by Douglas Lain
praise for douglas lain:
“Douglas Lain has a great brain. I am hugely impressed with his prospects to be a completely uncommercial genius. God help him.”
—Jonathan Lethem, New York Times-bestselling author
“Lain’s writing is unsettling, ferociously smart, and extremely addictive.”
—Kelly Link, author of Get in Trouble and Magic for Beginners
“Straight out of the Pamela Zoline era of New Wave fiction, with a strong dose of nuclear paranoia and Reagan-era ‘kill a Commie for mommy’ reverse-nostalgia, Lain writes from the conscience.”
—Jay Lake, author of Manspring and Rocket Science
“I don’t know anyone else doing quite what Lain is doing; fascinating work, moving, strikingly honest, powerful.”
—Locus
“An intellect and a questioner of literary forms, Lain is also a husbanding, fathering advocate for the Everyman in us all. The result is curiously human and intimate—down to earth, even as the universe falls apart in our hands.”
—Kris Saknussemm, author of Zanesville and Enigmatic Pilot
“To find oneself alternately pondering the metafictional importance of a Sesame Street book and choking back the tears induced by a surprisingly human drama is a testament to Lain’s writing. I loved every sentence, every word.”
—J. David Osborne, author of By the Time We Leave Here, We’ll Be Friends, on Wave of Mutilation
“Lain proves himself adept at dramatizing such decidedly non-whimsical matters as autism, parent-child estrangement, and the quest for individual identity amidst political upheaval.”
—James Morrow, author of The Last Witchfinder and Towing Jehovah
“Billy Moon is postmodern SF, powering past mere science and into a cubist world of strange…moving and profound, with a radically evanescent style. Just the thing for our new century.”
—Rudy Rucker, author of the WARE Tetralogy
after the saucers landed
ALSO BY DOUGLAS LAIN
Billy Moon
Collections:
Last Week’s Apocalypse
Editor:
In the Shadow of the Towers:
Speculative Fiction in a Post-9/11 World
after the saucers landed
douglas lain
night shade books
new york
Copyright © 2015 by Douglas Lain.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Night Shade Books, 101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor, Jersey City, NJ 07302.
Night Shade Books is an imprint of Start Publishing LLC.
Visit our website at www.start-publishing.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lain, Douglas.
After the saucers landed / by Douglas Lain.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-1-59780-823-1 (softcover : acid-free paper)
1. Extraterrestrial beings—Fiction. 2. Human–alien encounter—fiction. I.Title.
PS3612.A466A69 2015
813’.6—dc23
2015009977
ISBN: 978-1-59780-584-1
Cover design by Rain Saukas
Edited by Jeremy Lassen
Printed in the United States of America
after the saucers landed
prologue
When the alien gets around to unzipping her jumpsuit it’ll be impossible to see what’s underneath.
I’ve been through this before. Her argument with Harold Flint, all the usual ways a woman has to get past indifference, none will work, and when she unzips she won’t offer her body, her inhuman perfection, but rather what she’ll offer is her absence, and even this will go wrong. Flint, being too busy recovering from the last disappearance he witnessed, will be unimpressed.
There have been suicides in the UFO research community since the saucers landed on June 11, 1991. Of course there have been suicides. Maybe the first one, John Mack, might have been a surprise, but a year later the bodies stacking up aren’t shocking. Each death is expected, and most go unnoticed and unreported in the media.
“We believe humanity is limiting the experience and significance of contact,” the alien will say to Flint. Her name is Asket and she comes across a bit like a Vegas showgirl and a bit like a Jehovah’s Witness.
Flint will look at her, look her up and down, and then snort. Actually the sound he’ll make at her will be a partial snort as only part of the noise will emanate from his nose. There will also be a guttural noise, something like gagging, coming from his throat.
What made the Ufologists so despondent was that the arrival of real extraterrestrials, real aliens in real flying saucers, turned out to be an empty experience. The big event played out just as the contactee and presumed hoaxer Charles Rain had predicted. It was exactly like something from a B movie from the ’50s. It even happened on the White House lawn.
The whole world watched the photo op between the alien commander, a Nordic-type alien from the Pleides who called himself Ralph Reality, and the President of the United States. The smiling politician, the former CIA director in his red tie and blue suit, shook hands with the humanoid wearing a white jumpsuit adorned with red sequins, and both of them smiled for the viewers of CNN. In the end both the President and the alien came out seeming smaller and less interesting than they had at the start. The suicides, the mostly older men and women who’d been warning everyone, who’d been collecting the data, who’d been so sure that Earth was indeed being visited no matter what Carl Sagan and his ilk said, those brave souls, Cassandras all, didn’t get to witness an apocalypse or live through Childhood’s End, but found an alien invasion that was just another television program. The landing was another sequence of moving pictures set between commercial breaks.
Flint had explained it at his wife’s funeral. He’d said, “Imagine your whole life taking place on Christmas Eve and then, out of the blue, and after thirty years, it’s Christmas morning and Santa has left you a present. Now imagine that what you find in your stocking isn’t a lump of coal, but a turd. That’s what these kitsch aliens are, a turd left in our collective stockings. It’s no wonder Mack and Budd and, Carole are gone. They took their lives because they couldn’t stand to watch another Pleidien interviewed on some banal cable talk show like Donahue.”
Of course, lumping his wife in with the others, with the rest of the disaffected UFO community, was a bit of misdirection. Anyone who knew Carole knew she hadn’t cared for UFO research. She’d had her art and her artist, and that had been enough for her until Flint had spoiled both and broken her heart.
“Mr. Flint.” Asket is going to say his name at the end of the argument. “Mr. Flint,” she’ll say, “you’ve got everything backward. I’m not here as an alien at all. I’m not with them.” And then she’ll unzip her jumpsuit.
1
asket unzips
Harold Flint is out of place in the ’90s. My mentor and colleague is the kind of man who holds onto things. His appearance hasn’t changed much for thirty years. He’s this grey-haired, thin, severe sort of man who is determined to be an anachronism: always dressed in the same tailor-made, three-piece black suits, and always with a white shirt and black tie. I assume it’s not actually the same suit every day, but I can’t be sure.
Myself, I try to keep up with the times. Well past thirty, I’m a bit on the round side I guess, but I’ve started wearing cargo pants and plaid shirts. Today I’m wearing khakis with a red and black plaid, and last week one of the other adjuncts introduced me to
Soundgarden. That song about Jesus Christ? I pretended to like it.
I’m optimistic. All of the professors I know are optimistic about this young decade; certainly my colleagues in English Literature are happy, happy to have survived the Reagan administration if nothing else. We’re all of us full of hope. What with Clinton and the UFOs we’re all of us pledged to never stop thinking about tomorrow, all of us except for Harold that is. He’s still in mourning for the ’60s, especially for the year 1961. Back then his short hair and seriousness fit the scene and his sarcastic and discordant art was the weirdest thing around. He didn’t have to compete with MTV or Pee-wee Herman.
From where we are I can only see the back of Harold’s head. He doesn’t want to turn around apparently. He’s facing away from us and sitting on his stool supposedly working, but I keep tapping on the wire mesh glass window. I know he can hear me.
“You can’t just leave me out here,” I shout, trying to make my voice audible through the thick doors.
I do deserve better than this. Okay, so he doesn’t want to meet this alien, or any alien. He made that plain, but I did tell him I was going to bring her around regardless. Now he’s making us wait and I’m stuck with the Pleidien, stuck standing too close to her on the other side of the green doors to the school’s art studio.
Like all the Pleidiens she’s beautiful if a bit wholesome, and she’s wearing the uniform, that tight jumpsuit with the red sequins that I mentioned earlier. Standing this close I can smell her clean hair. She smells like strawberries but her eyes are blank.
“I think there is something wrong with her.”
“Of course there is something wrong with her,” Flint yells back. “She’s a moron.” Satisfied with this dig he finally lets us in.
“Mr. Flint, after today I’ll go away forever if you want me to, but please,” she says, “just answer one question.”
Flint likes to mingle with the students’ work even if he’s usually put out by the students themselves. He’s comfortable amidst their irony and their clichés and this studio is filled with both. There’s this cartoonish painting of a woman shaving her legs in a bathtub full of wild dogs, a mannequin wearing a beige cashmere sweater, and a marble pedestal to the right of the mannequin. I pause at this work though. It’s an approximation of a Grecian column only in miniature, and on top of it there is a display of prescription medicine bottles. The whole thing is a tribute or monument to what I assume is some sophomore girl’s slump.
What Flint is doing is making a reproduction of one of his earlier works. He’s pouring hot wax into a slightly oversized version of his famous 1964 Marble Maze.
“This one is for the Whitney,” Harold tells the alien.
“You’re selling that one?” she asks.
“I am.”
Back in the ’60s Harold was part of Fluxus but it’s only been recently, around ’88, that his work has become known. When the MOMA published photographs of Harold’s matchboxes and wooden treasure chests in the Big Book of NeoDada Flint became a name. After that the curators and gallery owners who mattered in New York knew who he was. I was his chance to cash in but Harold resisted the temptation at first, even protesting the MOMA’s Fluxus exhibit and the attendant coffee table book by taking out an ad in the Village Voice denouncing everyone involved. It’s only now that Ufology has stopped mattering to him that he’s become cynical enough to play along with the revival.
“What does it mean?” Asket asks him. She’s pointing at the Marble Maze, at the sentence “Language does not exist,” and standing close to Flint. I can’t quite tell, but from where I’m standing it looks like she might be pressing herself up against him.
Harold doesn’t answer her question but moves the maze aside and slides an oversized box of kitchen matches into the space so that he can get a closer look. This box of matches is a reproduction of an anti-artwork he created in 1968. There is white paper taped over the original label and on the paper there are instructions printed in 16-point black Helvetica script:
“‘Use these matches to destroy art.’” He opens the matchbox and pours in wax. “What can I do for you, Miss. Asket? I’m guessing that you don’t want to talk to me about my art.”
“Why did you quit UFOs?” she asks.
Flint looks up at her, sighs, and then turns back to his work.
When he started investigating flying saucers most of his friends in the art world, people like John Cage, Ray Walker, and Alison Knowles, thought his research was an elaborate joke, a Dadaesque prank. It wasn’t. Flint was always serious. He’d seen something in the sky himself, back in the late ’50s when he was a student at Black Mountain College. He didn’t start investigating and incorporating saucers and abduction reports into his art and performances until the late ’70s, but that early sighting was always in the background. That is, it was always in the background until it was in the foreground, or until the saucers landed.
Asket has been visiting me during office hours since the start of the semester. She’s been auditing one of my intro composition classes even though she clearly doesn’t care about the class. Her office visits are never about the course, she never asks about Aristotelian or Rogerian forms of argument, for example, but only visits in order to ask about Flint. She figured out that I’m his ghostwriter and started stalking me, trying to get to him.
“I think Flint can help me,” she told me during her first visit. Now she’s saying it again. “You can help me,” she says.
There is something wrong with this Pleidien. She’s got none of their usual confidence. Instead of channeling spiritual entities or speaking in aphorisms, she’s standing there having a quiet anxiety attack. She’s hanging on Harold’s every word and really suffering under his sarcasm and indifference.
“Why don’t you answer her, Harold?” I ask. “I’m wondering why too, actually. You know that we could make a bundle on it now. We’re well positioned.”
Harold looks up again; he starts to address me, point at me as if he’s going to deliver another of his lectures, but stops himself and turns back to the Pleidien instead. “You want to know why I quit?” he asks.
She nods hesitantly.
“It’s because of you. You and your friends. Your arrival ended a dream for me. I’ve spent my life on this dream, you know, this dream of a different world? But you people ended that.”
Asket shifts her weight, takes a step back from Harold.
“Back in the ’70s I worked in a dentist’s office, I was a male secretary and I became accustomed to being taken as a fool, to being asked to endure every idiot colleague’s opinion. I needed the work and I tried to remain stoic, but this dentist, a bornagain Christian named Terry, made it difficult. He wanted to convert me,” Harold says. This was a familiar anecdote, and I knew he was just getting started.
Harold has a tattered paperback copy of the Big Book of Fluxus open on the worktable, presumably using it as reference, a way to jog his memory on his original work. The book is open to a page with a full color reproduction of Nam June Paik’s sculpture “Exposition of Music – Electronic Television.” What it was was a prepared piano, a stand-up piano with an open case so the pressure bar, pin block, hammer rail, and strings were exposed. The keys were wrecked by nails, there were knickknacks and various gizmos and devices stuffed into the frame. A telephone was glued down on top, a bottle of antifreeze propped on the pedals, and eggshells were scattered here and there atop the hammers. The idea behind such a work was to disrupt the routine of music production, to break the listener’s expectations, and involve the audience in a new kind of listening. Every detail, every noise, had to be caught and considered. The fact that all of the notes together didn’t cohere was just an added benefit.
Harold is still deriding the notion of an immanent God.
“What the dentist wanted me to realize was that Jesus was a superhero. Jesus could save me. It wasn’t a metaphor or a mystery. It wasn’t a matter of faith. This was real and I was turning down a real pe
rson, a person I might actually meet.”
Harold quit the UFOs after the landing for the same reason he wasn’t interested in a superhero version of Jesus. If he could really meet Jesus, if Jesus was a person who could appear in his life that meant that his life, Harold’s life in that office, would stay the same. If Jesus could appear right there, right then, by the Pepsi machine in the employee’s kitchen, then Jesus wasn’t interesting.
“You didn’t want to meet Jesus by a vending machine?” she asks. “Why not?” Harold looks like nothing other than a college professor and she is dressed only so as to be unzipped. Watching them, the two of them, I feel as though I’m at a Halloween party or at a dress rehearsal for The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I find myself waiting for the cut away, waiting for some other more hilarious and action-packed scene, but the cutaway isn’t happening, not yet.
“Any Jesus that could appear like that, in a puff of smoke, that could just show up by the Pepsi machine? He wouldn’t be of any use, would he? Who would want any part of such a mundane Jesus?” Harold asks.
“Why would Jesus be mundane?” the alien asks. “Couldn’t it be that the Pepsi machine would transcend? You’re confusing me.”
“God doesn’t drink soda pop.”
“But, if He did…if God drank soda pop wouldn’t that change the soda pop? Why is it that the Pepsi can change God?”
Harold takes his glasses off to look at her, leaning in toward her. She seems, all at once, to be of interest to him after all.
“What exactly do you want from me? What do you Pleidiens want?” he asks.
Asket steps farther back from him. She steps away from Harold, then circles around the art, the students’ art. She stops to look at the painting of the wild dogs, then pauses by the mannequin wearing a sweater. “I was wrong,” she says. “It’s not you that I need to talk to at all. Our souls switch around so often that it’s sometimes difficult to keep track.”