Of Jenny and the Aliens

by Ryan Gebhart

  She puts on her clothes and makes two snow cones. “What do you think? You still like The Lion King more than Snow White?”

  I laugh. “It’s growing on me.”

  She hands me a snow cone. It’s blue-flavored. Hers is purple. We watch the rest of the movie, and she doesn’t say a thing about my performance; she’s just commentating about her favorite scenes and which of the dwarfs she relates to and how pure and simple the animation style is. That feeling of guilt is being replaced with a strange kind of tranquility. Maybe I didn’t do anything wrong.

  The movie ends and she switches the TV to Cartoon Network and covers us in a fleece blanket. We spoon on the couch, my arm around her waist, the top of her head snuggled up into my chin. And I don’t have a boner. It’s nice for a change because I usually have at least some stage of one.

  We say nothing. We’re tired and pressed against each other, and maybe we’re sharing more in this silence than we did with all the things we said to each other tonight.

  I never thought I could feel this vulnerable and complete. But this is just a hookup, so I probably shouldn’t spend the night.

  Jenny’s asleep. I turn off the TV and put on my shirt. It’s inside out and backward. I correct myself.

  Dammit, it’s still backward.

  Finally I get it right.

  I cover her up to her neck with the blanket. I don’t want to leave her. Her hands are balled into fists and tucked up to her nose, like a child scared of the aliens lurking beneath her convertible sofa. Maybe she needs someone to hold her and tell her everything’s going to be okay. I want for that someone to be me.

  I leave.

  My chest is so inflated, it’s like I’m on the verge of bursting. My clothes smell like Morning Mist fabric softener, I can still taste Jenny’s breath in my mouth, and I want to admire the universe. So instead of returning to my truck at Dorton’s house, I walk down Ford Street to a sign that reads EMERGENCY AND AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY, then I take a gravel trail to the towpath that runs parallel with the Maumee River. About twenty yards of trees separates me from the shore. I listen to the peaceful babble of water. There’s a new moon tonight and more stars than I’ve ever seen.

  I make up constellations as I walk.

  There’s constellation Disney Princess. If you squint hard enough it looks kinda like Snow White. In front of me seven white dots make up the Seven Dwarfs constellation. Somewhere among this endless litter of stars, there’s a planet that sustains life.

  There’s probably a lot more than just one, though. The universe isn’t a barren place — it must be teeming with life. I’m not alone. None of us are alone. And I don’t know if I feel this way because of what happened between me and Jenny or because of the connection made between two worlds, but I swear everything sucked so bad only two days ago. On the news there was a “Special Report” about the shit going on in Raya, and I was lying in bed, late for school, hardly able to move. I was thinking about how much I missed living in Austin, which is a stupid thing for me to still be thinking about. I left my friends and family there years ago.

  I think I’m actually happy. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way that it’s hard to tell for sure. My head is tingling and my chest feels so light and I hope I can make this feeling last.

  I reach the shore. Ahead and to my right is Blue Grass Island, which is an odd name, considering its lack of blue grass and how forested it is. Shugar, Andy, and I used to go out there to smoke whenever the river was running low, but we’ve had enough rain this year that it’s currently separated by maybe a hundred feet of water.

  The Centaurians have probably known about us for some time — maybe before humans were even humans — so why did they finally choose to contact us? Did that message we sent really convince them? That seems unlikely. I mean, it looked like a commercial for a calling plan: a smiling old guy from India fading out into waving half-naked kids from some rain forest, then Canadians, and they all said, “Hello. I am from Earth,” in their native languages. In the background they were playing jazz or pop or traditional Kenyan music, and it dragged on for over an hour.

  Maybe four and a half years ago when it reached Pud 5, the presidents of all their nations gathered around a big desk to debate whether or not we’re evolved enough to get a message back. One Centaurian said, “Well, that video certainly sucked. I don’t want to be friends with these assholes.” And another said, “We can’t reply. Humanity would have an existential meltdown.” And another, “If they know about us, one day they’re gonna come and attack. They’re always fighting each other; what makes you think they’d be any different with us?”

  Man, there are actually a lot of reasons for them not to respond. But they did.

  I lay down, my head resting uncomfortably on the ground that’s littered with rocks. I stay there for a half hour, and I swear I see the stars slowly moving across the sky, just like the sun and the moon do every day.

  I want to talk to Jenny about the universe, about all the things that fascinate and confuse me about being alive. Because I mean, what is this place? We’re on some blue-and-green rock floating in what? In nothing? How can something float in nothing? Maybe all that outer space that they call nothing is actually something, like a liquid, and all the planets and stars are little floaties suspended in it.

  My mind is really clear. It’s not too often I have thoughts as deep as these. I have no answers to any of these weird questions, and the stars continue to turn.

  Tiny lights arranged in a circle appear behind the trees on the island. They vanish, then reappear right over my head — like stars that had busted loose from the surrounding darkness and started spiraling around. They aren’t making a sound. Then they go away again. Another circle appears, possibly the same, but this time it’s hundreds of feet to the east. It moves in and out, up and around and in no particular fashion, like it’s aware of me, like it’s checking me out.

  “Hi, aliens,” I say, and let out a big yawn. “’Sup?”

  But I know it’s not an actual flying saucer, because I can see right through it. It’s probably lights caused by a weather balloon or some other way less interesting phenomenon. It’s just fun to pretend. I mean, even though the Centaurians know about Earth doesn’t mean they can travel light-years to get here.

  If they could, however, then certainly they’d know what I should do next. Do I accept that what happened between me and Jenny was just one of the five hundred million hookups that happened tonight, or do I send her a message and make these confusing but amazing feelings inside of me grow?

  I unlock my phone, ignore Mom’s nine messages and three missed calls, and look up Jennifer Novak’s Twitter profile. Her avatar is a selfie taken near the top of the Millennium Force with her friend and Mark’s ex-girlfriend Nikki.

  Her last post was a retweet from @grumbist:

  i look in awe at the star-speckled night sky, overwhelmed by the beauty of it all “that’s some nerd shit up there” i mumble, tears in my eyes

  Maybe she wonders about the same things I do.

  Is it too soon to follow Jenny? There’s gotta be a rule that you don’t follow a hookup, at least not the very same night. I probably should wait until Monday and talk to her after Hafemann’s class.

  Don’t overthink this. She’s not that kind of person. She won’t care.

  I click on the Follow button, then type out:

  @jenniferpnovak Me divertí mucho esta noche.

  No, I should convey something more evocative than a simple “I had a lot of fun tonight.” I highlight and delete it, and replace it with:

  @jenniferpnovak tus tetas son mejores que las de una gata embarazada

  I triple-check to make sure my nouns and pronouns agree. If my Spanish is right, it means: “your teats are better than those of a pregnant cat.”

  I laugh. I tweet it to her.

  There’s a rustling sound coming from the island. I squint. I make out a vague shape from the starlight — the fallen t
ree next to the shore that we usually smoke on.

  Something moves from behind the tree, and my heart speeds up even though there’s no reason for it to. It’s probably just a deer. There have been a ton of deer lately, but what if it isn’t?

  What else would it be? An alien? That doesn’t make sense. Besides, the lights aren’t even above the island anymore.

  It’s because they were from his flying saucer and he landed. And he’s behind the tree right now looking at me.

  Relax. There are probably a million people thinking they’re seeing aliens right now. It’s all over the news; it’s on everybody’s minds. Why, out of all the places in the world, would an alien choose to go to an island in the middle of the Maumee River?

  Just in case someone really is over there, I get to my feet, hold up my right hand, and say, “Hey, um, I come in peace.” Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say? “And . . . Go Browns.” Because that’s what I want to say.

  Something peels away from the tree — a hand. At least I think it was a hand. It had long, skinny fingers, but for all I know it was just a rustling branch.

  Yeah, a branch moved in the wind.

  There is no wind.

  I wait another minute, and I don’t blink until my eyes start to burn.

  It all happens in a second — just a blur — then it’s gone. I’m trying to piece together what it was I just saw. There was a kid over there, I swear to God. I know it’s dark out, but he was peeking his head out from behind the fallen tree. Maybe it was just the light from the stars, but his skin was grayer than it should have been, and he was bald and all his features were, like, smoothed down by a sander. And those eyes shouldn’t have been that big. They were like doll eyes.

  “Hey!” I call out. “What are you doing over there?”

  Nothing.

  I say, “I’m not going to hurt you, man.”

  I stand there for five minutes, waiting for him to reappear, when a twig snaps behind me.

  My heart starts pounding. I slowly turn my head. It’s going to be some hideous extraterrestrial beast, something with claws and a thirst for blood and human souls.

  It’s a baby deer and two grown deer trotting down from the woods to the riverside for a drink, only a few feet away.

  I recover my breath with a gasp and their necks snap up in my direction, but the deer don’t go taking off. They stare at me for a beat, then go back to drinking.

  Nothing weird is out there.

  Shut up. Something is definitely out there.

  I walk as calmly as I can back to Dorton’s and get in my truck and drive home.

  I slip my key into the front-door lock, turning the knob by millimeters. My dog starts yapping, ruining my break-in.

  “Goddamn you, Princess,” I say, acknowledging her eagerness with a pat on the head. “Hey.”

  Mom’s in the living room watching the news, a strange sight to see at five thirty on a Sunday morning. She must be pissed that I didn’t return her messages. She’s sitting with her legs crossed on the couch, the crocheted blanket over her lap, and doesn’t take her eyes off the TV, not even when I sit next to her.

  Princess settles between us, gnawing anxiously on her bone.

  There’s a red “Developing News” bulletin at the top of the screen, and now I can tell that me coming home this late isn’t what’s on her mind.

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  “NASA found another signal hidden in the music,” she says excitedly, like she’s been drinking coffee all night. She’s not giving off a good energy or a bad energy. It’s jittery.

  “Cool. And?”

  “It’s a video. They’re about to show it.”

  “Really?” I scooch to the edge of the couch. That’d be cool if they mimicked our video, showing off people from all their different cultures, and we learn a hundred new ways to say hello.

  Mom turns the volume up and the news lady Diane Larson is in the middle of speaking. “. . . but some are speculating that this is all an elaborate hoax, because the resolution, as you’ll see, is surprisingly clear. Is this merely a prank from someone with impressive special effects equipment, or are we seeing an actual extraterrestrial? What we are about to show you may be disturbing, so viewer discretion is advised.”

  God, I can’t wait to see what the Centaurians look like. They’re probably a lot like humans, but with different customs and beliefs and languages. I mean, their planet looks remarkably like Earth, just a little larger and with all the continents scrambled up.

  The video starts, focusing on their sun, which is framed between two enormous prehistoric-looking trees. It’s like a giant came and shoved them into the ground upside down, because their bare branches twist around all random the way roots do. The sky is deep blue with cirrus clouds tinted different shades of purple. Just above and to the right of the sun shines a really bright star.

  I point at the TV, in disbelief at what I’m actually seeing. “That’s Alpha Centauri A in — in the foreground . . . and that bright star behind it is Alpha Centauri B. Remember? It’s binary!” Like a lot of my friends, I started reading up on Alpha Centauri, the probability of it having life, and the logistics of space travel back in elementary school.

  “Shhh!” Mom flails her hands at me.

  The camera pans down to four creatures as big as elephants grazing on a cornfield, and it’s like watching an odd deleted scene from a Jurassic Park movie. They’re like a cross between the T. rex and the brachiosaur and a turkey, but fattened up and with drab brown scales. Their front legs are as thick as their hind legs, their tails are slouching, and random clumps of feathers stick out from their bellies and the wattles on their long necks. They move slowly with lethargic and friendly eyes, like cows. My God, they look so . . . real. Not CGI-ed at all. If this is a hoax, I’m impressed.

  But it doesn’t make sense. Despite the one-story-tall creatures and the trees, this is more like a scene out of a Western, not a science fiction movie.

  I say, “Where are all the big cities and flying cars? Where are the aliens?” I point at the dinosaur/turkey-looking things. “Were they the ones that sent the music?”

  “Wow,” Mom remarks, her elbows on her knees and her chin perched atop her fists.

  The camera pans left to a solitary and beaten-up ranch house that looks like it belongs in Oklahoma circa the Dust Bowl. The pinkish paint has been almost completely weathered away, revealing the wood paneling beneath. Surrounded by a mowed lawn is an expansive covered porch with a swing bench hanging by rusted metal links. It’s swaying back and forth because someone’s sitting in it, veiled by shadows.

  Whoever is filming approaches him.

  The person on the bench is small with a gray face. Resting on his lap is something that’s a cross between a guitar and a banjo. He doesn’t have a nose, just two recessed nostrils in the center of his head, and he’s got the same doll eyes as the thing I saw on the island. And his fingers, which are resting on the fret, are so long and thin, I can’t help but think of furless tarantula legs.

  “Holy shit,” I say. That person I saw on Blue Grass Island and those swirling lights above, they must have been extraterrestrial. The Centaurians are already much, much closer than the news people even know. They’re here. Had other people seen the flying saucer I saw tonight? There could already be a million or a billion of them in our skies, just waiting to make a move.

  What kind of move would that be?

  My heart is racing and there’s this excited burn in my chest. I’m not overjoyed or horrified. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m feeling, but there’s no way I’ll be falling asleep any time soon.

  The thing that blows me away the most: he’s wearing blue jeans and a basic white T-shirt. They always depict aliens as either wearing silver jumpsuits or nothing at all. Or they’re some nasty insect things oozing slime out of their pores. But this guy — I’m assuming it’s a guy — he just looks like some really ugly dude.

  A laugh escapes my mouth. A
liens, man. Fucking A.

  Whoever is filming him gets close enough to see that there are patches of beige on his gray skin, like he’s got some kind of pigment condition.

  “This is bad.” Mom’s voice is quavering as if she’s on the verge of tears.

  “Why’s that?”

  It’s like the Centaurian is fighting to get the words out, or he’s nervous about speaking. He plucks at a few strings randomly, producing a delicate, reverberating twang. “This is my home,” he finally gets out in a raspy pack-a-day smoker’s voice. He pauses, then touches his throat, as if saying those words was the hardest thing he’s ever done.

  He says, “I enjoyed your music. I hope you enjoyed mine.”

  His lips peel back into a grimace or a forced smile . . . and, holy shit, those are some teeth.

  Mom squeals at an ear-piercing frequency, and her entire body curls into a ball.

  I mean, I’m not as scared as Mom. I guess I’m startled because I wasn’t expecting his mouth to look like a shark’s. And apparently they don’t use whitener on Pud 5.

  Then, with his fingertips dabbing his lips, he mumbles, “Go Browns.”

  Wait. Did I hear that right?

  Mom says, “What time is it? We need to go to the grocery store.”

  “Did . . . did he just say, ‘Go Browns’?”

  “Come on, Derek. There probably won’t be a crowd this time of day.”

  “A crowd where?”

  “The grocery store.”

  “For what? We’ve got plenty of food.”

  “Because . . .” She thinks about it, what this all means.

  What does it all mean?

  “Because,” she says grimly, like she’s one of the last two survivors trapped in a horror movie house, “we need to be prepared for whatever happens next.”