by Linda Jaivin
Another bun browned in the oven of time.
‘Well, cool,’ ventured Torquil. ‘Aliens, eh?’
Baby nodded. She didn’t think she’d be particularly keen on responsibility or commitment either. Whatever they were. They sounded a bit like that, what was it, that’s right, that relationship thing. They didn’t sound very rock n roll in any case. Too many syllables, for one thing. She indicated the CD player. ‘I like the music,’ she commented amiably.
‘Yeah?’ said Jake, inexplicably proud, as though he’d had something to do with it.
‘Fully. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Here? In this house? Because of Three?’ Jake was at a nonplus. Not to imply any negativity.
‘On this planet. Because of rock n roll.’
‘Cool!’ said Tristram. Was the redhead licking her lips at him? Outrageous. Tristram loved outrageousness in girls. He didn’t know where to look.
Doll was checking out Saturna and Skye. Now they were what she’d call Abduction Objects. Yum-o.
‘So,’ Jake proposed, ‘we all going to the Sando then?’
‘The Sando?’ queried Lati. ‘Is that the local locus for sex, drugs and rock n roll?’
‘Uh, depends how you define sex, drugs and rock n roll, I guess,’ replied Jake, amused. ‘But, yeah, I suppose it is.’
‘I like this girl,’ whispered Torquil to Tristram. ‘Wacky as.’
‘I liked her first,’ Tristram whispered back. ‘And I,’ he added, ‘saw her first, which has got to count for something.’
Lati smirked with satisfaction. She’d have both of them on toast. Whatever the fuck toast was. ‘Let’s jet,’ she said.
Jetting wasn’t quite the word for what happened next.
First, Saturna and Skye disappeared downstairs to repaint their eyebrows. Then Jake and the twins embarked on a vague, epic, overlapping search for socks that involved peering under cushions, shifting the TV, grabbling around on top of the fridge, and ferreting in the cupboards where the cereal and peanut butter lived. It entailed the inconveniencing of entire communities of insect life, forcing spiders and cockroaches and several species of ants to flee their traditional homelands. It took the boys out to the shallows of the small courtyard and into the depths of the junk closet, and finally, when they’d exhausted all other possibilities, upstairs to their rooms.
Left to their own devices the babes curiously examined their surrounds. Brown-o-rama, Baby noted to herself. She hadn’t quite expected Jake’s pod—pad, whatever—to look like this. She’d expected something a little more colourful, a bit more kinetic, with shifting perspectives perhaps, for she’d got all her ideas of how rock n roll boys lived from the interior scenes in music videos. She was more disoriented than disappointed, but it occurred to her that, despite everything that had happened the night before, she hardly knew Jake at all. Had she talked too much? Maybe she should’ve asked him more questions about himself.
‘Wouldn’t have been a bad idea,’ Lati mumbled, having read her mind. ‘Especially since you’re so keen on him and all.’
‘Fuck off, ya slag,’ Baby replied.
‘What’s with you two?’ Doll asked, not really wanting to know. ‘Hey, dig this chick.’ She pointed to a poster of Kylie Minogue blu-tacked to the wood panelling. ‘Looks familiar. Wonder who she is?’
‘Remember “Wild Roses”?’ Baby prompted. ‘She was the corpse.’
Baby picked up the bong and sipped the murky fluid inside. How odd, she thought. Even their drugs are brown. She had a sudden vision of beige ultrasuede dolphins in a tan sea by a chocolate beach.
Doll picked up a drumstick and hit Torquil’s drums. ‘Enough oioishitting around. I wanna make that spunky music, green girls. Let’s not lose sight of the main story here. And rock n roll, as far as I’m concerned, is the main story.’ Doll was as focussed as the Hubble Space Telescope. Doll may have been the least obviously flamboyant of the three. But she was also the one who made sure things got done. Sure, Baby and Lati came up with the idea of running away to Earth, but who worked out how to steal the spaceship, hey? Who managed to flog the fuel, tell us that? Who piloted the thing? Lati was great fun, and Doll rather fancied her, but she was all over the place. Baby, for her part, had big enthusiasms, but they didn’t last. Doll gave the Jake thing about, oh, two more days, a week tops. Doll knew, moreover, that Baby and Lati could go on about wanting to be rock stars till the cows came home—whatever the fuck that meant—but if she left it up to them, they’d never even pick up an instrument. This was actually a trait they shared in common with most Earthlings who wanted to be rock stars, but Doll couldn’t have known that.
Thinking of something she’d seen on a video clip, Doll put down the drumsticks and picked up Tristram’s bass. Lifting it over her head, she was preparing to smash it across the arm of the sofa when Tristram wandered back in.
‘Whoa whoa whoa!’ he exclaimed. ‘Easy on the equipment, alien girl.’ He relieved her of the guitar. ‘Dunno about your planet, but around here these things cost a lot of bikkies.’
Doll rolled her eyes with exasperation. Baby and Lati were giving her the shits and these Earthlings weren’t turning out to be that much fun either. She plopped down into the beanbag as heavily as possible for someone so light. ‘BORED,’ she announced. ‘BORED, BORED, BORED.’
This struck Lati as hilariously funny. Throwing back her head, she unfurled a wave of xylophonic laughter. The music of her merriment danced about the room, flung itself into the corners and bounced off the. walls. Eventually, it grew languid and soft and slow and wove its fluttery way back to her. Sucking it back in through her nostrils, she released another peal. The action of laughing elongated her strong, beautiful neck and caused her lovely rounded stomach and full breasts to shake and strain at the cotton weave of her t-shirt. Her antennae quivered amongst the sensuous mass of her red hair.
Tristram, seeing her laughter, hearing the sinuations of her body, grew so enchanted he forgot entirely about Doll’s threat to his bass. In his mind he was pressing his lips against the near-translucent skin of Lati’s neck, nibbling on the delicate shells of her emerald ears, flicking her verdant nipples with his tongue, pressing his body against hers, kneading her arse, needing her arse…
Torquil, who’d ambled in just as Lati had started to laugh, was similarly struck. His mind’s eye perved on a vision of himself burying his face in her sweet fuzzy armpits, of devouring the soft flesh of her side and tummy in a frenzy of little lovebites and then plunging his nose and mouth and tongue into the folds of her cunt, which would be wet as…
Baby stood rapt, enjoying Lati’s performance, and the twins’ reaction to it—they’d keep Lati safely occupied for a while, she was sure, when suddenly—
Lati farted.
Having recently consumed half a toaster oven, an entire fondue pot (including forks), a handful of ball bearings, most of a car axle and an electric can opener—not to mention the hypodermic needle and cappuccino spoon—Lati’s flatulence was no mere triangular ting-ting. If her laughter had been a zesty xylophonic, her fart was a full-on fugue. A harmonic weave of trumpetoids, trombonoids and tympanoids, blowing a shower of gold and bronze sparks into the air. The smell was rather astounding in its own right, a gingery funk with an underlay of oriental spices and a hint of musk.
Doll, who’d sat sullen and impenetrable until that path-breaking, ice-breaking, wind-breaking moment, now cackled with delight, hoo-ing and ha-ing and kicking her legs in the air.
Baby collapsed giggling onto the floor.
Pleased with herself, assured of the full attention of everyone in the room, Lati then scooped up the lighter from the coffee table, turned her back on them all, pulled down her jeans, let go with another doozy—and lit it.
FFFOOOOOM. The violet flame shot forth with a flourish and then extinguished itself with a scorching little riff that seemed to Torquil how the heavy metal band Pantera might sound if they used bells instead of guitars. Lati wriggled her p
lump arse back into her jeans, spun around, buttoned and grinned.
‘Biggest hoon in the yoon,’ cackled Baby.
Torquil and Tristram looked at one another. Torquil gulped. Tristram gasped. Torquil gasped. Tristram gulped.
Love moves in mysterious ways. In this case, it moved Torquil and Tristram to complete and utter surrender.
‘What did the Russian say to the dominatrix?’ asked Torquil.
Tristram blinked. In the next instant they fell to their knees, raised their arms and touched their heads to the floor. ‘I want to be your slav,’ they chorused.
‘Hmph,’ Doll snorted, sprunting out from the clutchy folds of the beanbag and stomping from the room. At this rate, they’d never even move on to drugs.
‘She didn’t like the joke?’ Tristram picked up his head and shot a guilty look at Baby.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ Baby assured him. ‘That’s just Doll. She’ll be right.’ Then, as casually as possible, she added, ‘I’m going to see what’s become of Jake,’ and exited after her.
Lati surveyed the twin set at her feet. ‘If music be the food of love,’ she commanded, ‘play something already.’
In his mind, Torq jumped to his feet, searched efficiently through the pile of CDs by the player and selected a superbly seductive album, Dave Graney’s Soft and Sexy Sounds perhaps, or Vanessa Paradis, or maybe Henry’s Dream, or even whatshisface unplugged. Maybe the Perkins, Walker and Owen thing. Yeah. Perkins, Walker and Owen. He rolled over onto his back and gazed upon Lati with helpless infatuation. What a woman. Did she just ask him to do something? She did, didn’t she? What could it have been? Damn. Oh well. If it was important, she’d probably ask again. Tristram, meanwhile, was thinking Porno for Pyros. What was he doing kneeling on the floor? He raised his plumbummy bones, plodded over to the CD player and found the album. Holding it up, he looked questioningly at Lati.
‘You’ll make great pets,’ she approved.
In their own stoned, stunned way, Torquil and Tristram were besides themselves with lust and fascination. They wanted nothing more than to possess and be possessed by, singly or doubly, this extraterrestrial minx. They had no doubts, no second thoughts, no prior commitments, no real problems with green skin, no reason to hesitate. On the other hand, they were total slackers. So what they did was this: nothing.
Here’s a picture of seduction, slacker-style. Tristram is collapsed loose-limbed on the beanbag, eyes at half-mast. Torquil is passed out on the floor, eyes closed. Lati dances by herself. Many minutes pass. Tristram sits up and reaches for the bong.
‘Hey, space girl,’ he says. ‘You smoke?’
It was awfully quiet up in Eros’ corner of space. Eros didn’t have a lot to do but think. One thing he thought about a lot was crashes and collisions. It was a typical asteroid fetish. Every time some other ‘roid whizzed by, Eros pictured it hurtling into another one and both of them exploding into myriad fragments. In great detail, and over and over again, he imagined that spectacular moment of impact, the exact instant of simultaneous gratification and annihilation, the grand mort of the asteroidal orgasm. But Eros didn’t really fancy the notion of thumping some other ‘roid himself. Eros had bigger plans and more exotic fantasies. Eros wanted to crash into Earth, to thrust into her soft soil and drive through her crunchy rocks, to break through her crust and penetrate her mantle, to shake her to her very core.
That’d impress those babes, hey?
‘Hey, don’t bite it, girl!’ cried Tristram. ‘Just suck on it!’
Torquil’s eyes flew open in alarm. What had he been missing? He looked around anxiously. Lati was seated on the sofa now. Tristram was bending over her, examining the bong for damage.
‘Haven’t you ever pulled cones before? No? You’re kidding. You must be from another planet.’ He handed it back. ‘Sorry. Anyway, you light that, yeah, that’s right, and suck in the smoke from the top. Nice and deep. That’s it. Now hold it in as long as you can before exhaling.’
This turned out to be a very long time indeed. Just as the twins were getting worried, Lati blew the smoke out her ears. In a series of perfectly formed rings.
‘Oh, man,’ sighed Torquil, shaking his head. ‘How do you do what you can do?’
‘I told you. I’m an alien. You just won’t believe me. And I recognise that line, by the way. It’s from Vesuvia. Fear of a Flannel Planet EP.’
‘C’mon, Lati,’ coaxed Tristram. ‘How do you know that?’ The effects of the dope were wearing off, and he was beginning to feel much more clear-headed. Fuck, she was sexy.
Lati shook her head. ‘I told you. I’ve got a perfect memory for music and lyrics, especially with any sort of galactic reference. Just have to hear it once and it’s here.’ She tapped her forehead. ‘And by the way, one of the advantages of being an ayle is that I can read your minds when I feel like it. So, to answer your unspoken questions, sure, Torq, I’m sure I could do that. I’d certainly be willing to give it a go. But you’d have to do the same with another feather boa. And Trist, what you’re thinking also excites me a lot, but you’re going to have to guide me…OH, GOD!’
Yes, Lati?
What the fuck is happening to me, God?
Effects of the drug, Lati. You’ve just been smoking cannabis. Cannabis causes an intense bio-chemical reaction when it enters the Nufonian ichorstream. Prepare to shapeshift a few times and give off a lot of heat. I mean a lot. And, luvvy, don’t forget you’re half Earthling, so expect to be off your tits for at least an hour or so as well. If that’s all, I’ve got a UFO doing 80 googolplex in a 65 zone. Gotta book the bastard before he gets away.
Sure. Thanks. But, hey, hold on a minute. If it’s an Unidentified Flying Object, how do you know it’s a he?
He she it. I still think ‘he’ works as a universal pronoun. Call Me unreconstructed. But the feminists sure were wrong about Me, weren’t they? I get so annoyed when I hear them call Me ‘She’. As if. I just feel like visiting My wrath upon them, you know, smiting them or something.
Lati sighed. You couldn’t argue with God.
I thought you had something to do, she said.
I do. I’m outta here.
Lati blinked. She felt more than usually hot-headed; her antennae felt as though they were burning up. She realised the twins were now staring at her with a far more shocked expression than was warranted merely by the revelation that she had read their naughty minds.
Right before their eyes, Lati appeared to be self-combusting. Her red hair was aflame, and the air around her bent liquid with heat. Her features had begun to mutate: she had Bette Davis eyes, Chrissie Amphlett lips and Salt ‘N’ Pepa thighs; she was Prince in Purple Rain, she was Kurt Cobain; she was You Am I and Faith No More; she was Jim M the Original Door; Annie Lennox and Madonna, Courtney, PJ, and Summers, Donna; she was Velvet as the Underground, a silver CD spinning round…
Doh!
Torquil and Tristram found themselves staring at the CD player, which was emitting a low hiss. They were alone in the room. They were sweating profusely. The windows were steamed up and condensation dripped down the screen of the TV.
Tristram pinched some mull between his fingers and examined it closely. ‘What is this shit?’
Baby, meanwhile, discovered Jake in Torquil’s room, appropriating a sock.
‘I’ve got this theory,’ he remarked as she came in and sat down on the bed beside him. He bent over and pulled on the sock. His big toe protruded through the hole at the top. He studied it as though he’d never seen a toe before. Truth is, Jake, the serial lady-killer of the laid-back set, playful playboy of the Newtown world, was utterly smitten. He was also confused as hell. He had sex with her? And forgot? ‘You know how, like, one sock always goes missing from the pair?’ he remarked. ‘I’m sure that all of the single socks have been sucked into a black hole somewhere in space. The black hole then expels them onto a distant planet where the inhabitants have only one foot.’
‘It’s true,’ she confirmed.
‘The planet’s near Arcturus. I know someone who’s been there. He said that they hold weekly sock hops. They operate the clutch in their spaceships with their noses, which are extremely long, and play Twister by special rules. They don’t feel guilty about the sock gambit cuz they figure if they can get by with one foot, the rest of the yoon can manage with one sock.’
Jake raised his head and studied her. She didn’t seem to be kidding. She stared right back. Eye-contact city. Jake felt like she was hoovering his pupils. With an effort, Jake sucked back his vision and applied it to his boots, which he now laced with full concentration. Baby liked how the lean muscles worked under the freckled skin of his long arms and how the big matted pipes of his hair flipped and flopped about when he moved his head. For his part, hot desire was burning off the marijuana mist in his brain. She read both his desire and his awkwardness and smiled to herself.
‘What’s so funny, space girl?’ Jake had sat up again. His head was now making an uncharacteristically nervous foray into the vicinity of hers. It hovered briefly but the landing gear didn’t seem to be working. Come on, he thought, put down those wheels, you can do it. By now, they were both staring at his hand. As nonchalantly as possible, he reversed the engines and piloted it back to base, where it taxied straight into the hangar of his jeans pocket.
Shit! What now?
Jake was a great believer in diversion therapy.
‘You know,’ he said, addressing her extraordinarily kissable lips, ‘I once took this incredible hash. At first, I thought I was God.’
‘You’re nothing like Him,’ she interjected, wondering why he didn’t seem able to speak his mind, particularly since she was so clearly on it. ‘Really. I know God. Believe me. You couldn’t be more different.’ And thank God for that, so to speak, she thought. Couldn’t really handle two of them.
She knew God? Jake considered the implications of this remark. She couldn’t be a born-again, could she? Born-agains were such a worry. Could never get them into bed and, from his experience, they didn’t even have great taste in restaurants. But he refused to believe that she was a born-again. For one thing, if she were, she’d have knickers on.
