Analog SFF, July-August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  There was a smaller box attached to one side of the bottom, with a tiny slot labeled “ALIEN” with an arrow. Bubba found this not only comforting, but fitting.

  “So, what happened to the original one?"

  Bubba shrugged. “Sold it on eBay, I heard. Probably got a gazillion dollars for it. You know these saucer nuts."

  “Oh, yeah, rich as Croesus, every one of them. That's why you're swimming in dues. Come on, let's go. You promised me a special dinner, whatever it might be."

  “Ain't so much what as where, Mr. Da Frog. Let us motivate."

  They got back in the truck and set off down the ET Highway, passing mile after mile of scrub desert with mountains off in the distance. Presently they saw a tiny group of white buildings coming up on the left. Bubba pointed it out and said, “Ah, yes. We're almost there."

  “Where?"

  “Right here,” Bubba said, pulling off the road by a group of long, aluminum trailers. “The saucer-nut's home away from home—the Little A'Le'Inn. C'mon, boy, let's grab us some chow and a room.” Pulling a canvas bag from behind the seat, Bubba swung down from the cab and began walking toward the door past a strange-looking block of concrete and metal, which was surmounted by a plaque that bore the characters “ID4."

  “In a trailer?” Jaw slack with confusion, Kermit followed his friend to the little café. “And what's that thing?” he asked, pointing at the block.

  “Time capsule left here by that movie you didn't like, the one with Judd Hirsch. Don't just stand there gawkin’ at it, I thought you was hungry."

  It was cool inside the Little A'Le'Inn, by whichever definition you chose. Aliens and UFOs hung everywhere, singly and in clusters. There were racks of T-shirts, and near the back wall was a treasure-trove of UFO/alien souvenirs unlike that seen anywhere this side of Antares; this was the ET Highway version of the world's greatest Stuckey's, with plush Zeta-Reticuli grays and bobble-head aliens in place of rubber tomahawks and pecan log rolls.

  There was a bar to the right, populated by individuals who looked as though they'd grown into (or out of) their stools; Bubba immediately pegged them as locals. He felt very much at home.

  Approaching the bar, he nodded to the others, who nodded back. “Excuse me,” he said to the barkeep. “Might Ms. Markell be here this evenin'?"

  The bartender, busy filling a pitcher with Coors, motioned to the other part of the café. “In there,” he said. “Something cold?"

  “Damn straight,” Bubba replied. “Gimme a pitcher of whatever's on tap, and set these other gentlemen up on my tab.” Trailing a chorus of thank-yous, he made his way to the restaurant. A stout, happy woman was serving a table full of tourists, expertly laying their plates in front of them without spilling a drop. He waited until she was through and on her way back to the kitchen before speaking.

  “Pardon me, ma'am, are you Trish Markell?"

  “All my life,” she said with a laugh. “You're new here, aren't you?"

  “Actually, ma'am, I been waiting since I was born to come here, but for the moment, yes'm, I'm new. Name of Bubba Pritchert, from Central Garage in the Commonwealth of Virginia. This here,” he pointed at Kermit behind him with his thumb, “is my faithful non-Indian companion, Kermit. Kermit, this is one of the owners of this fine establishment. We're drivin’ back across the US of A from Giant Rock, Miz Markell."

  “Just call me Trish, please. Giant Rock? Boy, that brings back memories. There's a lot of people come through here who'd go light in the head just from the mention."

  “Myself included, Trish, I assure you."

  “Well, Mr. Pritchert from the Commonwealth of Virginia, what can I do for you tonight?” she asked.

  “We'd like to take our supper here, and we're needin’ a place to sleep for the night as well. You got a room free?"

  “Free, hell, it'll cost you forty bucks,” she laughed. “But the sheets are freshly washed, and the TV works. No cable, but there's DVDs up at the front counter. Watch the AC, it tends to run a little cold. I think we got an empty double-wide if you don't mind sharing."

  “We can do that. Any table do?"

  “Wherever you can find one, big fella, is fine and dandy."

  Bubba and Kermit sat, and a few minutes later a frosty pitcher was placed in front of them as they looked the menu over. Bubba went for chicken-fried steak with some of Trish's homemade biscuits and gravy (praising them highly and asking for seconds), while Kermit declared that he could get that stuff anywhere, and ordered the specialty, an Alien Burger; a thick burger on a French roll with a “secret alien sauce.” He declined Bubba's suggestion to ask Trish if it were, in Bubba's words, “squoze from aliens,” telling his elder companion that he could damn well make a fool of his own self. Marble cake, made fresh that day, finished the meal to perfection.

  Afterward, the two men sat back, belts loosened and utterly satisfied. One of the truckers a few tables away had a guitar in hand, and was struggling to play something vaguely Hank Williams-ish; his lack of skill made it difficult to tell if it was Senior or Junior.

  “Freemont, if you can't play that thing any better'n that,” Trish bellowed, “give it to some other diesel-jockey."

  The trucker shrugged and looked around. Nobody seemed anxious to take it over.

  “Hey, hippie,” Kermit whispered across the table to his friend. “You play, don't you?"

  “Been known to, but I dunno ... ain't nobody here knows me but you. I'd be ... you know, embarrassed."

  “Oh, come on. With all that weird music you got out there in the truck, you have to be able to play something decent."

  “Hell, Woody. I can barely remember all the words to ‘Michael Knows the Bowling Score,’ much less anything else. I really don't..."

  “Hey, Trish!” Kermit called out. “My buddy here knows some songs. Some of them,” he added, grinning evilly at Bubba, “might even be fit for mixed company."

  “Sounds like a plan, youngster,” Trish said, bringing the guitar to the table. “Tell you what, Slim, you play as good as you eat, your dinners are on the house.” She handed the guitar to him. “C'mon, show us what you got."

  “Hem. Well, unaccustomed as I am to performing in public this close to a secret gummint UFO-testing base, I'll give it my best shot.” Taking the old instrument from her, he turned it over carefully in his hands. It was a Guild D-55, a beautiful old dreadnaught with a sunburst finish. The space above the pick guard was worn from years of playing, and the back was scratched by innumerable belt buckles.

  He strummed a C chord, pleased at the depth of the tone. He did a quick run up the fingerboard to get a feel of the action, and was delighted by the fast response. “Okay,” he said. “Hell of an axe, here.” He sat back a little and looked out at the other patrons. “Here's a little tune called ‘He Didn't Like Her Apartment, So He Knocked Her Flat,'” then lit into an old Homer and Jethro song called “Don't Let The Stars Get In Your Eyes If You've Got Water on the Brain.” Several of those present laughed and clapped in recognition. He followed this with a medley of some of the better-known Mad Magazine parodies, and finished with a heartfelt rendition of Barnes and Barnes’ “A Day in the Life of Green Acres."

  The resulting applause was sprinkled with shouts of “Encore!” so he led the other diners in a singalong version of “Hey, Mister Spaceman” by the Byrds, really punching it on the choruses.

  Bubba stood and bowed, then handed the Guild back to the café's owner. “Thanks, ma'am,” he said. “I haven't done that in way too long."

  “Bubba, that was terrific. Tell you what, not only is your grub free, but you and your friend are gonna get yourselves free ‘Little A'Le'Inn’ T-shirts."

  Bubba laughed delightedly. “That's very kind of you, Trish, and I b'lieve I got a Saucer Nuts of America shirt that would fit you somewhere in this little bag here."

  “You're that SauNA guy? Damn, son, I wondered if you'd ever make it out here. I'll be happy to have one of your shirts, I'll hang it up on the back wall."
/>
  Bubba and Kermit decided that it was time to turn in, so they went to the counter to pick out a DVD and went to their assigned trailer. After watching “Six-String Samurai,” they washed up and got ready to sleep. “And so to bed,” Bubba thought to himself. “I wonder what tomorrow will bring?"

  And the Black (now white) Mailbox and the T-shirt were the first day.

  * * * *

  DAY TWO

  Rachel, Nevada to Salt Lake City, Utah

  Total estimated time:

  8 hours and 39 minutes

  Total distance: 428.91 miles

  * * * *

  Somewhere in the vast Bureau of Land Management-managed Nevada desert, they stopped at an ancient clapboard shack to gas up and get ice cream and sodas. Bubba spied something in a dingy glass case at the back; it would not be an exaggeration to say that his heart rate quickened and his pupils dilated. After a lengthy, intense exchange of whispers punctuated by much gesticulation and emphatic (if veiled) threats and insults, an undisclosed amount of money changed hands, and Bubba, suffused with triumph and inordinately pleased with himself, carried a tattered cardboard box that had once held thirty-weight back out to the truck.

  Kermit looked back at the box where it sat on the rear bench seat. “Um ... I give up. What is it?"

  “One of the most precious things known to mankind, Kermit. Something many primitive cultures use as a medium of currency. Go ahead,” he said proudly. “Take a look."

  Kermit reached back and opened the carton, then peered inside. “What the hell...?” he exclaimed. “A box of ... frogs?"

  “Five-man stuffed-frog bands, m'boy,” Bubba said with a grin. “All the way from Mexico."

  “Mexican stuffed-frog bands."

  “None other than.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “You hardly ever see anything but the three-man of the species. This,” he said glowingly, “is a five-man band.” He shrugged. “Two of ‘em, actually. A decuple, if you will."

  “I won't. I'm going to pretend this never happened."

  And the ice cream and the Mexican stuffed frog bands were the second day.

  * * * *

  DAY THREE

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  to Cheyenne, Wyoming

  Total estimated time:

  7 hours and 10 minutes

  Total distance: 428.96 miles

  * * * *

  Just outside of Table Rock, Wyoming, they stopped at an Indian Trading Post. There Bubba purchased a complete set of Simpsons kachina dolls, guaranteed to have been hand-carved from cottonwood roots by Hopi craftsmen. The Mr. Burns doll was especially lifelike. Sitting in the shade outside, they examined the dolls while drinking ice water and eating tacos freshly made by the trader's Arapaho wife. They were delicious, and both had second helpings. The day was bright, hot enough that the shade was necessary but not so hot that the shade was no relief.

  After they ate, Bubba amused their hosts (and an audience of tourists and locals) by acting out a classic Simpson's episode with the dolls, doing all the voices himself and laying it on particularly thick whenever Homer said “D'oh!” At one point, both Kermit and the trading post owner were gasping for breath and holding their sides. Finally, though, the two Gentlemen of Virginia said their farewells and went back on the road.

  And the kachinas and the tacos were the third day.

  * * * *

  DAY FOUR

  Cheyenne, Wyoming

  to Lincoln, Nebraska

  Total estimated time:

  7 hours and 17 minutes

  Total distance: 444.85 miles

  * * * *

  At a truck stop, Bubba very carefully and deliberately cut nine compact disks into small pieces with a pair of shears as Kermit looked on and nodded in approval. The artists and album titles were not recorded. Their decision to not go through the racks of cassettes and CDs at the counter was just as careful and deliberate. After filling the tank and giving a troop of Boy Scouts from Omaha a brief tour of the Lunar Rover, they got back on the road.

  The skies were clear, as only the skies of Nebraska can be. And the shiny bits of plastic and the Boy Scouts were the fourth day.

  * * * *

  DAY FIVE

  Lincoln, Nebraska to Peoria, Illinois

  Total estimated time:

  7 hours and 25 minutes

  Total distance: 454.57 miles

  * * * *

  At Anita, Iowa, about sixty miles west of Des Moines, Bubba pulled the truck off onto the shoulder. Kermit bolted from the passenger side, screaming and pulling at his hair and clothes. Bubba followed more cautiously, approaching his companion as one would an agitated weimaraner. A brief, if intense, discussion took place in which it was categorically decided that the song “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer On the Wall” (and/or any of its multitudinous permutations) as performance art would never again be a topic of conversation.

  Mollified, Kermit rearranged himself, both men shook hands and returned to the truck to resume the trip. And the unsung-about beer bottles and the handshake were the fifth day.

  * * * *

  DAY SIX

  Peoria, Illinois

  to Wheeling, West Virginia

  Total estimated time:

  8 hours and 4 minutes

  Total distance: 515.36 miles

  * * * *

  They checked out of the motel at a quarter of seven, hopped aboard their scooters and headed for the warehouse. Once there, they were greeted by the owner, who was obviously upset about something.

  “Mr. Pritchert,” he said nervously. “Something has happened, and I want you to know that I take full responsibility."

  Bubba stopped dead. “What's wrong, Mr. Sanders?"

  “It's ... it's your truck. Or rather,” he said, mopping his balding head, “what you're hauling. I want you to know that my people are completely trustworthy, as a rule, and the guard in question has been fired and his bond revoked. Only..."

  “Only what, sir?"

  The warehouse owner sighed deeply. “If you could just get the thing to let him go..."

  Bubba stared at the man for a moment, then roared with laughter. “Okay,” he said finally. “Lead on, Macduff."

  They walked through the warehouse to the bay where the tow truck stood. One end of the tarp had been released and pulled back, and a uniformed teenager was standing at an awkward angle, his hands and forehead stuck tight to the vehicle under the cover.

  “Well, well, well. Whatever do we have here?" Bubba chuckled.

  “Look, mister, I'm sorry,” the young guard managed to mumble out of the side of his mouth. “I was just curious, I wanted to see what you had hidden under here. Can you make it let me go, please?"

  “He really is in some ... distress, Mr. Pritchert. I assure you that I will help you press charges against him if you wish, but he's been stuck there about six hours, and..."

  “Six hours?" Kermit exclaimed. “He's been there most of his shift?"

  “I'm afraid so,” the owner said. “You see, we've been short handed the past few months, so I could only afford the one overnight guard. He evidently took it upon himself to try and look under the tarpaulin about two hours into his rounds, and he got ... stuck like that."

  Again Bubba roared with laughter while the owner's face turned red from embarrassment, and the guard continued to plead to be set free. Finally he wiped his eyes and leaned close to the hapless kid. “So, you thought you'd take a look, maybe knock off a chunk for a souvenir, right, boy? You grabbed on with one hand and got stuck, then tried to use the other one to help pull the first one loose, right?"

  “Something like that, yeah. Look, I really do have to go to the..."

  “How the hell'd you get your head stuck, though?"

  The guard cleared his throat. “I got tired trying to get my hands loose. I just rested my head against this ... whatever it is, and that got stuck, too. Listen, I'll go to jail, I'll pay your storage fees, anything! Ground me for life if you have to, just p
lease, please let me out of here! I'm gonna burst!"

  “In a minute.” Still chuckling, Bubba unlocked the cab of the truck and dug around behind the seat until he found an instant camera. He took photos of the guard stuck to the Rover from several angles, being certain to get his face, then went to the other side of the truck and fiddled with something the others couldn't see. Suddenly, the guard came away from the truck, stumbled and almost fell, then regained his balance and rushed headlong to the nearest bathroom. Bubba and Kermit both broke into laughter, and even Sanders had to work hard not to smile.

  “Here, Mr. Pritchert,” he said, handing Bubba a clipboard stuffed with papers. “This is a copy of your agreement with us, for which there will be no charge. There is also an insurance form for you to fill out at your leisure, and our legal firm's name and contact information. Should you decide to sue, we will not contest it; if you decide to bring charges against our erstwhile employee, I will certainly understand. This...” he glanced over at the shame-faced ex-guard who was only now opening the bathroom door, “...should never have happened. I can only offer you my abject apologies."

  Bubba had been inspecting the Rover for any damage, and, finding none, retied the rope that held down the corner of the tarp. “Mr. Sanders, I appreciate it, but I don't think any of that is necessary. I see no point in taking you to court; I'm a small businessman myself, and I understand just how narrow the ledge we walk is. As for your boy over there,” he looked straight at the young man who was studying his feet, “I figger he's suffered enough for one day. Dismissal and revocation of bond should be enough, and if it ain't, just give us a call and we'll come back with these here photy-graphs and show ‘em to all his friends."

  “Oh, God...” the young man mumbled painfully.

  “I'll give you a list of them,” Sanders said with a smile. “Including his girlfriend, my niece. And thank you, Mr. Pritchert, for your understanding."

  Bubba turned to the ex-employee. “Look at me, son. Do you see what you did wrong? Do you understand why you've lost your job and your bond?” He spoke firmly, without condescension.

  The boy muttered under his breath. “Yeah, I guess so."