by Dave Smeds
Most of the stories in this collection are awfully serious. My wife will tell you this one is more like the sort she figured I wrote when she first got to know me but hadn’t yet read any of my fiction.
How the world has changed since I wrote this in the mid-1980s. Back then, the phrase “snail mail” had barely been coined (not counting its earlier usage just after the telegram first came into wide use). It would be years more before I had an email account. The mail was the mail. It was a thing of paper and postage stamps. And if you were a freelance writer, it could be months or even years before publishers coughed up the payments that had long since fallen due.
FOREIGNERS
We warned them foreigners not to go messing around up on Muledeer Ridge, but they wouldn’t listen. Now look what’s happened.
I remember I was down at Casey’s store when they come in. You never seen such a sight as them two. They were young enough — maybe thirty or so — but I ain’t never seen grown men look more like a pair of women, all pasty soft skin and pot bellies, not a lick of muscle on ’em. Their backpacks was those new synthetic jobs, all shiny and hunter-safety orange and smelling like new vinyl. Their boots had never seen a speck of dirt since they was made. They had enough camping gear in the back of their jeep to sleep a whole commune of hippies.
The first one come up to the counter, squinting at me through a pair of bottle-bottom glasses. “Do you have any batteries for my torch?” he said, talking all stiff and formal, like them Nazis in them World War II movies.
“Batteries for what?” Casey said.
He held up a flashlight.
“You foreigners, ain’t you?” I asked.
He turned to me, a little wrinkle in his forehead, like he was afraid I was going to make something of it. When he saw I didn’t mean no harm, he said, “Yes. I am a Czech. My friend is a Pole.”
“Fancy that,” Casey said, taking the fella over to the rack of batteries. “What in tarnation you doing all the way up here?”
“The sightings,” the man said. His buddy just stood there next to us. I don’t think he understood American.
“My colleague and I have come to investigate.”
Casey and I looked at each other. “You fixing to go up on Muledeer Ridge?” Casey asked them.
“Yes. That was the place,” the Czech answered, holding up a map. “We will spend a month there.”
Casey was shaking his head real slow. “You don’t want nothing to do with that place. Folks has messed with them U.F.O. things before. Never come to no good.”
“We are scientists. We must go,” the Czech said, and he sounded mighty sure of himself. Casey and me didn’t say nothing until they done paid for their batteries and climbed back in their jeep. That Pole drove like he never seen a motor vehicle before last week.
“Damn fools,” Casey muttered.
o0o
It was about four days later that we knew something was up. Some tourist backpacker come through town and told us he seen the jeep that the Czech and the Pole had used, sitting in the woods with nobody around it. That weren’t so strange, except that a lot of the equipment was still in it, and it looked like a bear had been through the food. When Sheriff Baker heard the story, he called me and Casey and a couple of the other boys together, and we hightailed it up to the ridge.
We found the jeep right away, no problem. It was just like the tourist said. What the bear hadn’t got to, the flies and the ants was finishing off.
“Well, they didn’t go far,” the sheriff said. “Here’s their tent,” holding up a flap of green nylon.
We found the camp only a hundred yards off. The foreigners had laid out a fire and tossed down their sleeping bags, but neither had been touched.
“Will you look at that?" Casey said.
Right in the middle of the camp was a track like nothing I’d ever laid eyes on before. It was wide and flat, with three pointy toes, bigger than an elephant’s. Pretty soon we found more. They led right to the crest of Muledeer Ridge, right to the spot where some of the townfolk had been seeing them funny lights now and again.
We got out rifles and followed them prints on up the hill. We found them at the top.
They were the biggest, ugliest things God’s Earth ever did see. Sort of like giant frogs — all naked and green — with mouths that must’ve been three feet wide, except they walked upright like human beings, and wore some funny looking belts full of buttons and gizmos. We figured one was a female and the other a male, cause the one of them had something dangling between its legs and the other one didn’t.
I don’t know who started shooting first, but it weren’t long till we all did. That female never knew what hit her. The male must’ve took five hits right in the chest and a couple more in the butt as he scooted up the ramp into his U.F.O. I guess we didn’t kill him, because he fired that sucker up and buzzed off over the horizon like a hummingbird with a tail wind.
It took nerve to make us walk up to the female’s body. God, but it stank. It was leaking green goo out of the bullet wounds. Still, when we saw the bulge in its belly, we knew what we had to do.
I took out my hunting knife. It only took one big slice, and the female’s innards plopped out all over the pine needles. Sure enough, inside was the Pole, sort of half digested and not quite all together. I stepped back so I wouldn’t get no slime on my boots.
“Well, I guess that about decides it,” the sheriff said. “It’s plain as the nose on your face. The Czech is in the male.”
Return to Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION TO “THE COOKIE JAR”
I mentioned one of the inspirations for this story in the introduction to “Termites.” I wanted to come up with something that explored the future that might exist once localizers, the inventions of my friends Bob Fleming and Cherie Kushner, come into widespread use. That the devices will become part of our everyday lives, along with the other halfway-here-already technologies referred to in the story, I have no doubt. The question is of course whether that will be a good thing or not.
It’s odd, but whenever I re-read “The Cookie Jar,” I react to it almost as if it were an autobiographical work, which it most certainly is not. I have never been in the protagonist’s shoes. He doesn’t speak for me. In fact, of all the stories contained in Futures Near and Far, only “Fearless” gets so personal that I could even begin to say any character is me in disguise. But “The Cookie Jar” takes me back to certain places, things, and people who were part of my life. 1) I chose Seattle as the setting in tribute to my first visit to the city, which was in order to attend World Fantasy Con in 1989. During lulls in the con, my friend Sheri Cohen and I wandered Pike Place Market, Ye Olde Curiosity Shop, Pioneer Square, and more, pausing at a host of espresso outlets. I was charmed by the ambience. By the flight back to California, I had the peculiar sense that I had visited there many times. 2) The mime motif came about as a nod toward fellow Santa Rosa resident Eliot Fintushel, who is not only an author of gonzo science fiction stories but whose main gig when I met him was that of a professional (government funded) street performer. 3) The flashback sequence set in the creek is a composite of several real locales. For some reason nearly all my life I have lived next to a creek, though at no point have I planned it that way.
THE COOKIE JAR
Bill dreamed of the dogs again. First, the terrier. Little more than a mutt, it capered over a suburban lawn at dusk, imbued with energy in spite of its protruding ribs, its matted fur, its bloodied and torn ear. It had no one to care for it. No owner. Its dinners consisted of scraps stolen from garbage cans.
Inside the house, a dachshund stood on its hind legs, peering out of the living room view window at the terrier. It yipped and danced on manicured toes, its coat freshly brushed, its personalized collar jingling. Its stomach bulged slightly from the meal recently served by its master. It had everything a dog could want — except to be outside right at that moment, playing with the chewed-up tennis ball the terrier had found
beneath the winter-blighted quince.
Hunger drove Bill to consciousness. The dream faded. Peeling away his blanket, he rolled off his pile of cardboard. His muscles complained, yet the cardboard was better than concrete, and the warehouse, vast and unheated as it was, fended off the rain and wind. He stood and tried to stretch. The mist of his breath trailed up toward the distant rafters, where the pigeons cooed their good mornings. His footsteps echoed as he shuffled to the restroom.
The toilet worked, as did the cold water tap. By month’s end the warehouse’s legitimate tenant would no doubt return for his stacks of empty pallets, do the final cleaning, and shut off the utilities. Bill filled the sink, stripped, took out his cherished washcloth, and began scrubbing his body. The process set his teeth to chattering, but he did a thorough job. The better he smelled, the closer he could approach the tourists.
Restoring his socks and thermal longjohns, he gained control of his shivers. He inhaled the whole-wheat roll he had saved for breakfast, washed it down with water, and hurried to prepare himself for the streets.
Delving into his make-up kit, he debated what to be today. Clown or mime? His tips were bigger as a clown, but the other choice required less make-up, fewer props. Also, his mime togs were less wrinkled. Done. With a wig, a fake mustache, and a bit of whiteface, he transformed himself into an updated version of Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp.
The one part of his clown gear he included was his harmonica. Stuffing touch-up cosmetics in his fanny pack, he placed his remaining possessions in his battered rucksack and exited the restroom.
Keys rattled in a lock on the far side of the building. Bill leaped behind a screen of pallets, adrenaline surging. The creak of hinges was still echoing across the cavernous interior when he reached the loose board, pushed it aside, and squeezed onto the deserted loading dock.
His blanket remained behind on the pile of cardboard. Bill cursed.
He rounded the building and blended into the world of sidewalks and storefronts, struggling to maintain his I belong here aura. The commute hour was in full swing, and though traffic was light in this part of town, Bill shrank from each passing vehicle. It was the rucksack. He never liked carrying it in the open. It marked him as homeless.
Relief settled upon him as he turned into a refuse-laden alley. An unshaven, middle-aged scarecrow of a man, prosthetic foot jutting from his trouser leg and Purple Heart medal glinting on his khaki shirt, sat in a large crate that had been turned on its side against one of the buildings and covered with a tarp. The veteran nodded as Bill wedged his burden into the gap between the crate and the brick wall.
“Morning, Jimmy.”
“Sleeping late this fine day?” the man scolded, tilting his thumb at the sun, which had cleared the rooftops to the east to shine directly on the crate, bringing a welcome and remarkably substantial dose of warmth.
“Fate has made me rich, and I live a life of ease.”
“Must’ve found a spot indoors. And you didn’t let me know?”
“Too late now, I think.” The warehouse was too risky for further use, though he would try recovering the blanket assuming the tenant failed to notice it and the loose board. “Next time.”
Jimmy spat. He did it to the side, but Bill winced. He needed the veteran. Jimmy provided a base of operations. Thin and ragged though the old guy was, he had the skills to defend this turf from scavengers. Over the past month, Jimmy had often guarded Bill’s rucksack like he watched Claude’s spare boots and Zach’s valise of mementoes. In return, Bill and Claude and Zach and other transients were supposed to share whatever bounty they turned up, saving the vet the annoyance of clomping around the city with a bum foot.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Bill promised.
“Eh,” Jimmy said, spitting again and waving him off.
Unsure whether the man was reassuring him no-harm-done or spurning the apology, Bill’s sense of security remained unsettled as he said his farewell and headed downtown.
o0o
Riders on the bus glanced sideways at his appearance. Bill hoped they were seeing a mime, not a bum, but all that really mattered was that he didn’t have to add more wear to his deteriorating shoes. Seattle’s hotel tax law had been reinstated, restoring the Ride Free Area, and far be it from him to ignore the gift.
Pike Place Market bustled with activity on this Indian Summer morning. He stationed himself outside — not so near an entrance as to be asked to move away — and brought out the harmonica. The crowd flowed around him as he played. He made his eyes sparkle, wiggled his eyebrows, and generally assumed as non-threatening and accessible an image as possible. Most passersby nodded or grinned but did not break stride. A few lingered, if only to hear the end of a tune.
One little girl seemed uncertain whether to be frightened of such a strange vision in white face and Hitlerian mustache. Slipping the harmonica into his fanny pack, Bill executed a sudden pratfall.
The child beamed. The mother squeezed the girl’s shoulder approvingly. Bill lured them to stay longer by pretending to have lost his nose in the tumble and to be searching all over for it — including intimations that he was going to look for it up the dress of the three hundred pound matron who was waddling by.
The little girl clapped. The mother, white teeth flashing as she absorbed and echoed her daughter’s pleasure, slid her wallet out of her purse, keyed in an amount and a clearance code, and held out the device so that Bill could plug in his own and download the tip.
Bill sighed. “I don’t use e-money.”
The mother’s smile faded. “What do you mean? It’s the only kind that’s safe, you know.” She left her wallet outstretched.
“Not for me,” Bill replied. “If you don’t have any paper cash, I wouldn’t mind some of those apples over there.” He pointed to the fruit stand inside the nearest entrance.
Abruptly the mother shoved her wallet out of sight, grabbed her child’s arm, and hurried away. She glanced back only once, as if to make sure Bill was not following. She did not stop at the fruit stand.
Bill growled under his breath. He pulled out the harmonica and started over. With luck, the next prospect would be less easily spooked. Physical currency was still legitimate, after all, no matter how overwhelmingly e-money had replaced it.
A man stopped. Instantly Bill concentrated, because the fellow was carrying a huge sack brimming with steamed crab. Fruits and veggies were easily won, but a crab would be a coup, a bounty to share with Jimmy. He launched into his routine of man-checking-out-fabulous-babes, in which he was aided by the timely passage of three University of Washington co-eds out enjoying the unseasonal sunny weather.
The man guffawed and moved on, offering Bill nothing.
o0o
The late afternoon bus dropped Bill off many blocks from the alley, leaving him to trudge the final distance. The earnings in his fanny pack consisted of a banana, two candy bars, and a package of Kleenex.
The latter was a prize because it could double as toilet paper, but he had expected a better haul from such a high-traffic day. He hadn’t even been able to acquire a cup of coffee, and this was Seattle, where such deprivation was supposed to be impossible.
Mumbling the lyrics to an ancient Hootie and the Blowfish tune, eyes directed at the jet stream-tossed clouds encroaching across Elliott Bay, Bill barely saw a boy dash out of a laundromat up ahead, yet immediately his attention was claimed. In his former life he had never noticed kids, but children were a mime’s best audience. Parents — despite the woman at the market — were his easiest marks.
The boy, no more than six years old, squatted down behind a large pebble-and-concrete trash receptacle. He was plainly visible to Bill, but completely out of sight from the laundromat door.
The youngster fidgeted, but held his place. A stern-faced woman emerged. She checked the device on her wrist and strode immediately to the boy’s hiding place, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him back inside.
Bill eased forward at h
is former pace, pausing as he came opposite the laundromat window. He knew the layout; he had bummed washes here before. The boy was sitting against the far wall, chin on his fists, resignedly watching clothes spin in the dryers as his mother cleaned lint screens and folded finished items.
Eventually the child noticed Bill and grinned at his sad sack, Chaplinesque pose. As the mom bent over to pick up a dropped sock, Bill summoned his full thespian flair and, in pantomime, kicked the woman in the ass.
The kid giggled. His mother frowned. Bill ducked out of view before she turned toward the street. He rose again just long enough to exchange a wink with the boy, then resumed his journey.
It took only a few steps before his smile faded, claimed by the forces of memory.
o0o
“I’ll be right back, William,” his mother said, heading out the front door with a basket of laundry in her arms. “Then I’ll check to see if you’ve cleaned that room of yours.”
She always called him William. Bill was “too informal, too undistinguished.”
“Yes, Mom,” he replied from the top of the stairs.
His room was clean. At least, it would qualify as such if Dad did the inspection. “He’s seven fucking years old, Lucy. He doesn’t know how to make his bed with a hospital tuck.” In any case, William had anticipated this moment too long to waste it puzzling out which toy belonged on which shelf.
He ran to the window in his parents’ bedroom, confirming that his mother was entering the laundry room across the apartment complex parking lot. How he had hated being dragged in there whenever she had clothes to wash, but now that she had finally agreed he was old enough to remain inside alone, wash day was liberation. It was the one time when the apartment was his.
Hurrying to the utility closet, he pulled his father’s old magnifying glass from the tool chest. The broken handle threatened to stab his palm, but he held the object carefully. Just as warily, he climbed atop Mom’s grand piano and perched beneath the print that hung on the wall behind it.
