their news.

  Opening yet another tab, I scroll through a couple national newspapers’ headlines.

  An article about a secret government agency catches my attention.

  “No fucking way,” I whisper.

  A former director at the Pentagon openly admitted that the government has been funding millions of dollars into researching extraterrestrial life and UFOs.

  For years.

  I wonder if Zed knows about this revelation.

  Hitting print, my wireless printer in the living room whirs to life, spitting out paper copies of the articles. I’d forward the email to him, but the man doesn’t believe in having a traceable online existence.

  His entire house is probably lined in tinfoil.

  “HOWDY, LUCY,” ZED shouts through the intercom, sounding chipper and upbeat.

  I wave at the security camera, waiting for him to buzz me inside.

  Zed’s the current director of what he likes to call the Center. The full name is more than a giant mouthful: The Ufology and Universal Intelligent Life Center. Abbreviating it to TUaUILC doesn’t roll off the tongue either. Clearly the people who devote their lives to studying these things never took a class on branding or marketing. In reality, they’d rather outsiders not know about the Center or their work.

  Tucked above the old movie theater turned alien crash museum in downtown Roswell, the center is accessed through an unmarked door in the alley behind Main. A mural of spaceships and planets further disguises the entrance. Those in the know, know. And the rest of the world? I believe Zed’s exact words were, “They can fuck off.”