Kilroy was Here

by Jeff South

  “That might’ve been a little too much for your first time,” says my understating friend.

  Several minutes pass as we share the cigarette. My initial revulsion gives way to a serenity I’ve never known. I feel as if I’ve been dipped in a warm goo of tranquility. I jump from the top of Miss America and lie on my back in the sand. The realization of the coolness that is my current situation overwhelms me. I’m on a desert moon in some remote backwater part of another galaxy, smoking space dope and staring at the stars. Something in me triggers my arms to wipe up and down and my legs to swipe back and forth.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jeff asks, leaning over the top of the car.

  “I’m making snow angels.”

  “You’re in the sand.”

  “Then, I’m making sand angels. I feel so groovy. I don’t want this feeling to end. Like, ever.”

  “Well, it will.” He hops from the top of the Vega and retrieves a duffle bag from the hatch. He walks to the front of the car and spreads a blanket on the ground. He sits and pulls out some food.

  “Snacks!” I say, crawling to the blanket. “Thank god. I’m starving.”

  “What you’re experiencing is not merely the munchies. Your body needs to refuel. This will help.” He gestures to the spread before us.

  “Valasupian sandwiches. Dorgon pizza. Wild fruit from the planet Lloyd. Cool Ranch Doritos.”

  “Nice.”

  He holds up a large black thermos. “And we wash it down with some green Kwench-Aid.”

  What follows is a mash-up of eating exotic foods that don’t taste all that exotic, drinking the sweet nectar of Kwench-Aid, and talking about life while “Boat on the River,” by Styx plays.

  “So, you’re going to college?” he asks, face pointed toward the stars that overwhelm the sky above us.

  “That’s the plan.”

  He chomps on a slice of pizza and talks with his mouth open. “You always were a planner.”

  “You’re really gonna–?” I don’t know how to finish the question because it sounds so absurd. It seems beyond comprehension that my best friend intends to roam outer space for a living.

  “Gonna what?” he prompts.

  “Are you sure you should do this? You’re basically going to be an intergalactic truck driver. You just turned 18 a few months ago and you’re not the most mature person I’ve ever known. Shouldn’t you think this through a little more?”

  “Are you freaking bananas? Is that your ass talking?” He doesn’t sound offended or angry, more mildly shocked and a little appalled.

  “Seems like a really big decision, ya know? Shouldn’t you talk to your mom?”

  “And tell her what? ‘Hey, mom, I got a job bootlegging across space. Can you sign this permission slip?” He points to the expanse of cosmos overhead. “Wouldn’t you wanna stay out here?”

  “I dunno. Maybe. It’s scary.”

  “This has been the best time of my life,” he says, sipping from the thermos. “Better than the summer we tried to build a time machine. Better than the time we tried PBR for the first time. Better than the summer Natalie Mills showed me her boobs.” He stands and picks up the duffle bag. “This is what I’m meant for.”

  He retrieves two matching flashlights from the duffle and tosses one to me. I hold it up. It is light, the dark red casing made of aluminum. A label on the side reads ECI-108.

  “Existential Crisis Inducers,” I say. “If the light from this hits you directly in the eyes, you’ll fall into a debilitating, angst-filled identity crisis.

  “Yep.” Jeff’s eyes flash his familiar I’ve-got-a-crazy-idea expression and part of me shudders. “Let’s really talk about life.”

  He gestures for me to stand up and face him. We look like gunfighters about to end this once and for all.

  “What are we doing?” I ask.

  “Trust me.”

  “Not possible.”

  “When I count to three, we’ll both draw and shine our lights into each other’s eyes.”

  “Everything about this screams bad idea,” I mutter.

  After the fastest 1-2-3 count in history, we point our Existential Crisis Inducers at one another and fire away. A stream of iridescent light blinds me and I drop my device and cover my eyes. I hit the ground and writhe in the sand. Each time I try to open my eyes, an obnoxious ball of light obscures my vision as if a giant flash bulb went off. After a few seconds, it fades and I can see my friend staring at the stars overhead, tears flowing down his cheeks.

  “I’m so freaking small,” he whispers.

  I’m acutely aware that my every emotional nerve is raw and exposed. The mountains of the desert moon grow more ominous around me and threaten to fall on top of me.

  “What the hell is happening?” Panic grips me as I try to run in eleven directions at once.

  Jeff falls to his knees, defeated. “I’m 18 years old. I don’t know who my dad is. I didn’t graduate because I got sucked into the portal. The girl I love is being held captive by a galactic supervillain. What’s the point? Sure, I’ve got a bitching space car, but is that enough?”

  I kneel next to him, a tidal wave of regret washing over me. I want to cry but no tears will come. Even though I’m not out of my teens yet, I feel like everything I’ve done is a parade of poor decisions in a misspent youth that will haunt me for the rest of my life. A very certain fate awaits me involving homelessness, a body odor of cheap whiskey and wet burritos, and talking to an imaginary duck I’ve named Ron.

  “I don’t know what I’m meant for,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll ever know.”

  “You’re smart. You’re level-headed and all that shit. You’re gonna do great things.”

  “You can stay home and do great things, too.” I tell him.

  Jeff thinks for a moment, smoking his cigarette and sipping his drink. “I’m nobody there. That night when the portal opened up, I thought I was gonna die. My whole life passed before me and all I saw was cheese. Don’t ask me why cheese. All I know is it made me sad. I don’t want a life. I want an adventure.”

  I grip the top of my head with both hands and gasp, a terrifying realization oozing over me.

  “Ohmigod,” I say. “What if fatalism is true?”

  “Huh?”

  “Fatalism. What if all this talk about the future is futile? What if the future is predetermined and we’re helpless to do anything about it? Even if I go to college and become a massive success in whatever I endeavor, I may still be fated to sitting under an overpass talking to a duck named Ron.”

  Jeff thinks for a moment. “I suppose that depends on how much you stock you put in the principle of bivalence. Either something is or it isn’t. Either something is true or it’s false.”

  “So, either it is true that I will spend the days before my death talking to Ron or it isn’t.”

  “Exactly.”

  I walk a few feet ahead of him and stare at the horizon. I throw my hands up in defeat. The writer of Ecclesiastes was right. Everything is utterly meaningless.

  “Why should I care about my future? Why should I care whether Marlene will love me again? Why should I care about anything, Jeff?”

  “I dunno,” my friend says. He stands next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m trying to figure out who Ron is.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Miss America’s hatch is filled with a cache of Simon Tybalt’s behavioral weapons. A duffle loaded with Existential Crisis Inducers, Passive Aggressive Aggravators, Gulliballs, and JazzHands Phasers rests next to a suitcase with a change of clothes for us. I take a Gulliball and JazzHand Phaser and stick them in a backpack with some snacks for the trip to Planet Lloyd. I rid the passenger side floorboard of Taco Haus bags, candy wrappers, and receipts printed in alien languages. My stomach flutters in anticipation of our journey. It’s not like I’ve never been nervous before. I’ve experienced stomach flutters associated with admitting to my parents I gave the cat a Mohawk. I fondly recall the butterflies
I had when Marlene and I first kissed. This is my first bout of off-to-face-a-galactic-supervillan-on-his-home-planet anxiety. I don’t particularly care for the feeling.

  “You’ve got a quite a trip ahead of you,” says Simon Tybalt. “Keep me updated on your progress and alert me of any emergencies. Otherwise, don’t bother me. I’ll be entertaining a guest while you’re gone.”

  “Boom chicka bow bow,” says Jeff.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” I tell him. “No one does that anymore.”

  “Are you going to be surly again? I’m not putting up with surliness on this trip.”

  “I have something for both of you.” Simon pulls a stack of business cards held together by a rubber band from his pants pocket and hands them to me. “Someone told me you like business cards.”

  I take the stack from him and look at the top card.

  TONY PERSHING

  TRAINING DATABASE STRATEGIST

  “I don’t know what to say.” I look at the Corporate founder. He’s giving me that sad smile. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He then puts his hands on my shoulders and looks deep into me. “You’ll use your weapons to neutralize Grandor and you’re training to download the quintonium drive plans. I believe in you.”

  “I’m glad someone does.”

  He turns to Jeff and hands him a jump drive shaped like a duck.

  “What is it?” Jeff looks at the drive. “Is it porn?”

  “That is a file of songs from 1976-1986, what I consider the best era for music.” Simon lights up a Mongalisonian cigarette and smokes. “Plug that into your USB on the Vega and expand your musical horizons.”

  “No kidding,” I say. “Try something from the 21st century.”

  Jeff regards the tiny duck and looks at me. “I’m playing Styx first, then, maybe, I’ll play this.”

  “Godspeed,” Simon Tybalt says, “and remember…”

  “We own the night,” Jeff and I say in unison.

  “I was going to be say be safe, but whatever works for you.”

  *

  “Here.” Jeff hands me a rumpled piece of paper with some numbers scrawled all over them. “These are the coordinates for planet Lloyd. Wanna input them into the navigator?”

  “I don’t need those,” I say, brimming with confidence in my new abilities.

  The coordinates spark in my nanotech and suddenly I realize I’m an expert on a planet I’ve never visited. I close my eyes and feel myself floating through the vast library of Corporate knowledge in my brain. I access the section dedicated to interplanetary travel and navigation and see clearly all I need to know about the planet Lloyd. The planet’s size, position in the galaxy, rotational patterns, geological and atmospheric composition all fill my brain as if they’d always been there. I tap the coordinates into Miss America’s navigation system and we’re off.

  “Have you been to Grandor’s house before?” I ask Jeff.

  “No, but I’ve been to Lloyd. I met Grandor at a dive bar. That’s where he offered up a deal for Leigh Ann.”

  “What’s this place like?”

  “Well.” Jeff takes a contemplative drag from his space cigarette as he speaks. “Let’s say America’s worst inner cities and trashiest trailer parks got drunk on cheap wine and had unprotected sex.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Then, their bastard children would be a ghetto of shanty towns, tenements, and gutted housing projects.”

  “That sounds awful.”

  “That’s planet Lloyd.”

  The journey from the moon of Nitz to planet Lloyd would normally take a little under a year. Because of the quintonium that powers Miss America and the many other portals throughout the galaxy, our trip only takes about five days. We stop to use the restroom at rest stop space stations and floating convenience stores. With each portal we enter, I grow more comfortable with the experience. The ear popping sucks.

  Boredom sets in often so we try various tactics for fighting it. We discuss our adventures as kids. We sing along to the music. We contemplate the deep mysteries of life. We smoke Mongalisonian tobacco. Jeff drinks his usual green Kwench-Aid, but I stick with water. I filled Jeff’s backpack with some of the behavioral weapons because I wanted to learn more about what we’re carrying. I reach into the backpack and pull out a shiny silver object about the size of a softball.

  “Can you tell me what that is?” Jeff asks.

  “This is a Gulliball. By clicking the small button on the side of the weapon, you release an invisible force field at your target that will render them completely gullible for 30 seconds. They will believe anything you tell them, allowing you to gain a momentary advantage.” I examine the ball closely, turning it over and holding up to my face. “Does it really work?”

  Jeff reaches over and presses the button. A puff of warm air smacks my face but I don’t feel any different. Jeff reaches out tugs at my nose.

  “Got your nose!”

  Panic overtakes me and I grab at the area where I am sure I once had a nose but feel nothing.

  “Why would you do dat?” My voice sounds as though I have a horrible cold. “You can’d juds take thomeone’s nothe. Give it back, athhole!”

  “Alright,” he says. “Here.” He puts his hand on my face and I begin to calm myself and breathe easy.

  “Don’t ever take my nose again,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, bro. Also, you wet your pants.”

  I look down at my crotch and attain a previously unrecorded level of freak out. “Oh my god! Seriously? This night is a disaster!” I become aware that I may have had an out-of-body experience that I can’t explain. I don’t know why I’m rubbing my crotch with my shirtsleeve, but I am. I look at my lousy excuse for a friend as he giggles like some socially backward pubescent boy who likes saying the word “panties.”

  “Classic,” he says.

  I point the Gulliball at Jeff and press the button on the side. I watch his face morph from joyous to blank in an instant.

  “I think I’m attracted to you,” I tell him as earnestly as possible.

  “Whoa. Dude.” He holds his hands up. “I was afraid of this. Look. I’m flattered and, yes, I admit, sometimes I get curious. But, not with you. It’s too weird.”

  “I understand,” I say, feigning choked emotion. “I knew I was taking a chance.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here for you. Don’t let anyone keep you from being yourself. I love you, man.”

  I can only grin as his expression moves seamlessly from empathy to quizzical in a second. He glances at his hand on my shoulder and I laugh.

  “Don’t be a dick,” he says.

  I remove a copper colored device from the backpack. “What’s this? Looks like a hair dryer.”

  “It is a hair dryer. It’s Leigh Ann’s from prom night.” A sheepish smile forms on Jeff’s face. “We were planning on getting a hotel room after the river thing.”

  “Do you love her?” I ask him.

  “Yeah. Sure.” He shrugs. “What’s not to love?”

  “You’re nothing if not a hopeless romantic.”

  “Whatdaya want me to say?” He retrieves his trusty thermos from behind his seat, the nectar sure to induce diabetes in him, and sips from it. “Leigh Ann is the one, ya know? I’d do anything for her. She’s hot. She’s chill. She doesn’t judge me. You know what I’m talking about. You love Marlene. You tell me what that means.”

  I take a moment before answering. Describing how you love someone should be easy, but how do you find adequate words?

  “She’s the first thought I have when I wake up in the morning,” I say. “She’s the last thought I have before I fall asleep. She is every thought I have in between.”

  “That’s beautiful. Seriously. What song is that from? Is it a poem or something?”

  “It just came out. It’s how I feel.”

  “No. That’s from something. I know it. You’re not t
hat eloquent.”

  “I shouldn’t have broken up with her,” I say. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Yes, you are.” Jeff holds up his thermos to propose a toast. “To Leigh Ann and Marlene. Here’s hoping we’re all back together and making out soon.”

  “What about this gun here?” I produce a dark gray long-barreled pistol from the backpack. On the handle are four different buttons, each a different color. Green, blue, yellow, red.

  “Careful with that,” Jeff says. “We don’t want that going off in here.”

  “The Jazz Hands Phaser 6375,” I say, the nano taking full effect. “When fired, your assailants will break into a spontaneous dance number to one of thousands of songs downloaded into the weapon’s software.”

  “Trust me,” Jeff says. “It works. I used it on some thugs who were chasing me on Ragablum V and as far as I know they’re still doing the ‘Thriller’ dance.”

  Like all road trips, this one has an ebb and flow. We talk. We laugh. We bicker. We eat. We nap. We get bored. With Miss America on autopilot, Jeff is reclined back and snoring. I’m trying to sleep but I’m restless. The weight of everything going on in my life is heavy and I’m tossing and turning. I reach over and shut off the marathon of Styx and breathe in the quiet. I open the glove box of the Vega and find a tattered paperback book tucked inside. I pull it out and see it is Jeff’s copy of Something Wicked This Way Comes. I look at my friend and let my mind drift to the past.

  *

  We met on a playground in fifth grade. I was sitting under a tree after not getting picked for kickball, when a scrawny kid I’d not met before asked me if I wanted to play. He introduced himself as Jeff Harper and said he was new to our school. I said sure and after navigating through a conversation about what we should play, I soon realized Jeff was very off. The look in his eyes was different from most kids. I couldn’t describe it then, but in retrospect I’d say the lens through which he viewed the world was cracked. His hair wasn’t combed, apparently by choice. His clothes appeared to have been put on directly after he discovered them on the floor in a dark corner of his closet. I learned he lived only a couple of blocks from me with his mom, who was a single parent. He said he had never met his dad.