Dating an Alien Pop Star

by Kendra L. Saunders

  I’m standing in line at Starbucks, yawning from the kind of sleepiness that makes your eyes water right through your smudge-resistant black eyeliner, all the while listening to two girls in front of me complain about their love lives. Or, rather, one of the girls moans to the other that she’s been single for, get ready for this… four months!

  Four whole months, and God, isn’t that awful?

  Her friend places one bony hand on her shoulder—complete with talon nails that look like weapons—and makes pitying noises and offers words of encouragement. Together, they probably weigh about the same as one of those giant teddy bears you win at fairs, and both are spray-tanned to the color of a burnt orange crayon. They are probably in their early twenties.

  I console myself with the fact that, despite being three weeks on the wrong side of twenty-nine, and so eternally single that I’ve started getting advertisements in the mail for solo vacations, I’m wearing a very rare vintage Bjork T-shirt, I’m living in the best city on earth, and I will soon be meeting all sorts of wonderful, attractive, and interesting men. With jobs! Men who won’t be anything like the terrible man I dated five years ago and never quite properly recovered from.

  And more importantly, I’m now living in the epicenter of legendary concert venues.

  A few minutes after acquiring an expensive, but much-needed, delicious latte in the largest size I can afford, I assimilate back out into the afternoon masses of Manhattan. I try to ignore the buzzing in my pocket that signals my mom’s daily one PM texts.

  My mom could win an Olympic medal in worrying. She’s always prepared for worst-case scenarios, preaches about stranger danger, and enjoys watching disaster films for ‘research.’ She still hasn’t quite recovered from my decision four months ago to quit my boring office job, take all of my money out of savings, and follow my favorite band around America on their LEMONADE FROM LEMONS tour. I’m pretty sure, according to my aunt, that Mom throws around the phrase “psychotic break” when she talks about that period in my life.

  My subsequent, and penniless, move to NYC caused her to renew her anxiety medication prescription and buy six books about living in the city. Of all the things she’s underlined, circled, and shared with me, including instructions for what to do if you’re mugged and how to escape your apartment if the building catches fire, I think the only thing she hasn’t covered is alien abduction and accidental pregnancy. The latter, especially, is something even she doesn’t worry about, considering that my last real date was… well, five years ago.

  I walk toward my day job on Prince St. in SoHo, thinking of how exactly I’ll handle my day and night jobs tomorrow, considering my schedules overlap by ten minutes. I’m a waitress at my evening job, and I’m fairly certain my boss is Satan’s cousin. He spends most of our interactions calling me rude names or staring at my butt, rather than actually listening to anything I have to say. He also loves to schedule me at times when I’ve told him I’m not physically capable of working. It’s a hobby of his.

  Despite the evil boss and scheduling conflicts, I like my day job at a clothing store and have my eyes on a music shop in the West Village. I’ve sent my resume to the owner twice, stopped by and said hello a number of times, and special-ordered a few rare items to show off my musical prowess. So far, I haven’t been offered the job, and I’ve spent more than I can afford on rare vinyl, but it’ll be worth it in the end. There’s no greater dream than to work in a real record store in New York City. I’d get to wear my favorite vintage music tees and rock-star-off-duty jeans every day. Spend my nights out at concert venues, catching obscure new bands and secret shows from established acts.

  I’ll get it. I just need to be persistent. Maybe tomorrow morning I can pop by there first thing, before work, and remind them of how perfect I’d be for the job. After all, my friend, Kammie, who has lived in the city for a lot longer than I have and even has her own little recording studio, says that persistence is the most important thing in this city—

  A man with shaggy, blond hair reaches out and catches my arm.

  In New York City, you bump into people, elbow them, step on them, and sometimes even punch them without meaning to. It’s just how it is. But usually, no one full on grabs your arm, unless you've wandered into Brownsville. My first thought, thanks to Mom, is that I’m about to be mugged and murdered and my body will end up somewhere in Central Park, discovered weeks later because desperate pigeons have been munching on it. My second thought is that I’m not even wearing a good outfit today, and everyone who’s found dead in Central Park has a chance of ending up on the news.

  The guy smiles at me, a big, toothy smile, and then I’m suddenly surrounded on all sides by a ring of intimidating men in suits, full out like something from the movies. They part, briefly, for a brown-haired man wearing an oversized, fluffy purple sweater and black skinny jeans. And sunglasses. I’ve never seen an outfit like this outside of fashion magazines from the ‘90s and strange Japanese movies, especially not on a man. Even one as strangely handsome as this one.

  “Ah, you’re right, she’s better than the other two we considered,” the shaggy-haired one says in a drawling English accent. He smiles at me, but his fuzzy companion just scowls.

  “Ask her where David Bowie is.”

  “My name is Devon London,” the shaggy-haired one says. Between the ridiculous name and his glowing, golden-kissed skin, he strikes me as a playboy billionaire on holiday. “And this is Griffin Valentino. We’d like to know where David Bowie gets his coffee.”

  “David Bowie?”

  “Yes, David Bowie. Where does he get his coffee?”

  “I… I’m not sure, actually,” I finally say.

  “This is Manhattan, is it not?” Griffin demands, pursing his pouty lips and picking at the fuzzy sleeves of his purple sweater with the precision of a full-tilt diva.

  I glance between them, my tone hesitant. “Yes.”

  “Then why is it so difficult for us to find out where David Bowie gets his coffee?”

  After a lot of careful consideration, I stammer, “I’m not sure. New York is big, and I-I’ve never seen David Bowie. I’m sorry.”

  Suddenly, I imagine a news anchor telling everyone I’ve been murdered by two obsessed stalkers of David Bowie. It isn’t really the way I want to make headlines.

  Griffin snaps his fingers, and Devon turns around to face him. “Why doesn’t she know where David Bowie is? Is it really that difficult? This planet’s tiny.”

  “We’ll find him. Don’t worry,” Devon says with a heavy sigh.

  At this point, I feel more confused than afraid, like when you dive too deep into YouTube and end up on a fourteen-minute video about the Illuminati hiring Prince as a secret assassin for the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

  “Why do you want to find David Bowie so bad?” I ask. Devon and Griffin turn to stare at me. Or, rather, I think Griffin stares at me. His sunglasses envelop his small, pointy face a bit too fully to confirm anything other than the existence of his killer bone structure. It would take most people half an hour and a professional makeup artist with a degree in contouring to create cheekbones that impressive. “I mean, everyone’s looked for David Bowie once or twice in their life, but they don’t actually expect to find him.”

  “David Bowie claims to be from another planet,” Griffin says, marching forward until we’re almost toe to toe. He stands only a few inches taller than I do, maybe just over five-and-a-half feet, but his presence feels impressive. “I’ve done my research and as far as I can determine, he’s from your planet. Born and raised and all that. I want to find him and question him.” Griffin shrugs. “Also, I’d like him to sign my Ziggy Stardust record. So where is he?”

  “I have no idea!”

  “She’s no help at all,” Griffin says, his face twitching a bit. He thumps Devon on the chest with one hand. “He’s one of the most famous beings on this planet! How hard should it be for someone to tell us where he is? You certainly have a knack for digging
up the dullest of creatures, Dev.”

  Devon’s eyes narrow. “Now watch it. You’re the one who chose her.”

  “Yeah, watch it!” I say. “I’m not dull, and both of you are crazy. I’d like to leave now.”

  If I can just break through the circle of scary people, I can make a clean getaway. Maybe, I think.

  “You can’t, Wanda,” Griffin says.

  “Wanda?”

  Griffin’s angular face twists up into a satisfied expression. “Your name is Wanda, is it not?”

  “No, and I don’t think anyone else’s name is Wanda either.”

  The smile slides off Griffin’s face. “Your name is… Danielle.”

  “No.”

  “It’s Veronica.”

  “No.”

  “Damn it! Wait. Your name is Wanda, isn’t it?”

  “My name is not Wanda. My name is Daisy Kirkwood, and I need to go to work.”

  “No, Daisy, we need you for a few important tasks,” Devon says, stepping between Griffin and me. “Don’t worry about the David Bowie thing; we’ll sort that out later, somehow. For now, you’re going to help Griffin put together the rest of his wardrobe. We bought a few things earlier.” Devon motions at Griffin’s outfit. “I’m not sure we’re on the right track, as you can see.”

  As much as I should make a run for it, some part of me can’t help feeling a bit curious. “Wardrobe?”

  “We’re visiting your planet and have some work to do,” Devon says in a very reasonable tone, as if he’s explaining something to a small child. “We figure the best way to do so is to achieve a bit of public attention and adoration.”

  They’re crazy. Truly crazy. I just hope they’re not the cannibal kind of, ‘take you into a dark alley and eat you’ crazy. “And how were you planning to do that?”

  “I’m going to become a British pop icon, obviously,” Griffin says. “They’re the most powerful people on this planet.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe you’re really aliens?”

  “We’re not aliens!” Griffin says. “We live elsewhere from here. You’re the aliens, if you want to get technical about it. Your planet is tiny, polluted, and hasn’t even been around that long. We’ve existed for loads longer. We’re the superior beings.” He hesitates then and looks almost apologetic. “Well, you have better clothes, I suppose.”

  Devon nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “So that’s that, Daisy Kirkwood. You’re going to be our human assistant for a while. Congratulations. Griffin’s about to become the most famous person on your planet.”

  The entourage of scary dudes in suits begins to move around us like a donut of tailored intimidation, pressing us forward, and I have no choice but to follow Griffin and Devon. From behind, they look a bit like eccentric birds, especially since Griffin repeatedly bounces on his heels and points at things, letting out exclamations of surprise, and his brown hair sticks up at the back of his head. Devon laughs at his antics, and everyone seems to entirely forget my existence.

  This is so not cool.

  Even as I plot manners of escape, our group halts and I run full into Griffin, all but toppling him over. He wheels around. “Don’t step on these shoes!” he says, with the exact frantic tone of someone who’s standing on the edge of a cliff. “They’re Ferragamo!”

  I glance down at the sparkly, gold shoes on his feet. “Sorry,” I finally say. “Anyway, we need to talk about what’s going on here.”

  “You’re going to help me dress like a pop star.”

  “No, I mean, you think you’re an alien, and a British alien at that, Doctor Who style. There’s no such thing as aliens.”

  “Listen, Wanda, I’ve already told you that I’m not alien. You’re the alien. Now, should I stop at Christian Siriano’s place or is he any good?”

  “My name isn’t Wanda!”

  “I want lots of gold, lots of sparkle, and some trench coats. Maybe Burberry. Maybe Siriano.”

  This is too much for me. “You’re an alien, but you know who Siriano is? What, do you keep up to date with Project Runway on your planet?”

  “As a famous English pop star, I need to know as much about fashion as possible. Balenciaga would be good. Where can I get some of that? I want lots of Versace, too. That’s a requirement for my career.”

  Devon nods, though with an element of distraction. His eyes keep wandering about, to the sky, to the bodyguards, to me, and back to Griffin.

  “Just how do you expect to be a famous English pop star when no one’s ever heard of you?” I demand. “I’m obsessed with music. I listen to it all day! I’ve been to a ton of concerts. And you know what? I’ve never heard of you.”

  Griffin’s lips twitch just a little and then he bursts into laughter, which only makes Devon laugh, too. “No one’s ever heard of me? They will in about an hour, darling. Now, Christian Siriano, yes or no?”

  My face flames with embarrassment, anxiety, and that little bit of gritty New York City pollution I still haven’t adjusted to. “If you’re an alien, prove it,” I say. “If you can prove it, I’ll help you pick out any clothes you want. In fact, I’ll help you become famous.”

  I fully expect him to turn down my offer, or at least mull it over, but Griffin just shrugs.

  “Done,” he says, snapping his fingers.

  A song, remarkably catchy even from the first listen, washes over me from the open door of a nearby shop. I’ve never heard it before but it feels familiar, like a favorite song from the past, and then I hear the same song pouring from a shop a few doors down. And then another. The song envelops us from all sides. When I finally look at Griffin again, he’s smirking behind his oversized sunglasses.

  “Good, isn’t it? But not good enough yet.” He pushes a few of the tall, scary guys aside and steps out into the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk. When he catches the arm of a middle-aged woman wearing ugly glasses and sweatpants under a puffy jacket, they stare at each other for all of three seconds before the woman’s face lights up.

  “You’re him!” she says. “You made this song!”

  “I did. Do you like it?”

  “It’s been my favorite song for…” She pauses, squinting. “Errr… for… for… for… well, for a long time, I think! A long time.”

  At this point, Griffin’s casting satisfied little glances in my direction. “Would you like my autograph?” he asks, and the woman nearly pees herself in her hurry to dig a pen and paper from her overflowing book bag. Only seconds later, she’s joined by other gawkers and fans, all of them clamoring to get Griffin’s attention, autograph, and photograph.

  After a few seconds of getting fawned over, Griffin waves his hands. “Go away now, all of you,” he says, and they slowly walk away, each of them with a dazed expression on their face. Griffin walks back to me and places his hands on his bony hips. “Now. You’re going to help me find some Balenciaga.”

  I’ve been kidnapped by aliens.