The Coming of the Bullocks

by Gene Brewer

  “Right now our scientists don’t know where the planet Bullock is in our galaxy. Now, for reasons of their own, the Bullocks have chosen to communicate their wishes through a single human, a psychiatrist who treated and became friends with another alien, whom many of you may remember reading about in Dr. Brewer’s book, K-PAX. Some of you may also have seen the film. It is probably that visit, and one by another K-PAXian called fled, that led the Bullocks to take their demands to Dr. Gene Brewer. You’ve met him before in a recent press conference, so he is familiar to all of you. If there’s anyone on the planet who knows the answers to your questions, it would be him. If there are questions he can’t answer, then there’s no one in the world who can. Dr. Brewer, will you come to the microphone, please?”

  And there I was, front and center again, looking as if I knew something when, in fact, I knew nothing. Hands shot up everywhere. I pointed to someone at random.

  It was another of the anchors I had seen on the evening news countless times. “Dr. Brewer,” he said, “I think all of us owe you an apology for doubting your veracity, and maybe even your sanity, the last time you were here. But the possible sudden end of the human race is a lot to wrap your head around in one sitting.”

  “I understand perfectly. Sometimes I doubt my veracity, and even my sanity, myself.” The room filled with laughter, which, if nothing else, relieved the tension a little.

  “If I may proceed, then: do you have any further information on what the Bullocks will do to the human race if we cannot — or refuse — to comply with their demands?”

  “I can’t tell you exactly what they will do. All I know for sure is that we will all disappear from the face of the Earth — maybe much like the structures and the people inside them did in the video recordings we have all seen this morning. I don’t know where we might end up — maybe nowhere at all. Wherever it is, I don’t think any of us will be returning to this planet.”

  I pointed to another familiar face. He looked a little like George Clooney. Maybe it was George Clooney who asked, “Do you know more precisely at this point what they want from us?”

  “Since the previous press conference I attended, they have modified their demands somewhat. Now they’re saying they will be satisfied with a 20% reduction in the killing of our fellow human beings every year until we have stopped it altogether within the next five years. Same for the animals whom we share the planet with, beginning next year. But bear in mind that if we don’t reach the 20% goal in year one, the rest is irrelevant.”

  “Is that negotiable at all?”

  “I think the negotiations are over.”

  “If we reduce it by 20% the first year and 30% the second, would it mean that we could do 10% the third?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. But I think Wal — the Bullocks would say: just do it and stop quibbling about the numbers.”

  A French reporter who identified himself as representing La Monde: “Dr. Brewer, can you tell us something about what these Bullocks are like?”

  “I have no idea what they look like. They are not corporeal; they can assume the shape of anyone or anything they want: people, animals — even a chair, maybe. Without something to occupy, they may not look like anything. I think they may be pure energy, perhaps in the form of brain waves of some kind.

  “Also, they are not really individuals, but behave like a colony of ants or bees. When you talk to one of them, you’re talking to everyone in that community. It’s also true that they might be in this room right now.” At the first press conference, the reporters looked around in mock trepidation when I said that. This time the fear was real. Some even gasped.

  “But you would never know it unless they chose to make their presence felt. I apologize if I said some of this earlier. I’m a little tired, and I, too, have a hard time getting my head around this.” Some were still gawking around, tugging at their ties, straightening skirts.

  “Perhaps I should also mention here what happened to me yesterday… .” I glanced at the President, who nodded vigorously. “Before Walter’s demonstration, I suspect most of you would have thought I was crazy for saying this, but what you saw on the monitors a few minutes ago pales in comparison to an experience I had a few hours earlier.” I went on to describe in some detail my travels through the galaxy and back in time, all within the blink of an eye. “Also, you should know that we have in our possession a cone-shaped device which apparently describes how we, ourselves, can accomplish these feats, as well as everything there is to know about our DNA and what every gene does, plus a great deal of other information that, on our own, we might not come up with for thousands of years. I mention this only because everyone around the world should know that if we can survive the next year, or the next decade, we can learn to make the Earth the paradise it once was. Just imagine, if you can, the cures for every known disease, travel through the galaxy at the speed of light or faster, and a million other things we don’t know now.”

  One of the reporters asked whether I had traveled into the future.

  “The Bullocks told me that this is not possible. Nor would we want to even if we could. But the important point is that we can determine what that future will be like by our actions today and for the next few years.”

  “If someone can travel back to the present from some future time, where are they?”

  “They may be here, but we can’t see them. I’m not sure why. I think they’re in a different dimension.”

  Another familiar-looking television reporter asked whether the Bullocks had destroyed any other planets.

  “Apparently they don’t destroy planets. Only their humanoid inhabitants.”

  “Have they told you how we can best comply with their wishes?”

  “They said we need to evolve.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “They said the answer to all these questions are on the cone.”

  “But that won’t help us now, will it?”

  “No. The first part — stopping the killing — we will have to do on our own.”

  At this point the President suggested that I take only one more question. “We have a lot of work to do,” he explained.

  In answer to the final question, I informed those present (and watching on television) that with the support of all the governments of the world I would be presenting the Bullocks’ demands at a meeting of the United Nations Security Council on Saturday. “Until then,” I said, “I hope to have the support and encouragement of everyone here and all those watching this news conference. I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Brewer. Thank you, Mr. President.” This time there was a round of applause before everyone hurried out.

  In the Oval Office, the President, as always, shook my hand and commended my performance. “Now get going,” he said with a warm smile. “We only have three more days to get you ready to face the world.”

  Over lunch on the flight home, I asked Mike whether he thought the average person was beginning to accept the fact that we have a problem.

  “The newspaper and television reporters are interviewing people right and left, Gene. The fact is, people are still confused. Most know there’s a serious problem that affects everyone on Earth, but they still don’t want to believe it.”

  “I don’t want to believe it, either.”

  “But it is true, isn’t it, Gene?”

  “Unless I’m dreaming.”

  “Then I’m dreaming, too.”

  “Why does everyone say that? If you’re just a part of my dream, you’d say that anyway, wouldn’t you?”

  “But I know I’m not dreaming!”

  “You’d say that, too!”

  Back at the Nerve Center, Mike said something that had obviously been on his mind the whole trip: “Listen. Are you sure about what happened to you yesterday? That it wasn’t all a dream?”

&n
bsp; “Ninety-nine percent.”

  “Go have a cup of tea with your wife. After that, we’d better have a talk with Dr. Schultz.”

  I literally ran across the yard to the house, where Karen greeted me with, “You were wonderful!” We had a nice talk over tea and cookies, courtesy of Uncle Sam. I still had some time before I was supposed to see my shrink, so I asked Karen if she’d like to go for a walk around the yard, maybe a little hike on our quarter-mile trail in the woods. “That would be great. I haven’t been out of the house much since all this began.”

  “I haven’t either, except for a few trips to the White House…” That joke was becoming all too familiar, but we laughed like fools anyway.

  Flower happily accompanied us. Before we entered the woods I nodded to the government men, who nodded back solemnly, and one of them followed us in. “Do they ever smile?” my perceptive wife wanted to know.

  “I’ve never seen it.” The colors of the leaves seemed to be even stronger and brighter than they were a couple of days ago. I wondered where Walter was and whether they enjoyed such beautiful scenery on the latest planet Bullock.

  When we got into the trees I took in a lungful of the wonderful aroma of fallen and decaying leaves. “This certainly brings up memories,” I told her. “Remember when we used to jump into piles of leaves that your dad had raked up?”

  She chortled. “We scattered them all back where they were before. It made him so mad!”

  I could see him now, almost as if we were there, fuming that he had to do it all over again. But I could tell that he really didn’t mind. He was a good father, and he loved to see his daughter happy and smiling. So did I. We were pre-adolescents at the time (Karen and I were neighbors from the day she was born), but it seemed like only yesterday. I watched as her dad picked up the rake and, shaking his head, began again to pile the brown, crinkly leaves into mounds. I could smell them, hear their sharp rustling, see the bright red of the rake’s tines shining in the sun. I started to jump into the first pile, but Karen held me back. She knew that her dad wouldn’t be so lenient the second time. She took my hand and we went into her house to play Monopoly.

  As she was throwing the dice I realized that Walter must be playing his own game, sending me back to the past for his own amusement, though they weren’t whispering in my ear as they did on our other “journeys.” “Where are you, Walter?” I silently asked them. No response. “C’mon, Walter,” I pleaded. “This isn’t funny! Why are you sending me to the past? What am I supposed to see?”

  Karen landed on Pennsylvania Avenue, pondered her options for a moment, and bought it. It didn’t escape my attention that she also owned Broadway and Park Place. I gazed into her pretty, smiling face as she counted out the money. “Your turn,” she said, handing me the dice.

  “Please, Walter,” I begged. “Take me back to the present!” If they heard me they didn’t respond. I was beginning to feel a bit alarmed even though I knew what was happening, had experienced something like it before. But what if the Bullocks decided to leave me here? “Why are you doing this, Walter?”

  My youthful me took the dice and made a big production of shaking them in his (my) closed hand, but what number turned up I haven’t a clue because I suddenly found myself walking in the woods with my wife. I could feel my heart pounding and I told myself to take my blood pressure when we got back to the house.

  “I don’t know what time it is,” she said, “but it must be about time for your meeting with your psychiatrist.”

  “Probably,” I panted, and we turned around and headed back. I asked her whether she remembered a day, when we were ten or eleven, that her father admonished us for wrecking his leaf piles, and then going into the house to play Monopoly.

  “That could have been anytime,” she said. “There were leaves every year. And we played a lot of Monopoly.”

  “I didn’t even like Monopoly very much. Did you?”

  “Not really. I just liked being close to you. Smelling your clothes, your breath.”

  “Me, too. You were so pretty.”

  “You were cute, too. It was like having a puppy.”

  “You mean I was playful?”

  “More like ungainly… .”

  “I still am!”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You’re still pretty, anyway.”

  “Thank you. And you’re still cute.”

  “Thank you, too.” I gave her a quick smack on the lips. “Do you suppose there’s a camera somewhere watching us?”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Not really. They’re not going to see anything they haven’t seen before.”

  The agents were standing exactly where we left them, though they seemed a little different. Maybe another shift had started. Mike was waiting in the yard.

  “Have a nice walk?” he asked.

  “Lovely,” Karen replied.

  “Ready, Gene?”

  “I suppose so.” I gave my wife a serious kiss and headed for the trailer with Mike. She stood, smiling her lovely smile, watching us leave. I didn’t want to go in, but Mike led me to the makeshift medical clinic, where he left me to fend for myself. The comfortable chair and the chief psychiatrist were the same as before. I glanced around the room, my eyes alighting on the bench with all the now-dormant equipment ready in case something were to happen to me. “We understand that something’s bothering you,” said my colleague, the pill-pushing Dr. Schultz. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “It’s more than I can handle,” I confessed. “I not sure I can go through with it.”

  “Tell me what the worst of it seems to be.”

  “At first, it was the pressure of representing the human race in a challenge to our survival. But I seem to have dealt with that, gotten used to it. I’m even beginning not to mind the meetings with the President and the press conferences and all the rest.” I waited for him to comment, but he merely stared at me and said nothing. “Now it’s more about what is real and what is not. I just found myself taking a trip to the past. I didn’t even ask to do that, but somehow I was there.” Schultz again said nothing. “Am I going crazy?” I prodded.

  Like a ventriloquist’s dummy, he suddenly started to speak. “I don’t think so. You have to keep in mind that you’re in a unique situation that no human being has ever been in before. And you’re dealing with an all-powerful alien, almost godlike in their capabilities. No one could possibly deal with a situation like that. My advice to you is to accept whatever happens and handle it in the best manner you can, with the help of all your advisors, of course. That’s all anyone can do, and all anyone could reasonably expect from you. Remember this: if you fail, there is probably no one else in the world who could have done better. I suggest that you carry on and try not to worry about success or failure.”

  I thought: what kind of quack is this? I knew all that, but it didn’t do much for my feelings of inadequacy and loss of control. I remembered all the similar advice I had given to my patients over the decades. How they must have hated me! My fatuous advice had probably made things even worse for many of them. Now, in addition to everything else, I had to try to forget the inadequacy of my life’s work. “But why did they send me back to the past?”

  “That’s exactly my point, Gene,” he replied fatuously. “I don’t know. You just have to go with it and move on.”

  “Should I ask the Bullocks why they sent me back?”

  “Sure. Ask them, if you want.”

  “You don’t think it would make matters worse?”

  “It hasn’t so far, has it?” He glanced at his watch, something I’ve always tried to avoid with my patients. It always seemed to signal impatience, a non-caring attitude.

  “Thank you, Dr. Schultz,” I murmured. “I’ll try to do my best.”

 
I could see the wheels turning in his head — whether to continue the discussion or let me go out and face my responsibility without further comment. Finally he nodded and said (big surprise!), “Do you need something for your anxiety? Something to help you sleep?”

  Who hired this guy? I’m a psychiatrist, for God’s sake. “No, thanks. I have some meds I can take.”

  He nodded in obvious disappointment. “Fine. Good luck. I’ll be here anytime you need me.”

  “Thanks again. I don’t think I’ll give you any more trouble.”

  “No trouble. How’s the wife and family?”

  No need to patronize, doctor. “Fine, fine. How’s yours?”

  “I don’t have a wife. Or a family.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I joked. He didn’t laugh, but I think he might have welcomed the opportunity to discuss his personal problems.

  Mike, of course, was waiting for me outside the door. “Feeling better?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “Dr. Schultz was very helpful.”

  “Good.” By now it was late afternoon and, I supposed, there wasn’t much time left for meetings. I was wrong. “We think we ought to get started as soon as possible on the matter of preparing you for your speech to the Security Council,” he informed me.

  “Before dinner??”

  “We’ll have dinner in the meeting room if necessary. Shall we go?”

  He started walking; I meekly followed. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to meet with TF1 — the task force on the speech you’re going to give — for the remainder of this afternoon, and evening if necessary. Unless something else comes up, today and tomorrow will be spent on the speech itself. Obviously this is the most important part of the whole process. And we’ll take as much time as you need to get it right. Sound okay to you?”

  “Fine.” All I could think of was: I wonder what color the walls will be? I began to feel the usual cold, clammy feeling, as if I were in bed with Walter. Where are you, Walter, you old — How odd, I thought as always, how stupid. I was more concerned about standing before the United Nations Security Council than with the disappearance of human beings from the Earth. That made no sense at all. I needed to get a grip. “Yeah,” I added. “Great.”