The Alien and Me
This alien stopped by last night. You don’t have to believe me. He parked his spaceship, I guess you could call it parked, among the birch trees in my backyard. The leaves shook like in a light breeze. It wasn’t as loud as you’d think but I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t notice. They’re pretty self-involved, I guess.
Anyway, he comes in and he’s very green. I say very green. Green is green, but I’m hoping you know what I mean when I say he was very green. It was one of a handful of qualities that had me convinced he was an alien. That and the sad eyes. I won’t bore you with the others.
Of course he could speak English. I say speak. You know what I mean. His accent was weird and he squeaked like a straw was stuck in his throat. He did not have a full grasp of our idioms, but he got his points across.
He sat on my sofa and the one thing I kept thinking was, I’m sure glad this particular alien wears pants. You never see them with pants, but this one, he wore pants.
You’re probably wondering why he picked my house and so was I. Turns out I’m not the first guy he’s visited. That disappointed me a little, I admit, but I got over it.
I was watching television because I can’t kick the habit. You’re alone, what else are you gonna do? It’s been the most consistent relationship in my life. I worried his spaceship might fritz the picture, but he said ever since we went digital that doesn’t happen anymore. And this you won’t believe. He watched the program with me. Laughed at all the right spots, too. I got him a beer.
He cracked it open and poured it over me. I said what the hell and he looked offended. He said he’d learned it from our culture. The highest celebration our people are capable of, he said, and I remembered the Super Bowl and the winning locker rooms, and I told him I was truly honored.
I know it sounds like I was pretty casual with all this. But the whole time I was afraid. I kept my questions to myself about where he’s from, if they have cows there, if they reimburse his mileage. I did not want him to invite me on that spaceship. Whenever something like that happens, it does not turn out well.
So I kept my cards close, but what happened was, not too long after the show was over, he thanked me for the beer, and he took off. I didn’t get a number or anything.
If you’re asking me why he came over, I can only guess. Of course, my guess is better than yours because he sat on my sofa. My guess is, he was lonely.
That’s it.
I’m glad he didn’t take me inside the spaceship. There were only two possibilities. Either I see the key to the universe, or something less than that. I’ve been disappointed enough.
You start to think of all the planets out there and all the houses and asteroids and what is it, nitrogen, and black holes and everything, and he picks me. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe some worm hole took him for a ride. Say it was random, I don’t care. Say he’s never coming back. That’s okay. I’m not waiting for him.
You might think this was a once in a lifetime event. Well I’ve been reading up on that. We think that just because things happen to us only once, they’re rare. Our senses get warped. The rare thing is that I’m sitting on my sofa. It happens all the time, sure, but in a world of so much emptiness and just an occasional spaceship, this sofa is a miracle. I’m going to get a cover for it because now whenever I feel the need, I douse myself with beer.
I like to think he’s going from spot to spot, with those sad eyes, spreading the word across the universe. Teaching everyone how to celebrate, in all the ways they should already know.
Chris Haven has recent stories in Atlas & Alice, Fictive Dream, Bat City Review, Gone Lawn, and CHEAP POP. His debut collection of short stories, Nesting Habits of Flightless Birds, was published by Tailwinds Press in 2020. Bone Seeker, a collection of poems, was published by NYQ Books in March 2021. He teaches writing at Grand Valley State University in Michigan. Find him on Twitter @ChrisLHaven.
