Of Jenny and the Aliens

by Ryan Gebhart

  “I’ll take you. I’m not really sure how, but —”

  “Everyone would think I’m a monster. I would get assaulted and then taken away for vivisection.”

  “We can figure out a way.” I hold out my hand. “Hey.”

  He looks at my open palm like it’s the strangest thing, and both of his hands remain tense and close to his body, the joint squished between two of his knuckles.

  I say, “You know I’m not going to hurt you, right?”

  “I understand that for you fists are a threatening gesture, but for us it’s more comfortable.”

  “We can bump it.”

  He shakes his head, unravels a fist, and his fingers gently wrap around my hand until his fingertips are touching my wrist bone. His hand is cold and his grip is gentle, but that’s all I’m feeling. He’s not transmitting some kind of magical sensation into my body, nor am I suddenly understanding the meaning of the universe by touching alien skin.

  It’s just a handshake.

  I say, “Hakuna matata.”

  He makes a confused snarl. “I’m not familiar with that phrase.”

  “It means ‘no worries.’”

  “Hakuna matata.” He slowly tries out the words.

  I say, “You should bring your grandma and your boyfriend here. I’ll show them we’re not all bad guys.”

  “They’ll never come. They don’t believe you’ll be an intelligent, compassionate species for many generations.”

  “Then would I be able to visit them? Maybe I can change their minds. I’ll fly in your ship to your planet, and you could have me over for dinner. I’m not scared about traveling through outer space. I think it sounds fun.”

  He lets go of my hand and cocks his head, like I just asked the most absurd thing.

  I say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to invite myself over.”

  “You wouldn’t have the stomach for what we eat. It would repulse you.”

  “Nah. I saw this show one time where people from Iceland were eating sheep heads and fermented shark meat, and I was like, I’d try that.”

  He makes his soft keh-keh laugh. He doesn’t think I’m being serious.

  I say, “Besides, my favorite meal is Thanksgiving, and if you think about what we do to turkeys, it’s pretty messed up. We take out all their guts and put them in a plastic bag and shove it back up their own asshole. And then we see their beheaded, plucked, and frozen corpses at the grocery store like it’s no big thing.”

  I stop talking. It suddenly occurs to me I’m not being the greatest diplomat to an alien species. Other people should be talking to this guy — the president, maybe someone from the United Nations — and yet here I am.

  His head jerks up and he looks to the east. Police sirens are wailing and heading toward us.

  He gets up and takes a few steps back deeper into the island. He pinches the cherry off his smoke, then puts the roach in his pants pocket.

  Red and blue lights are bouncing off the trees.

  He says, “You can’t tell them you saw me or they’ll quarantine you.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  A police car stops at the towpath, and two cops get out, hustling down the hill through the trees and shrub to the shore. I look around. Karo isn’t here. Where did he go?

  I really hope I’ll see him again. This can’t be the end of our conversation.

  I breathe. I take a moment to look at the trees, the river, and the squirrel above me hopping across a branch with an acorn in its mouth. Maybe Karo was right — this place ain’t all that bad.

  I casually wave at the cops. “’Sup?”

  “What are you doing over there?” the shorter of the two shouts over the babbling water.

  I try to see it from their eyes — it’s early November and some seventeen-year-old is standing on an island, soaking wet and smeared with mud.

  “Training for the Polar Bear Plunge,” I call back without a hint of sarcasm.

  Shorter Cop makes a stupefied face. Taller Cop cracks a smile.

  “Can you swim back?” says Shorter Cop.

  “I got it.”

  I’m back in the water, and it isn’t as cold as the first time. I take my time. The current feels nice, and I’m the first person to hang out with an alien.

  The cops are talking to each other. Completely baffled by me. They’re probably going to test me for drugs and they’re definitely going to find weed in my system and maybe a little alcohol from last night. I wonder if whatever Karo was smoking will also show up in a drug test.

  What did Jenny tell them? That an alien in a tweed jacket and pants knocked me out with a tree branch? Would they really believe her?

  I trudge through the last few yards of murky water to the shore and they offer their hands, but I shake my head and sit next to the spot where I put my things.

  “You feeling okay, kid?” Taller Cop kneels next to me.

  “Never better. Invigorated. You should try it.”

  “Your little girlfriend said you were assaulted on the island.”

  “Really?” I act convincingly surprised. Karo said they’d quarantine me if there was evidence of my encounter. “There isn’t anybody out there.”

  “Gotta pretty nasty bump on your head,” Shorter Cop says suspiciously. He’s young with a squared-off frat-boy face. Guarantee you there’s a tribal armband tattoo on one of his biceps.

  “Oh. Yeah.” I rub my scalp and, Jesus, there’s a bump elevated a solid half inch on the left side of my skull. That second swing landed hard. “I must’ve run into a rock.”

  Taller Cop says, “We’re going to get an ambulance down here, get you dried off, and get that head of yours checked out.”

  I say, “I’m fine to drive. My truck’s right up the trail.”

  “Do you know the person who assaulted you?”

  “No.” I clear my throat. “I mean, no one assaulted me. There’s no one out there. Go see for yourself.”

  Shorter Cop steps forward, one boot in the water, and he scopes out the island, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Wanna call TPD and get Harbor Patrol to check it out?”

  “The kid’s fine. Let’s just get a paramedic down here.”

  I gather my things. Taller Cop lets me sit in the back while we wait for the ambulance. I get the seat wet. It’s going to stink like river water. They don’t seem to care.

  There have been a lot of firsts for me these past twenty-four hours. I’ve never been in the back of a police car, I lost my virginity last night, and I hung out with an alien. But the craziest thing is, that last one, that’s a first for humanity.

  “I’m exactly like Neil Armstrong,” I say.

  Taller Cop is saying random numbers and things to the dispatcher on the other end of the radio. He looks over his shoulder. “Oh yeah. Why’s that?”

  “One small step for a man, man. One small step.”

  He shakes his head — I catch a barely there smile — as the ambulance stops next to us on the towpath.

  The paramedic doesn’t check me for drugs or alcohol — thank God — she just takes my vitals, gives me a fresh set of clothes, and checks the lump on the side of my head. I remember my name, my address, what happened today — omitting a few details — so she says I don’t have a concussion.

  Even though I won’t be of legal age for two more weeks, Smaller Cop doesn’t take me to the station. He just keeps going on about all the ways that I remind him of himself when he was in high school.

  He says, “Just please don’t be an idiot and swim the river in November again, a’ight?”

  “Yo,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I’m walking to the parking lot with my wet clothes in a plastic trash bag when my phone beeps.

  JENNY: Where are youuuuu? Are you ok?

  I wait to respond until I’m in my truck, the driver’s door open and my left foot hanging out the side. Even though she called the cops, she still hauled ass out of there with me unconscious on an island, being dragged away by a creat
ure from another planet. He ended up being cool — just a little nervous is all — but she didn’t know that.

  ME: I’m okay.

  JENNY: Did they catch that thing?

  No. I’m not going to do this, not over the phone. The feds monitor cell phone calls, and I don’t want to end up in some plastic bubble while men in hazmat suits interrogate me for hours, or worse.

  ME: Can I come over?

  JENNY: I can’t. I’m studying with a friend tonight.

  She can’t be for real. Like some test — or whatever it is she’s studying for — is more important than meeting an interstellar traveler. How could she not want to see me after what just happened?

  ME: I’d kinda like to talk to you about what happened today.

  JENNY: Sorry

  JENNY: We can hang out tomorrow tho! Come over for dinner.

  JENNY: How you feeling???

  ME: I better go. My mom’s messaging me.

  Mom isn’t messaging me.

  JENNY: See you tomorrow in espanol?

  ME: Por supuesto, chica.

  I’m so sore and I can’t remember ever being this tired. I just want to go home. Eat my weight in pizza rolls. Go to bed. Sleep forever.

  That’s basically what I do. I’m in bed with the four o’clock game on CBS. Carolina is at San Francisco, and Princess is curled up between my arm and chest.

  My eyes close. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.

  I wake up with the most intense dream still fresh in my memory. Jenny and I were sitting in her front yard, looking up at a circle of lights, like the one I saw over Blue Grass Island. From down the street, a battalion of soldiers was marching next to a military truck with the sun rising against their backs. A nuclear missile was attached to the flatbed, and there was a flag I had never seen before draped across its surface — an image of Earth inside a black rectangle. It stopped in front of Jenny’s house. The missile was pointing directly at the flying saucer.

  I’m pretty sure we all died when they launched the missile, but the flying saucer just kept spinning, totally untouched.

  The TV’s still on and there’s a “Special Report.” I sit up and Princess sleepily stretches out all four paws, then shifts so she’s lying on her back. I rub her belly. They’re showing footage of two aircraft carriers, then thousands of people in Washington, D.C., at a protest.

  This isn’t part of the dream too, is it?

  I wipe the crusty shit from the corners of my eyes and unmute the TV.

  The red headline reads: “Congress Authorizes 200,000 U.S. Troops for Rayan Conflict.”

  I flip through the channels. There isn’t any news about lights in the sky or about a guy who got his head smashed in by an alien. Not a single mention on the scrolling banner about Pud 5 or Karo’s video. It’s so idiotic that we’re still thinking about going to war when Saturday was the most historic and eye-opening day in human history. If a message from another planet can’t stop us from fighting each other, nothing can.

  We’re going to be sending two hundred thousand of our people into another country. How many times have we done this? How many more times do we have to keep doing this?

  I get on my phone and type “Alex Novak” in the search bar. The first link to appear is a CNN article that was posted only two hours ago: “Pentagon Discloses Details of Navy SEAL Operation.”

  It was called Operation Cheetah Strike. According to the Pentagon, a Rayan-backed rebel group that the U.N. labeled terrorists had arranged a meeting to buy two nuclear warheads. Five of the eight SEALs were killed; the rest are being held hostage. They listed the names of the survivors. They showed military portraits of the five that died, including Alex.

  I follow an article on the side of the page; the official response from Raya’s president. He says they don’t have any nuclear weapons, and he claims to have evidence that the SEALs were on a covert mission to assassinate him.

  He said: “I declared war against the totalitarian American regime in June, because their unchecked aggression will not go unpunished yet again.”

  Our president said about him: “He’s a delusional, sociopathic strongman bent on control over the Middle East.”

  Princess blows air out her ass. I cover my nose with the collar of my shirt.

  In the “Opinions” section on MSNBC, no one can figure out what Raya’s war declaration means — do they intend to invade us? The columnist says it’s an absurd idea, because they have no ability to sail a fleet all the way to America.

  Jesus. This is, like, a really big deal.

  Princess yawns, stretches out in a downward dog pose, then walks over to me with her tail wagging. She farts again.

  “Someone’s ready for her morning dumps.”

  What time is it?

  I look at the bottom of the screen. Shit, shit, shit, it’s seven thirty. Spanish class starts in fifteen minutes.

  I grab some clothes from the pile of clean laundry at the end of my bed — or is this the dirty pile? No, the dirty pile is on the floor.

  I get a whiff of my shirt. Wait. There is no clean pile.

  I let Princess out and she won’t dump. I push her into the grass with my foot, and she looks at me, bug-eyed and confused.

  “Come on! You’ve been sleeping for, like, fourteen hours.” I hurry inside to do my morning dumps, and when I get back, she’s still in the same spot. Looks like she’ll have to wait for Mom’s lunch break.

  I’m doing sixty down the Anthony Wayne Trail, eating cold strawberry Pop-Tarts. Did I put on deodorant before I left? I stick my hand into my armpit and smell my fingers. Nope. I mean, I don’t reek, but come lunchtime I’m going to have to keep my arms close to my sides.

  I’m seventeen minutes late. I’m out of breath. I open the door to Hafemann’s class. The heck? There are only, like, seven people in here.

  Jenny is slouched at the farthest desk wearing a gray hoodie, the poster of a grinning sloth chilling in the jungle with the caption “La pura vida” beside her. I’m sure it’s just the way the washed-out sunlight is shining on her, but she looks ghastly today.

  Señor Hafemann hands me my test from last week, but without an accusatory glare for showing up late. That’s odd, and so is the lack of bodies in this room. Maybe everyone is still in panic mode over the video.

  I say, “Where is everyone?”

  Chris Rosales says, “There’s a war protest going on at the library. I saw hundreds of people there on my way to school.”

  I told Karo that it would take a week for us to find something new to panic about. We didn’t even need a day.

  Señor says, “One that the high school has not endorsed or is affiliated with. The principal has stated he will not be excusing any of the protesters’ absences. You can protest after school.” He returns to his desk and takes the test with both hands. His eyes squint behind his glasses. “Número once: ¿Quién era dictador de España durante la Guerra Civil?”

  Chris says, “Why should we care about detention if they’re going to reinstate the draft? They’re going to have to if we send any more troops.”

  Ingrid Carter turns to him from the front row with a narrowed, angry face. “Where’d you hear that? There are over two million people in the military.”

  “That’s going to change once other countries get involved.”

  “The president already promised this will be a limited military operation.”

  “Yeah, like we can trust him. Remember his campaign promise, how we wouldn’t invade another country again?”

  She gets up, then slams her palms on the empty desk between them. “They declared war on us.”

  Señor breaks character and says, “I get it. All of you are concerned about the news, so . . .”

  “So is class canceled?” Chris says hopefully, perking up in his chair.

  Señor says, “We’ve got thirty more minutes to fill, and I’m fine with not reviewing the test. Let’s talk about Raya.”

  Ingrid settles into her chair, arms cros
sed.

  Señor says, “If you want my opinion, I believe Raya’s declaration of war was just saber-rattling rhetoric to stir national pride. Do you remember when their economy tanked last year?”

  Randy’s hand is up, but Ingrid says to Señor, “If they want a war, they won’t get a war. They’re gonna get their asses destroyed.”

  Keeping his hand in the air, Randy says, “I heard that what the Navy SEALs did in June, they say it was a ‘false flag’ operation.” Without anyone asking him to explain, he adds, “‘False flag’ means the government set up our own men to get killed, and we knew there weren’t any nukes, but we wanted to give Raya a reason to declare war on us.”

  “That’s not what happened,” Jenny says softly from the corner.

  Randy lowers his hand, gives her an uninterested glance, then says, “It’s just like what happened in the Pacific Theater of World War Two.”

  “The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, dummy,” Chris says. “That’s why we declared war on them.”

  “And we knew the Japanese planes were coming, but we let them blow it up because we wanted to go to war. Face it: the SEALs were pawns set up so America could go on another oil hunt in the Middle East.”

  It’s like I’m trapped in the “Comments” section.

  I want to call Randy out, tell him that he couldn’t even do a single pull-up, let alone put up the kind of sacrifice that Alex did. But the best thing to do with trolls like Randy is to not engage.

  He wouldn’t be saying this shit if he knew that Jenny’s brother was one of the SEALs. Does he? Did anybody here read the article this morning?

  Señor’s eyes get big like he just had an epiphany. “Oh, I have an idea. Everyone, push your desks up against the walls.” He opens a drawer on his desk and brings out his phone and a little stereo. “Come on, now. Adelante.”

  We clear out the middle of the classroom.

  “Randy, you’ll dance with Sophie, and —” Sophie rolls her eyes dramatically — “Chris, I’ll have you with Sarah. And Derek, you’ll be with Jennifer. Ingrid, well, I guess it’s just you and me.”