The Sky Pirates of Gur

by Donald Broyles

  **

  “Are you crazy!” Margaret scolded. She held a spatula in her left hand. “People in the toilet? Wherever do you get such wild nonsense?” Her brows knit together in consternation and disbelief.

  I took another bite of buttered toast and then said, chewing slowly so as not to lose any food: “I’m telling you, Margaret, I heard them. They’re there, and they need me. They told me that the future of their land depends upon me.”

  “A likely story,” she said. She looked at me askance, giving me that same kind of glance when I had crashed my motorcycle against the pine tree in our yard last year. It was true that I had imbibed a bit too much alcohol at the faculty party given by Professor Mortman, the dean at Miami University. What can one do, however, when confronted by a bar stocked with such variety? I didn’t want to appear rude, especially since Professor Mortman (a persnickety fellow with a receding hairline) was oftentimes cantankerous in his behavior toward his fellow colleagues. My nemesis, Professor Jason N. Gridley was there, as well. His specialty is ‘Indigenous Studies and Post-Colonial Literatures,’ not to mention the author of three books of fanciful romances that take place on an alien planet comprised of vast jungles and irate natives; but, as I said, I had indulged a bit too much that afternoon and was feeling restless and combative. I once attempted to read one of Gridley’s books (in private, of course), but found his characters to be hopelessly clichéd, without one shred of redeeming value. There were no sex scenes, either, which put them at a distinct disadvantage to what the reading pubic demanded of its current bestsellers.

  “Nevertheless,” I said, undeterred, “I’m going to do all that I can to help them.”

  Margaret made a ‘tsking’ sound and turned around to face the stove. She was dressed in a polyester muumuu, one with numerous sunflower designs on a purple backdrop. The floral patterns were so numerous and bright that I could feel my eyeballs starting to bleed.

  “Since you’ll be involved with the toilet, you can clean it,” she said simply, zeroing in on one of my most dreaded chores. She opened one of the closet doors in the hall and withdrew the broom, dustpan, and a bucket overflowing with liquid cleaners and sponges and plopped them all next to the kitchen table. “There. That should do it.”

  Since an argument was at most a losing battle, I decided to finish my omelet, toast, and orange juice without further comment.