Of Jenny and the Aliens

by Ryan Gebhart

  “Gee, you really know how to sweet-talk a gal.”

  “Hey, Jenny, I love you and . . . have a great Thanksgiving with your family.”

  “You too. I love you too.”

  I kiss the top of her head, my lips against the scent of cigarette smoke and pomegranate shampoo. The taste stays with me on the walk back to my truck.

  I know that it won’t leave for the next twenty-two years.

  I’m walking away from her.

  I’m driving away from her.

  Forty minutes later, I finally make it through the traffic, and when I get home, I burst into tears while sitting on the toilet.

  I imagine Jenny and me at age forty, just, you know, because I can’t help myself. Me: an independent contractor, flipping houses, my face weathered from life and the sun being relentless. Jenny: she’s put on a few pounds from her two kids with Shugar, her skin pasty and her breasts are at the beginning stages of becoming breastcicles. In her Instagram pictures, or whatever is popular when we’re forty, she’ll be smiling with Mark and their kids, looking like the perfect all-American family. She still makes me laugh. And my heart still wants what it wants.

  Jenny and I will have an affair for, like, six months while her marriage with Shugar is falling apart. Then she finally calls it off with him, and we get married.

  On our wedding night, after I apply ointment to my dick because it’ll be raw from all the sex, I put my arm around her. I tell her how much I love her and that the dream that this moment would come was the only thing that kept me going throughout all the years in a prejudiced, hate-filled, and alien-less world.

  I have to stop daydreaming about all the futures I’ll never have with her. I’m doing myself more harm than good thinking that everything will turn out all right.

  I’m sitting on the toilet with sweat on my brow and my phone in my lap, the screen timed out for so long it’s reverted to black. I unlock it again, go to my messages, and tap on my conversation with Adriana.

  The last messages were from the night of my birthday party.

  ADRIANA: Yeah, I’ll be by in a little bit.

  ADRIANA: 5 min away!

  ADRIANA: I’m here. Where are you?

  ADRIANA: Did I miss you?

  ADRIANA: You leave?

  ADRIANA: Looks like I missed you. Okay. Well. Happy eighteenth birthday Derek!!!

  ADRIANA: Hope to see you soon :)

  I message her.

  ME: Hey.

  She messages me back three minutes later.

  ADRIANA: Hi Derek :)

  ME: You doing anything tonight?

  ADRIANA: My family is having an end of the world party. There’s flying saucers all over the world now!

  I’m typing to ask if I can come over.

  ADRIANA: Do you want to come over?

  I delete my message.

  ME: Yeah, I’ll be over in a little bit.

  ADRIANA: You know my address?

  ME: No.

  She gives me her address.

  I can get over Jenny. Broken hearts mend all the time. I mean, look at Andy. He dated Miranda Hernandez seven times longer than I “dated” Jenny. He was obsessed with Miranda, then he was obsessed with Julia Underwood, then they broke up, then he claimed he hooked up with (that is, got blow jobs from) two different girls after the Battle of the Bands out by the tennis courts.

  Can I really claim that my feelings for Jenny are any stronger than Andy’s feelings were for Miranda?

  Even worse: Is this what being in a relationship is always going to be like?

  I wipe my brow, then my ass. I probably shouldn’t go to the party commando, especially given my current intestinal distress, so I suck it up and squeeze into my shamrock boxers.

  I follow my phone’s directions to Adriana’s house, passing beneath seven small “flying saucers” on my way. She and her brother live off of Key Street in a small home that looks out at the Lucas County Rec Center. The driveway is full, so I park on the street. Reggaetón is playing from the backyard. I go through the side gate. About thirty or so people are sitting or standing around a fire pit and holding drinks, watching the news with subtitles on a flat screen that someone brought outside and propped up on a crate in the snow.

  Chris Rosales waves at me. Andy is sitting next to him, and they’re each with a girl. I’m pretty sure the one on Andy’s lap is Kaitlyn Sherwin, even though she was with Gabe not even a week ago.

  Something smells amazing.

  Small hands wrap around my waist from behind. “Derek!”

  Adriana’s wearing a floral-patterned shirt beneath an open jacket, and her short hair is parted to the side. Her face is radiant and round, and she’s much cuter than I remember her being at Dorton’s party. I never knew she had braces. They’re the kind that are supposed to be invisible, but they’re totally visible.

  The King in the North slips out of the hole in my boxers, not because I’m aroused, I just can never get him to sit right in this pair. I jiggle my pants to get him back in place. Nothing.

  She’s holding my hand. “I want you to meet my mom.” She takes me to a short, plump lady turning over pieces of chicken on a huge stainless-steel grill. “Mamá.”

  Her mom turns and smiles.

  Adriana says, “Este es mi amigo Derek.”

  “¡Hola!” She embraces me as if I were a friend or relative she hasn’t seen in years. “Pues, Chris me dice que tú hablas español, ¿no?”

  “Sí.”

  Excited, she starts going off in Spanish, but I can’t keep up. Her accent is too thick.

  “Uh . . . sí.”

  “¿Quieres Cuba Libre? Tiene ron y Coca Cola con lima.”

  I think that’s what she said — asking me if I wanted a rum and Coke — but I’m not one hundred percent sure. “¿Qué?”

  She gestures to the picnic table and a stack of red Solo cups next to a handle of Bacardi, several two-liters of Coke, and lime wedges on a plate.

  Adriana puts her cup on the table and fixes me one. “My parents are letting us drink tonight.”

  “Scrobes!” someone calls from the fire. On the other side of the flames is Chris, and he’s raising his cup with a ’sup nod, his arm around a girl who looks really familiar. Where do I know her from?

  I give a ’sup nod back. I make myself a drink.

  He brings her over. “This is Amber.”

  She smiles. Oh, whoa. It’s the Perrysburg girl.

  I say, “You painted whiskers on me at Dorton’s party. Hey! Good to see you.”

  She looks a lot more sober — steadily holding her cup, her eyes focused. She leans forward and gently kisses my cheek. “You’re lucky I don’t have a paintbrush on me tonight.” I don’t know if that’s supposed to mean something dirty, but she says it in a jokingly sexy voice.

  I say, “I know, right?”

  Adriana brushes her arm against my side. “The tapado should be almost ready. You want to help, Chris?”

  “Sure.”

  As soon as they’re out of earshot, someone says from behind, “You’re making out with her tonight.” It’s Andy with his arm around Kaitlyn. I’m sure there’s a whole interesting story behind Kaitlyn’s breakup with Gabe and the fact that she’s now with Andy, but ehhhh.

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  Kaitlyn says, “Oh, come on. Is it because of Jennifer? Dude, you got to get over her.”

  “I am over her.”

  “And you don’t have to worry about her showing up, because she told me she’s spending the evening with her parents.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Derek, Adriana’s really cute.”

  “I agree. But I think I’m going to take it slow this time.”

  “Take it slow?” Kaitlyn says, perplexed. “We’re about to be exterminated, and you want to take it slow?”

  “Derek,” Andy says assertively, leaning forward. He’s got his hand cupped around one of Kaitlyn’s butt cheeks. “Look, I don’t think you’re a pussy li
ke Mark does for being heartbroken about Jennifer. It never gets easier. I’ve learned the only way that you can get over a broken heart is to share it with someone new.”

  “I told you already, I’m over her.”

  Kaitlyn says, “I’m just using Andy to get over Gabe. He caught me making out with his younger brother Sebastian at a party. I’ll admit it, but he was really cute. Gabe dumped me right on the spot and hasn’t talked to me since.”

  Andy says, “I really want to believe in stuff like true love, but the truth is: life’s just one big Jerry Springer Show.” He takes the bottom of my cup and coaxes it to my mouth. “Here. Come on. Drink up.”

  I nearly spill it because someone comes up from behind and pulls up one of my pant cuffs.

  “Hey, you’re wearing the socks I got you for your birthday,” Shugar remarks while on his knees. “All right!”

  “You got him socks for his birthday?” Andy says. “What are you, his grandma?”

  “Oh, dude. The story of the Sock Pooper.” Shugar gets up and puts his arm around my shoulder. He’s already hammered, his eyes even more glazed over than they were at South End.

  He’s looking at me as if I’m his best friend.

  He says, “He made me promise that I wouldn’t tell anybody, but come on, Scrobes. We’re all about to die. We can’t let a story so epic go to waste.”

  He’s not my best friend.

  He says to Andy, “Remember in the sixth grade when your sister bought me and Derek the bottle of Smirnoff ?”

  It’s taking Andy a moment to conjure up such a distant memory. “My sister’s bought you two so many bottles. I don’t keep track.”

  “We got so shitfaced off of it, didn’t we, Scrobes?”

  He’s not my friend at all.

  He says, “I can’t remember how it came up, but we were in Scrobes’s garage and I think it was from a bet. I told him he had to poop in a sock. I didn’t think he’d have the balls. We rode our bikes to Timbers Bowling. We parked in the back lot, and I still didn’t think he’d do it.” He brings me in closer, and there’s not just alcohol on his breath but weed, and also fear in his eyes. The lisp to his speech is in full force. He’s squeezing me so tight, his untrimmed nails are digging into my shoulder.

  Andy says to me, “Dude. Did you get shit all over your hands?”

  “I opened the sock as wide as I could and prayed for the best,” I say flatly. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

  Shugar says, “When he chucked that loaded sock and it made this dull thwack on the roof, I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. The best part, it’s probably still up there.”

  Shugar will never know this, but even though I was laughing my ass off too, I had never felt more depressed than I did that night. Back then, I didn’t know what I was so sad about, but the sock-pooping incident was the culminating point of everything going wrong in my life. There I was, a once-good-old-fashioned Texas boy who liked to swim, read fantasy novels, and go cliff diving at Barton Creek, and somehow I ended up in Maumee, Ohio. I was thirteen and hammered beyond belief off of three shots of vodka and throwing a crew sock full of my own shit onto the roof of a bowling alley.

  I resented my parents. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t even have a younger brother. I was drinking and smoking weed with these guys Mark Shugar and Andy Zimmerman from the Brandywine swim league, and Shugar kept on saying we were all best friends, a wolf pack, and over time I guess I just started believing him.

  Back in Austin, Dustin and I used to do normal kid things, like ride our bikes to Toy Joy, then gawk at all the hot UT girls on their tablets and laptops at Spider House. He never once goaded me into shitting into a sock.

  Adriana reappears, standing by Andy and Kaitlyn.

  While repeatedly poking my sternum, Shugar says, “Adriana, this is my dude right here. This guy, he’s the most loyal fucker you’ll ever find. Scrobes is my one true friend. It’s going to be me and him, side by side, fighting the Centaurians off till the bitter end. Right, D?”

  “Yup.”

  “Adriana, you know Derek’s got a thing for you.”

  “Dude,” I say.

  Not only is he not my friend — he just straight sucks.

  “Oh,” Adriana says to me. “I thought you were into, you know . . . those kinds of girls.”

  He says to me, “Exactly. Jennifer’s not your type, okay? You’ve got to loosen up a bit and get over her.”

  “I am over her.” How many times do I have to keep saying this?

  “There’s a really cute girl here who likes you. She’s into all that wizard and spells stuff too. She messaged me the day after Dorton’s party and I’m like, ‘Who the hell is this?’”

  “Mark,” Adriana says in a half-pleading tone.

  “She’s asking me these questions about you, and I’m like, ‘Lord of the Rings? He’s read the series ten times. Dude still plays with LEGOs.’” He takes my cup and downs nearly half of my Cuba Libre. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

  From by the fire, Chris cups his hands and shouts, “Mamá. Apague la música. El presidente está por hablar.”

  “What did he say?” Shugar says.

  I pry his arm off of me. “The president’s about to speak.”

  Their mom turns off the stereo and hurries to join the rest of the group gathering around the outside TV.

  I take a lawn chair and something rests up against my foot. It’s Adriana’s foot. She’s sitting next to me.

  Chris takes the remote and unmutes the TV.

  The president rises to the podium to an endless clicking of cameras. Crammed together, it looks like there are flags from every nation behind him. He lets out a deep, concerned breath. “Ladies and gentlemen, as president of this great nation, it is my sworn duty to protect the American people from foreign threats. Now as you all well know, ships — flying saucers” — he says this as if he can’t believe it —“began appearing in our skies this afternoon, and all evidence suggests that they harbor visitors from the planet Pud Five. We have repeatedly attempted to contact them, but our efforts have been met with silence.”

  He pauses. More cameras click.

  A log pops in the fire pit. Adriana jumps a little, and her hand ends up on mine.

  I glance down at my fly. It really feels like the King in the North is popping out of my pants. But I’m good.

  “According to our best intelligence, what we are dealing with is an aggressive, invasive species meaning to reap our lands, our resources, and quite possibly even ourselves. The United States along with all of the leaders across the world have come to an agreement that we must make a stand and let these soulless monsters know that we do not intend to be conquered. In this unprecedented hour, I have agreed to cooperate with every nation so we can jointly train our weapons on these ships and whatever may come out of them. It will take every single one of us to face this confrontation. I implore all of you, from every race and creed and belief, to set aside your differences, for this could be the fight for all of our lives. These might be our final days, so I ask of you to not go down with hatred for your fellow man. If only for a day, let us have world peace. Good night. And God bless us all.”

  Everyone’s silent as they cut back to the reporters in the news studio. Chris hits mute.

  “Damn,” he says, and everyone nods or mumbles in agreement.

  I can’t take it anymore. I do a quick and inconspicuous reach into my pants.

  Got it.

  Adriana’s foot moves up and down my leg. I let this go on for five seconds, then I adjust myself so just the tip of her shoe is touching me.

  She whispers in my ear, “You wanna come inside for a minute?”

  “Oh.”

  She’s trying to look sexy, but she’s straight-terrified. Even though I want to move on from Jenny, I wasn’t planning on hooking up with Adriana. I was just hoping to get to know her better so maybe I could grow to like her. She’s had a crush on me for so long, and I don’t w
ant to confuse her the way Jenny did me.

  She puts her arm around my waist, underneath my jacket, and, goddamn it, my wiener slips through the hole in my boxers again. This time it’s because, well, you know. Boners.

  “I don’t want to die a virgin,” she whispers.

  “That’s cool. And you won’t.” Shit, she’s going to take that the wrong way. I clarify with “I mean, I know you think I’m sexy, but we have plenty of time. The world’s not going to end tomorrow.”

  She claws my chest as if she’s feeling for hair, but I have no chest hair. “Um, Derek. I didn’t like you because I thought you were sexy. You’re just a nice, sweet guy. I don’t care that you’re a huge dork.”

  My head recoils. “I’m not a dork.”

  “I read the complete series when I was a kid too. Maybe not ten times —”

  “It was four at most.”

  “— but I do have a first edition of The Two Towers signed by Tolkien.”

  “Liar.”

  “I’m serious! It’s in my room.”

  “Prove it.”

  She opens the sliding-glass door, and we go through the kitchen, down the hall, and into her bedroom. I first notice her window draped with blackout curtains, then her bookshelves with all her hardcovers, and the way she has certain books facing out. She’s used candles with images of the Virgin Mary as bookends. Her queen-size bed has no frame or box spring. There’s a mostly completed jigsaw puzzle of the original cover for The Hobbit on a piece of cardboard on the carpet, and it’s the kind that comes without the edge pieces.

  There’s so much about her to learn, but all this feels empty, because I don’t really want to.

  I take my jacket off, throw it by her laundry hamper, and a condom falls out of the front pocket.

  “Oh,” she says, and picks the condom up.

  Gross. This is Dad’s jacket.