by Ryan Gebhart
Without hesitation she says, “Because he was a Navy SEAL.”
“No shit,” I try to get out, like that’s not a big deal. But I suddenly feel like I’m not doing anything with my life, not when someone worked for years to get into one of the hardest branches of the military. “I heard the dropout rate for the SEALs is really high.”
She turns from me and cups her hands around her mouth. There’s the scratching sound of a lighter. A puff of grayish-blue smoke and a dry, slightly sweet smell emerges.
She says, “He left for basic when I was ten, and whenever he was on leave, he only wanted to hang out with me. And it was . . . I was like, ‘Don’t you have friends?’” She gives a single, lonely laugh. “I’d ask him about where he was going next or what adventures he was having, but he always responded with something vague and changed the subject. The last time he was deployed was back in May.” It takes her three more drags before she’s talking again. “Remember what happened in Raya over the summer?”
“It was something like they declared war on us.”
“Yeah, but do you remember why?”
“Um. China?”
“The Rayans said their military ambushed a group of SEALs who were attempting to assassinate their president. But Congress and our president, they all denied it, saying that the SEALs were on a mission to stop terrorists from buying a nuke.”
“What really happened?”
“Who knows.”
“Are you sure you’re allowed to tell me this stuff ? It sounds kinda confidential.”
“They’re disclosing the names of the SEALs tomorrow. It’s gonna be part of a bigger announcement from Congress.”
“What do you think they’re gonna say?”
“I think we’re about to invade Raya.”
“Jenny, I . . . I’m so sorry.” Which is such a meaningless response to a very serious situation. But it’s all I got.
My chest hurts.
“Thanks.” She takes my hand and guides me off the towpath and through a meandering deer trail. I’m at a loss for words, but I’ll go wherever she wants to take me, and if she just wants me to be with her and not say a thing on this beautiful day next to the Maumee River, that’s cool.
I keep an eye out for the deer’s little piles of black jelly-bean-shaped poo. The trail dead-ends into the rocky shore. No one’s around and all I hear is the babbling water and the slightly muted traffic on the bridge upstream.
We’re beneath a tree that’s got branches that look like skinny bleached bones. They leave spiderwebby shadows over us. We sit on the most level ground we can find, but even then it’s still uncomfortable. And Blue Grass Island is right in front of us.
I want to be calm. I’m not. There’s something unnerving about this place, even though it’s so picturesque. Birds are chirping and catfish are lolling around in the shallows and it really feels like winter won’t ever come, but they keep talking about a massive storm that’s on its way from Canada.
Jenny puts her cigarette out on the rocks. She lies down and adjusts her body to get comfortable, but there’s no way that’s possible the way her back is contorted. She looks at me dully. Her face is so scrunched in that it’s giving her a double chin. Her eyes slowly close. Her chest rises.
Shugar once told me that you have to be a dick to girls. Act like they’re lucky just to be hanging out with you. But it was the most unnatural thing when I told Jenny I’d seen better teats on a pregnant cat.
I don’t say a word. I sit there perfectly still with my arms around my knees, like I’ve found a deer in the woods and I don’t want to spook it. I just want to take in this moment and admire all the beauty before it goes trotting off in the other direction.
Even though it’s just trees and a river and a pretty girl, in a weird way it’s also like looking at the night sky. There’s not a big difference between stars and galaxies and Jenny’s muddy Converse.
Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just thinking stupid.
Jenny faces the island and tucks her knees in slightly, her hands balled up close to her face. She looks like she did last night on her couch after Snow White. I want to make this horrible situation for her somewhat better. But what the hell can I do to stop the United States from invading Raya?
She whispers, “Do you see that?”
“See what?” I follow her gaze. Even though I don’t see anything, I know exactly what she’s talking about.
“Shhh. I saw someone over there. He looked like a kid.” She props herself up and I’m suddenly vindicated, like I’m not the only one who sees aliens. “You see that fallen tree next to the shore?”
“Yeah.”
“He was there. I swear it.”
“Are you messing with me?”
“No,” she whispers harshly. “He was looking right at me, then he ducked.”
I get to my feet and cup my hands around my mouth. “Hey, my man! What are you doing over there?”
That’s when he appears, poking his head out from behind the fallen tree. There’s no question about it — the video wasn’t a hoax, and Jenny and I are looking at an actual creature from another planet. Maybe they all look alike, but this Centaurian looks identical to the one from the video. Even the skin blotches are in the same spots, if my memory is accurate.
“Oh, my God,” Jenny gets out in a trembling breath.
“Hello!” I call out, and he darts off deeper into the island. Dammit. I wanted to show him I didn’t mean any harm.
“Derek, that was an actual fucking alien,” she says, as if she can barely believe her own words.
I take out my phone, wallet, and keys and put them on the ground. I remove my shoes and socks. I step to the shore with both hands up so he knows I’m not a threat. I’m being the kind of guy Jenny would want — someone spontaneous, full of life, and willing to do something Earth-changing.
“What are you doing?” Jenny grabs my forearm.
I pry her fingers off me and step into the water and, damn, that’s cold. She’s punching me on the shoulder, and I’m sloshing up to my knees when she lunges and grabs my waist. We both crash in and she’s in front of me now, water dripping down her nose and chin and everywhere really, and her braid is coming undone.
I say, “That was an alien and that’s really, really awesome. Don’t you want to go meet him?”
It’s so hard for her to talk. Maybe it’s because her teeth are chattering, but I’m guessing it’s because of something else. We’re up to our hips in the cold-ass current, mascara is running down her face like blackened tears, and there are distressed lines on her face I never knew she had.
She finally says, “Don’t go out there.” But there’s no way she’s being serious. This was the same girl who not even an hour ago said, “Live each day as if it were our last.” Maybe this is some kind of test. Hell, even if it’s not, I’ve been given the opportunity to be the first person to make contact. I can’t turn that down.
“I have to do this,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in, like, fifteen minutes.”
I dive underwater and even though it’s been years since I quit the swim league, my front stroke is still pretty solid.
Something is lurking on that island, watching me swim closer. What if he’s waiting for me to come to him and then, when it’s too late, those doll eyes will appear from behind a tree and his teeth will be around my neck?
I’m not afraid. Let’s be rational here. If there really is an alien on this island and if he is a predator, he would have found a way to eat me already.
But what if he’s not after my body? What if he’s waiting for me to come to him so he can devour my soul?
My knee scrapes against something. I place my feet down on the slippery river rocks, put my hands on my hips, and catch my breath. The water is making little eddies around my thighs. A tree is casting shadows on me.
Jenny’s looking at me from the mainland, a hundred feet away. “Come back!” she cries, her hands cupped around her mouth.
“It’s all good, Jenny!” I hold out a thumbs-up.
Her eyes get wider, more terrified. “He’s right behind you!”
Something solid and dull thwacks the side of my head.
“Motherfucker.” Rubbing my head, I turn around and look down, and, whoa, the alien is clenching a broken tree branch. He’s so little but those eyes — my God, they’re so big. They’re the size of avocados and the irises are muddy and green, and the best way I can describe them is they’re like anime eyes. But he’s not about to power up — they’re terrified. He’s sneering at me with pointed teeth.
He swings again.
There’s a howl of wind. There’s a semitruck belching out exhaust from somewhere. There’s a squishy sound of mud compressing beneath footsteps, getting closer.
My chest tightens. I open my eyes. I’m lying on the ground.
Oh, my fucking head. It’s pounding like a bass drum, going in rhythm with my quickening heartbeat. The hell is going on?
Someone is standing ten feet from me. Muddy, purple boots. Baggy jeans. He takes a cautious step forward. I sit up — the world spins painfully — and he retreats behind a fallen tree.
I dry heave a couple of times, but nothing comes up. I haven’t eaten anything since . . . since when?
I think I had a chicken quesadilla Hot Pocket before Dorton’s.
I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to fight through the pain.
The person peeks up from behind the tree. The hell? His round face is gray and looks like it’s been smoothed down by a sander — oh, that’s right, I was with Jenny and I swam out to the island. I saw an alien. He knocked me out.
I’m staring at him right now.
He’s got on jeans and this, like, tweed jacket over a burnt-orange turtleneck. And he’s short. Maybe not even four feet tall.
His pupils constrict, like he’s doing a mental scan of me. Something warm, weird, and liquidy is filling up behind my eyes. Maybe it’s just my imagination. Or a concussion. But maybe it’s him.
“Hi,” I say.
The alien moves toward me with clenched fists, and I flinch, blocking my face with my hands. But then he stops and reaches into his jacket for something. It’s a joint. He puts it to his lips and lights it with what looks like a Zippo. Smoke comes out of his nostrils. Scabs are encrusted on and around his lips, like he’s got a raging case of herpes.
I relax my muscles because I don’t think he means to attack me again, even though his free hand is still balled into a fist.
His weed, if it even is weed, was definitely not grown on Earth. It smells like skunk and . . . Boo Berry cereal? Yeah, I’d say it’s got a hint of Boo Berry.
I say, “You can talk, right?”
He takes a seat on the fallen tree facing the mainland. With his back to me, he says shyly, “Go Browns,” the way a child learning how to speak would talk: pronouncing his r’s like w’s. But his voice is deep and throaty.
I get to my knees. There’s mud on my arms and pants, and I can feel it drying and cracking on my face. I get this chill that starts from the nape of my neck and ends at my toes, and it’s not because my clothes are sopping wet. Maybe it’s because he seems okay with me being in his presence. I’m actually not that scared; it just feels like I’m supposed to be. With teeth like his, he’s definitely not living off of salads. I take a seat on the tree three feet from him, my forearms on my thighs, my bare feet squishing into the ground. I’m looking at the mainland, and there is no Jenny, no anybody.
He says, “They’re going to be back soon to look for you.”
“Who?”
“The person you were with and the police.”
“Oh.”
There isn’t a lot of time and there are a million things to ask him — what’s his planet like? I mean, they have two suns, that’s pretty cool. Is there even, like, nighttime there, or how do the seasons work? And what’s the meaning of life? Where do we go after we die? Heck, maybe he knows if Jenny is into me as much as I’m into her.
I say, “Are you really a Cleveland Browns fan?”
He’s looking at me now, the whites of his massive eyes have gone bloodshot, and I feel no threat from him anymore. As soon as he purses his lips and gives a somber nod, I know without a doubt that we share the same team. His expression . . . that’s not alien. That’s a face that all Cleveland sports fans sadly share.
I say, “Is everyone on your planet a Browns fan?”
“I have a friend who roots for the Baltimore Ravens, but nobody likes him.”
I bust up laughing, but I can’t tell if he meant it as a joke the way his face hasn’t changed.
He takes his time speaking, like every word is an effort for him. He holds out his joint. “Do you want to hit it?”
“Thanks, but I’m good. So, what’s up, man?”
He shakes his head with his eyes closed like he’s stressing. “I’m going to be in trouble when I get home for dinner.”
“Oh yeah?”
“My boyfriend and my grandmother don’t want me talking to you.”
“Me?” I cock my head back. What did I do?
“Sorry, I meant humanity.” His mouth widens into a big, toothy, amused smile. He makes these rattled and curdled keh-keh sounds that I interpret as a laugh. His breath reeks of some kind of, like, fermented spicy meat, and it makes my eyes water.
I casually pinch my nose shut while the stench airs out. “So, why are you here?”
He hits his joint, the cherry showing brilliant reds and blues and purples, and it crackles like the clove cigarettes Andy smokes. “This river is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever visited.”
“The Maumee River?” I laugh in my head, but not out loud. You could probably take pictures of a thousand other rivers and no one would pick this one out of a lineup. It doesn’t have any places to cliff dive, the sky above is hazy and washed out half the year, and the water is so murky you can’t even see your hand when you dip it in.
I say, “Ever been to Austin? The water at Barton Creek is crystal clear.”
“I come to this island when I want to get away from everyone.” He takes a deep, contented breath. “This really is a wonderful place.”
“If you say so.” Because since me and Mom moved here, I’ve been pretty convinced that this is the shittiest spot on the planet. When Mom took me to my first Mud Hens game, we drove by office buildings and skyscrapers in downtown Toledo, and For Lease signs were hanging from the majority of the front doors. It’s like everyone wised up and realized, Why live here when we could live somewhere — anywhere — else?
I don’t know. This is also where Jenny lives, where she was born and raised. Maybe it’s got some redeeming qualities.
I say, “So those songs that we heard, did you write those?”
He nods.
“I’m seriously a fan. Your style is so eclectic and raw and just . . . jamming. I love it. Like, you got some nice slow songs, some really angry songs, and some of your stuff no human could have even dreamed up.”
He turns to me and takes another hit, his lips puckering slightly. “Jovas didn’t want me sharing my music with you.” He pauses. “I understand that you need names. Call my boyfriend Jovas and call me Karo.”
“Thanks. Call me Derek.”
“Those were names from an ancient language on our world.”
“Karo’s a brand of corn syrup on our world.”
“One thousand generations ago, we communicated using our mouths.”
“I . . . uh . . . what? But you’re talking to me.”
“My grandmother thinks my interest in languages is dangerous in more ways than one.” He unravels a fist, and with a finger as long and as skinny as a pencil, he points at an open sore in the middle of his upper lip. A shiver runs up my arms as I get a closer look at just how large and razor-sharp and wet with saliva his teeth are. That’s where those scabs come from — his teeth cut his lips when he talks.
I say, “Hey, man, if it hurts t
oo much, we don’t have to talk. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“I want to.” He’s looking ahead at the water, and from where I’m sitting, his eyes look wet and red like he’s about to cry, but that could just be from his weed. His lips are quivering as he says, “I’ve been practicing words, gestures, and all the ways you communicate to prepare for this moment.”
“Is this the first time a human and an —” I stop myself because “alien” suddenly doesn’t sound like the right word, especially because he doesn’t seem that different from me. And it’s not because he’s toking up or that he wears pants, it’s . . . I don’t know.
I just know.
I say, “Have our species ever met before?”
“Contact with humans is prohibited. My people believed we would be met with fear and violence, and I was convinced they were wrong, but I was wrong. Humans ended their lives because I shared my songs.”
“Really?” I hadn’t heard of anyone committing suicide because of the transmission, but it wouldn’t exactly surprise me.
There’s silence, maybe fifteen seconds of it. Then some slimy, sobbing sound and soft hoots come from beneath his breath. A few degrees below blubbering he says, “There are riots happening on Earth right now because I sent my video, and that wasn’t what I wanted. I’m terribly sorry, but your people sent your music and images, and I couldn’t resist sharing mine with you. It was such a stupid thing for me to do.”
“No, what you did was good, man. Look, just give us a week to calm down, and I guarantee you we’ll have moved on to something else to panic about.” I laugh at the thought, even though it sucks how much it’s true.
He says, “I apologize for hurting you. I thought you were coming to attack me.”
“I get it. I mean, humans are pretty unpredictable, and I’m sure I must’ve looked scary the way I swam after you. Like, I went to the store with my mom after they showed your video, and people were practically climbing over each other. Everyone was so freaked about you. They think you’re going to invade.”
He wipes his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “I want to be friends with people. I want to share things with you. I’ve wanted that for so long, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I want you to try our foods; I want to try yours. I’ve always wanted to learn how to play chess and Texas Hold’em and football and beer pong. I want you to show me what makes you laugh, what makes you happy and sad and alive . . . and for once I’d like to watch a Cleveland Browns game from inside the stadium.”
