Maybe Not A Christmas Special

In my younger and more vulnerable years Brennan gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. "Never pass up the chance to write a Christmas special."

Unlike Nick Carraway, however, I ended up blatantly disregarding the advice given to me. I tried. I started this one two days ago and set it in the winter, planning on at least mentioning Christmas somewhere. Nope. Couldn't do it.

So the story below isn't a Christmas special, but it's still Christmas, so I've still got something to say to all you readers out there:

Thank you.

This blog is still young, I still haven't gotten paid to write, and you still don't find a trace of any of this from googling David's name, but I think to some degree you guys have given us what we came for. It was, and still is, all about the same thing that any writer's career is about: getting people reading. I don't know who exactly has been visiting or what you've thought, but if you're reading this now then thanks. We hope you're enjoying it, and maybe one of these days you'll find this stuff at a Barnes and Noble. Maybe.

Merry Christmas everybody, you guys are the best.

Defense Mechanisms

There were two things I didn’t want them to know.

The first was that there was already a replacement ready for me. Restless Impulse never went more than three months without shaking it up and switching out its major cast members, and I was a major cast member. I’d done my part, and we’d known from the very beginning that that part wouldn’t last for more than a couple months, partially because my employers wouldn’t have gone for it, and partially because I didn’t want it to, seeing as it had me in quite a pickle already. If the next guy had any luck the two guys I was dealing with now would think it stopped with me, that once I disappeared from 87.3 FM’s most notable radio drama their problems would be solved.

The second was that there was at least a foot and a half of freshly fallen snow outside my apartment that would make the 5-story fall significantly easier on my body.

Let’s go over the situation that got me here.

Corporate Espionage: Season 1, Episode 1

The Big Scheme

Boss: No, Marla, I swear to God it’s a sham! There’s no way I could’ve even been on that side of Milwaukee when it hap—what? Yes, yes I can pick Jackson up from soccer practice….No, I won’t forget this time.

(Knock, knock)

Boss: Come in! Listen, I have to go, my lawyer just got here…I know you believe me. Listen, we’ll get it worked out… I love you too. Bye.

Employee: You wanted to see me?

Boss: I did. I’m sure you’ve read the papers recently.

Employee: I’ve read you’re being accused of financing and supplying wars overseas if that’s what you mean.

Boss: (Sigh) It is. What I’m sure you haven’t read is that the entire case is based on falsified evidence and hearsay.

Employee: (Mildly sarcastic) What kind of employee would I be if I thought otherwise?

Boss: I need you to take me seriously, Brooks.

Brooks: Got it.

Boss: I hope so, because I need you to listen carefully. This whole situation has me desperate for some kind, any kind of lead, and I believe I’ve finally found it. I assume you’re familiar with my accuser?

Brooks: Phil Watson? (Clap.) Yeah, I’ve heard of him.

Narrator: Phil Watson is the CEO of Poise Inc., Medshare’s leading competitor in the area of pharmaceuticals. After ten years of dominating the industry, Watson has found himself in second place in sales behind Medshare for the last three quarters.

Boss: Good. Well, I’ve recently discovered a soft spot of his. It’s a radio show called Restless Impulse that he came across two years ago on a trip to the UK. Last year he paid entirely out of pocket to have a version adapted for American radio and broadcast in his hometown of Westbrook, Massachusetts. It never caught on and, even though he continues to lose money on every episode, he still enjoys it enough to finance it. Here’s where you come in. While I was combing the resumes of every employee of this corporation, I came across the fact that you had a short career as an improv comedian, is that correct?

Brooks: Yes.

Boss: And your departure from that job was in no way related to your skill, was it?

Brooks: No. There were other reasons.

Boss: How would you like to return to the performing arts?

Brooks: Pardon me if I don’t see the connection you’re making.

Boss: Don’t worry, I’m getting there. Have you ever seen Hamlet?

End scene.

He was right, Restless Impulse was losing money on every episode, and it made absolutely no corporate sense for Watson to be financing it for any reason other than his own enjoyment. That and his pride. Phil Watson was an egomaniac, and I can’t excuse my boss from fitting the same description, but Watson was worse. He liked Restless Impulse, and it was an easy assumption that he was convinced that his tastes were the most refined in the area of radio programming. He kept it running in Westbrook because he was positive people would eventually come to love it, and they’d thank him. They hadn’t thanked him for their high pharmaceutical prices, so they owed him already.

Then there was his interest in the whole thing. Because of the way the show worked, his version didn’t give him the same basic plot points and setting as the other one with the only difference being the voices, it gave him an entirely new world. Restless Impulse was an improv dramady; one rotating cast constantly relied on each other to drive the story forward, reveal new plots, bring in new characters, kill off old ones, and set up dark humor. It was long-form improv where, instead of a suggestion, actors had prior events and previously established characters to work with, and a demand for more plot than comedy. The result was artistic when it was done right, and in the UK they’d been doing it right.

The good news for us was that, like I said earlier, they changed the cast every few months. Randolph McMillen, that was the CEO of Medshare, was beyond convinced that all of his legal issues had stemmed from a series of crooked deals on Watson’s part, but five lawyers and two P.I.’s (so far the federal investigators weren’t buying a word of McMillen’s defense for some reason) hadn’t found any word of a crack in Watson’s fortress. Seemingly every day new evidence was coming out against my CEO, all of it looking perfectly legit. Either Watson was the smoothest criminal since that guy who killed Annie, or he wasn’t the one we were after.

I use the term “we” loosely. Personally, I would’ve hated them both equally if it weren’t for the paychecks.

The plan was for me to resign from my job in McMillen’s office. Immediately after that I was supposed fly to Westbrook, where’d I’d meet with a recently-hired and stationed psychologist/hypnotist named Tom Reston. From there I’d audition for Restless Impulse, armed with both the fact that I’d spent three years of my life making money doing improv and some mild conversational hypnosis techniques that Reston was supposed to spend my first month in Westbrook going over with me.

Let’s go over that again.

Corporate Espionage: Season 1, Episode 4

Meeting Tom

Brooks: Tom Reston?

Reston: Indeed.

Brooks: I’m Allen Brooks (sound of hands clasping), nice to meet you.

Reston: Likewise. Shall we head to my car?

(walking, trunk opening, baggage being deposited, car doors opening and closing)

Reston: Now, I’m sure Randolph has gone over what we are to do with you?

Brooks: He told me I’m auditioning for a show called Restless Impulse, and you’re here to make sure I get on it.

Reston: Right, right, has he specified to you what you are to do from there?

Brooks: That’s what you’re here for.

Reston: Excellent. Your goal, as a new voice in the life of Phil Watson, is to use my techniques to continuously antagonize the man, therefore causing him to slip in his pursuit of this perfect crime.

Brooks: Like in Hamlet?

Reston: Somewhat. Our goal however is not a direct confession, simply a diversion.

Brooks: So, when do we start?

Reston: We’re rather short on time –

Brooks: There’s the rub.

Reston: And so I would like to start as soon as possible. (Squeaking of brakes) For you and I’s convenience, our respective dwellings will be separated only by two floors. Deposit your bags and meet me in my apartment, 203.

Brooks: Sounds good.

Reston: Indeed. One more question, are you familiar with the clap rule (clap)?

Narrator: The clap rule is part of the format of Restless Impulse. When a new character or concept is referred to and recognized by all characters, the narrator is given the option to clap, stopping all action, and explain this concept. This allows the actors to avoid cumbersome dialogue where they are unnaturally forced to explain something they are both familiar with.

Brooks: Yeah, McMillen explained to me that I’m looking to become the new narrator.

Reston: I won’t waste our mutual time explaining it then. Meet me in my apartment in 10 minutes.

End scene

I considered quitting at least a couple of times. Every session I spent in Reston’s apartment was a lesson in making Phil Watson feel like shit, and as little as I care about corporate bigwhigs, there’s still something inherently dirty about purposefully ruining their psyche. I started to consider the question of what makes a person evil, and I’m still trying to decide whether it’s in the actions or in the regret. It’s hard not to feel bad for people they’re defeated, no matter how much you think you dislike them. Something about that moment makes them human, and it makes it harder.

But those are personal thoughts, and my personal thoughts weren’t the reason I was being paid enough to retire.

Three weeks into it I started getting the calls from McMillen’s P.I.’s. They’d done some snooping into public records and, I have to admit, the stuff they were giving me was pure gold for the goal. They’d tell me I needed to steer the plot towards a divorce to make him think about his second wife, Reston would tell me how to say it, and then I was supposed to do the saying. I made the cast for Restless Impulse as the new narrator without a problem; I probably could have handed them blank paper afterwards and told them it was 100 dollar bills with how mesmerized I had them. Tom Reston is a witch doctor, it’s as simple as that.

After I made the cast a guy named Brian moved in with me; I never learned his last name. Reston started teaching him while I was out narrating, and McMillen told me to report on anything I picked up about anything. I never bothered to share anything with any of them, partially because there was nothing to share. I’d agreed to it in the first place because I’d been in a job I’d never wanted. Parents, finances, whatever you want to call it, I just liked my old job a lot more than the rest of the world liked me having it. I don’t feel like explaining it all.

It must’ve been working, because I got an excited call from McMillen telling me that he could feel Watson cracking, he said they still didn’t have anything on the criminal case, but Poise, Inc. was folding fast after a slew of bad decisions. “And it’s all thanks to you,” that’s what he said.

I don’t think I need to explain the conclusions I started drawing about what McMillen was up to.

The case has turned in his favor in recent weeks, and I hear Watson’s about to be fired.

That all happened after I quit. I quit because two guys kicked down my door.

Corporate Espionage: Season 1, Episode 10

(Door gets kicked in.)

Brooks: You could’ve knocked.

Henchman 1: Mr. Watson wants you out.

Henchman 2: Yeah.

Brooks: Why?

Henchman 1: That’s not your business

Henchman 2: Yeah!

Brooks: I’ll be extremely impressed if either of you guys really gives that much of a shit. What did he tell you?

Henchman 1: Ever since you got onto his favorite radio program he’s had a string of bad luck. You’re his bad luck.

Henchman 2: Mhm.

Brooks: Whatever. Tell him to psychologically wreck his competitors while he finances wars overseas. I hear that works these days.

Henchman 1: Listen, just come with us and don’t make it hard.

Henchman 2: Don’t.

Brooks: You’re not getting the fact that I don’t care about Watson are you?

Henchman 1: Just come on.

Brooks: Alright, so Watson’s life hits a downward spiral, he gets crazy, he sends you guys. I’m guessing you’re supposed to shoot me or beat me up or something that wouldn’t be fun for either of us, so how about this.

(Sound of a window opening.)

Brooks: Later.

End Scene

The fall didn’t even hurt, other than the fact that it was cold down there. After ten minutes I saw them walk out the front door of the building, then I headed up. My apartment was completely torn up, but packing didn’t take long. I got back on a plane and headed back to my home town. Things went the same way they’d been going before for basically everybody, but whatever.

Body lands in the snow.

Sometime Around Seven

She was turning forty-three.

Dillon didn’t remember, she could tell. When she turned off the lights and lit the candles on her cake, their tiny flames failed to illuminate any surprise on his face. He probably didn’t show it anyway, though. He rarely did.

He was fifteen. She’d remembered her parents’ birthdays at fifteen.

They ate silently, a common occurrence. The cake was too sweet, yellow with chocolate frosting that overpowered every bite, dominating and steering her taste buds every which way. After twenty minutes, she still hadn’t finished her piece. Lifting the fork felt tedious and eating a dessert wasteful. She could feel some sort of tension looming over them, right where the celebratory atmosphere should have been.

Once, in a cookbook, she’d read that “desserts” is “stressed” spelled backwards. At the time, it had seemed an inspirational message.

“You haven’t even touched your food,” she said. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Fine.”

“Well, there’s plenty left. You can have as much as you want.”

“Ok.”

She hesitated. “Is, um, is everything okay?” she asked.

“What?” Dillon said. She thought he looked offended.

“Nothing. Nothing, never mind.”

***

That Friday, she took him to a diner in the country. The car’s tires growled on the gray gravel parking lot as the neon sign hissed and crackled, brightening while the sky darkened. She punched the car into reverse to enter a spot and the wheels spun, frighteningly immobile. It only lasted a short minute, a long moment. She turned and smiled at him, but he just stared out the window. Teenagers, she thought, as her smile faltered.

Their doors opened and closed together. They walked through the lot in perfect stride, wiped their feet on the welcome mat as one unit.

Perched at the bar, she asked, “How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Your vocabulary’s certainly improved,” she replied, teasing him, but he didn’t respond. She decided not to belabor him, instead taking a slow sip of her water and glancing around the restaurant, as if to be sure no one was listening.

“Did anything interesting happen today?” she said after a while.

“No.”

He cradled his glass, sucking at the straw like an infant.

“How’s . . .” she cast around for a name, “Pierce?”

“Fine.”

“Do you still hang out much?”

“Some.”

She drank more water. One of the ice cubes slipped through her lips, and she rolled it around with her tongue for a few minutes. It soon became too cold, and she bit into it, chewing painfully.

When the bartender finally walked over, she’d finished her glass.

“How’re you folks doing tonight?” he asked.

“Hi,” she said.

She ordered trout and a salad, Dillon chicken fingers and potato chips. Through the meal, they stared straight ahead, eyes appearing to be covered by a thin film. The two of them looked colorless and toad-like. Dillon crunched the chips loudly, holding them suspended by his tongue for a minute before their demolition.

She reached for the salt. Her fish was too bland.

***

The next day, the doorbell rang. Behind the window, she saw Henry, a large man somewhere in his mid-thirties, his hands held respectfully behind his back.

“Hi, Henry. We don’t need anything today,” she told him.

Henry worked for Schuler’s Frozen Food Delivery Service. Every Saturday, at exactly twelve o’clock, he brought a new selection of frozen dishes to their home for them to take at their leisure. It probably should’ve been some sort of sign to her that he was a little late. He chuckled.

“Actually, that’s not why I’m here today. I quit Schuler’s. I got an offer at that graphic design company I told you about.”

“Oh, congratulations. It was sweet of you to tell us that you wouldn’t be coming by. Usually they just switch, without even letting us know.” Schuler’s had a new driver almost every month. After the first few times, she’d hardly even noticed.

“Well, that’s not really why I’m here either. I wanted to know if you’d like to go out tonight. Just to a little restaurant, nothing too fancy.”

“What?” she asked, caught off-guard. Henry beamed confidently at her.

“C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

“I– well– sure. I’d be happy to.”

She rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans. She felt like she’d been the one doing the asking.

***

That night, Henry picked her up at sometime around seven. She was surprised to see him in a car instead of the big tan Schuler’s truck. The night radiated warmth and comfort, and Henry wouldn’t stop beaming at her. They went to a little restaurant, nothing too fancy.

Henry led the conversation, talking about his passions: art, sports, and driving. She didn’t care much for sports, but he made them interesting.

When she talked, it was about Dillon.

***

After a couple months, Henry visited for the first time. She’d been trying to keep him and Dillon separated.

“Henry’s coming over tonight,” she said.

Dillon shrugged.

“He’s really excited to get to know you a little better,” she said.

He half-nodded.

“I think you two’ll get along really great,” she muttered.

At sometime around seven, the doorbell rang. Henry stood with his hands folded behind his back. He wore a tan sweater, the color of a Schuler’s uniform. The wind pushed in the door as she opened it, whipping around her arms and legs and rushing against her eyes until they dried out uncomfortably.

Henry looked just as he had a couple months ago, so she said, “Remember?”

“Of course,” he grinned, and they entered the kitchen.

At the table, Henry sat across from Dillon, she on a third side between them. Silverware squeaked and clinked on their plates. Pork chops and asparagus. The silence struck her as light and amiable. Nobody spoke because nobody had to.

After his plate was clean, Henry added some weight.

“That was really great, hon. Don’t you think?” The question was directed at Dillon.

“Uh-huh.”

Henry smiled toothily. To her, it seemed intimidating. “She’s a wonderful cook, your mother,” he said.

Dillon blinked.

“Don’t you think?” Henry repeated.

“Uh-huh,” Dillon said dully.

“Do you have any plans for this weekend?”

“No.”

“Right. Well, if you wanted to go to laser-tag, or maybe even paintballing, I’d be happy to take you.”

“No, thanks.”

“I’d be happy to see what you’re into, then. What do you like to do?”

Dillon ignored him, poking at his food.

Henry looked exasperated, so she jumped in. “Dessert, anyone?” she said.

***

She and Henry reclined on the couch later that evening, after Dillon had gone to bed. The television called out with blaring sound effects and flashing, distracting lights over the barren brick fireplace, an unused black stain on the wall. They twisted around in each other’s arms, trying to support their weight against the small cushions as best they could. Henry’s stubble scraped roughly against her cheek.

“Don’t be too upset with him,” she suddenly said.

“Upset?”

“I know he can be a little off-putting at first. But he’s just a teenager. He’s a very sweet guy, it just takes him some time to warm up to people.”

“I’m not upset.”

She shifted against him and the couch creaked. The television program changed and the room turned a different color. She heard Henry breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out.

“You should be more assertive with him, though,” Henry said.

“Hm?”

“Like you need to push him a little more.”

“Why?”

“Because what if it isn’t that he’s ‘just a teenager?’”

“What do you mean?”

“He hardly touched his food at all.”

“He’s never had much of an appetite. And besides, he’s a small guy,” she answered.

“A growing guy. And he didn’t seem to be interested in much either.”

“So?”

Henry swung his legs off the couch and disturbed her. He gazed at the wall next to the screen.

“Those are both symptoms of depression, you know.”

“No. Trust me, I’ve thought about it. He’s just going through a phase.”

“So you’re going to dismiss it, just like that?”

“I know him,” she said, not nearly as confident as she sounded.

Henry paused. “Well. Keep an eye on him at least, okay?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Life can seem pretty tough to kids sometimes, that’s all.”

“He’s fine,” she assured them.

***

The morning brought sugary breakfast, crisp newspapers, hot coffee, and another staring contest.

“How’d you sleep?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“When’d you get to bed? When I went up, your light was still on.”

“I dunno. Late, I guess.”

He left for the bus stop. Before driving to work, she called the doctor.

“He doesn’t eat or sleep much,” she said.

“Don’t let him near any sharp objects,” the doctor said.

***

A few days later, Dillon came home upset. He’d had a bad day at school, he told her, and he needed to talk about it. But in the middle of his sentence, the doorbell echoed through the house, sounding hollow and empty. It was Henry. It was sometime around seven.

“I have to go,” she said. “Can you tell me about it when I get back?”

“Uh-huh,” Dillon said quietly.

At the restaurant, time moved in slow motion. The atmosphere weighed down on her, muffling Henry’s voice and the crowd’s chatter. Her watch ticked harshly, each second lasting a year. She aged to forty-four, forty-five, fifty, a hundred.

She tried to drink some water, but her throat constricted against it.

Henry paid and brought her back to his car. They stood in the chilled parking lot. She shivered.

“Let’s go back to my place,” Henry said.

Her mind rushed to the house. Scissors, knives, gardening tools.

Sweat pooled in her armpits, freezing to her touch.

“No. No, I have to get home. I’m sorry.”

Henry nodded lethargically, letting time speed up while he wasted it. She could feel her paleness. She wanted to throw up.

The whole ride home, the car’s wheels turned as if they were stuck in mud. They hit every red light.

She tried to shut out Henry’s incessant yammering, to control her shaking.

After dropping her off, Henry sped away, immediately thrice as fast as when he was with her. She fumbled with her keys, unable to find the right one. Once she did, she left the door hanging wide open.

She dashed through the first floor, eyes locking onto carving knives by the refrigerator, the pristine white tiling of the kitchen, the counters blocking her way. Her ears locked onto a terrible, empty silence.

She took the stairs two at a time.

His door was closed. She rattled the handle, but it chided her, locked. Dancing back and forth in the hallway, her mind jumping with her feet, she knocked on the door.

“Dillon? Dillon, honey, open up!”

There was no answer. The usual apathetic quiet was replaced with a screaming, debilitating one. She knocked harder. She hit. She pounded. She yelled.

“Open the door, Dillon! Please, God, open the door!”

Pound. Pound. Pound.

She threw herself into it.

And then, it opened.

“Mom? Mom, you woke me up. What’re you doing?”

She pulled him in tight so he wouldn’t see her tears.

***

They skipped his doctor’s appointment. Instead, they went back to the diner. She ordered the fish, he the chicken fingers.

For a while, they sat in silence, neither of them attempting to force conversation. She noticed Dillon eyeing her, maybe worried about another outburst. She thought he must know what she’d been worried about.

Then, he surprised her. “How– um, how’s your fish?” he asked.

She turned and stared at him, trying not to betray her incredulity.

“The, uh, chicken fingers are . . . okay,” he said.

She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Oh. That’s good. I–” she stopped. “The fish is delicious. Thank you.”

He smiled.

On the way out, he said, “Mom. You don’t need to worry about me so much.”

***

Henry stopped by unexpected that night, around seven-ish.

“Hey. You okay?” he said.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“I don’t– you seemed kind of upset last night. I shouldn’t have driven away like that, so I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

She nodded slowly, confused. It struck her that he looked uncomfortable, something she’d rarely seen from him. “I– thanks, I guess. Look, Henry, I’m a little tired, I think I’m just going to take a night to myself.”

“Of course, definitely. Um. Is, uh, is Dillon around, by any chance?”

“What?”

“Is Dillon here? I thought I might talk to him for a few minutes.” Henry smiled, not quite winningly.

“Why?” She felt surprisingly suspicious.

Henry’s face pushed together, scrunching into an incredulous, frustrated position. “Why?” he repeated, suddenly unable to understand her. She decided not to respond. He shook his head and let out an aggravated sigh that wafted toward her, hanging still in the air.

He pulled a couple of pages of paper from his pocket. “Um, this might sound stupid, but I was hoping to talk to him a little more to see if this depression thing was really worth worrying about. It was on my mind, that’s all, so I went on WebMD and checked it out. I figured I’d be able to tell better if I actually conversed with him some.”

“What?” she replied furiously. Henry tried to take a step back, but the door blocked him.

“Wha–” he started, but she wasn’t about to let him finish.

“No, Henry we already discussed this, and I said it wasn’t a problem! I can’t believe you wouldn’t trust me about this, I mean, you hardly know him at all! I’m his mother, if there was something wrong, I’d know–”

“Are you sure?” he cut in. As she opened her mouth to respond, he continued, “All I’m saying is, you didn’t sound that confident last time we talked about this.”

“Henry, please, don’t insult me like this.”

“Insult you? I’m trying to help your son, and you’re turning this into a way bigger deal than it should be! And what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not. I appreciate your concern, I really do, but he’s my son. I know him.”

“Five minutes,” Henry told her, and started moving through the hall toward the stairs. She stared after him, repeating his earlier incredulous expression.

“Henry.” He kept going, clearly pretending not to hear her. “Henry.”

He spun around. “What?” His voice avoided any inflection.

“Maybe you should just go for a little while.”

She watched his lip slide under his teeth for a moment, and she thought he might ignore her. He stood for a second. Then he paced deliberately past her to the door. Before he opened it, they shared a glance, and his face didn’t fail to betray his disappointment.

Once he’d left, his feet crunching across the cold grass, she said, “I’ll call you sometime,” but she couldn’t tell if she was lying or not.

The Mystery Contributor!

NOTE: Despite the labeling of this post, the story below is not actually by David, but is instead from a guest contributor, Jimmie. For those unfamiliar with him, Jimmie is a prolific artist, with acting, satire, and playwriting all under his belt. We at Staten 93 are happy to announce him as our first ever guest writer, and his excellent story follows:

Unknown Caller

By Jimmie

The faint blue light of the mobile phone screen illuminated his face against the night’s darkness, and lent a glow to the snow banks he stood knee-deep in as he gently shut the car door. He trudged silently to the safety rail. He folded the phone and was beginning to slide it into the pocket of his jacket when he realized that he couldn’t remember the time he had just glanced at. Distractions were all around him and ghosts moved in the wind through the bare tree limbs. With a flick of his wrist, he reopened the phone and looked at the time. 11:53. He was early.

No other cars were on the back road, everyone was home, with family. He had no home, and he was as close to family as he was going to get. He gave an involuntary shiver in the cold, and he could see his breath in front of his face. He reached the railing, and the snow began to soak through his pants and shoes. He hadn’t worn boots. He placed his hands on the top bar of the railing and bent his head, as if in prayer. He coughed, and removed his wool gloves, dropping them into the snow, and put his hands back on the rail. He fought back the urge to gasp at the burning cold on his skin.

He coughed and he was still. He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes and look below him into the ravine. He stood there for several minutes, not moving except for his involuntary shudders against the building wind, whipping loose powder against his body, dislodged by the gusts from the top of snow banks. Finally a car sped by with a roar. He felt the passing air on his back, but did not turn. The car sped on across the small bridge and the driver noticed nothing.

The man, shaken from his state, slid his bare hand, trembling and numb into the coat pocket and pulled out the phone. He watched as the numbers changed and a new day began. A new day, and a new year. He’d never felt more empty. Beginnings had always fascinated him, excited him, reinvigorated him. Not now. It had been a full year. A decade-long year, it seemed like. A decade-long waking nightmare. He had decided to come here, to this place, now and not later in the morning, at the exact time the event he’d come to commemorate had transpired. He wanted to be alone, and he was afraid that in a few hours the road would be filled with drivers, returning from family gatherings as he had been a year ago. No, midnight felt right.

He suddenly noticed the screen of his phone, which he had forgotten was in his hand, numb as it was, light up. A fraction of a second later, it began to vibrate. He stared at the screen as the phone continued to vibrate. UNKOWN CALLER. It took him several seconds to process what was happening. He felt drunk, though he hadn’t tasted alcohol in the past year.

He was angry. Who would call him at midnight? Who would call him at midnight on this date? No doubt, it was an old friend, or a family member, calling to check up on him – to pity him. The pity he’d been forced to endure for the last year was the worst part of his fifty-two week hell. As if he had been afflicted with an incurable disease. As if what had happened wasn’t his fault. As if he wasn’t to blame. He couldn’t talk to anybody now. He didn’t ever feel like talking, but tonight, of all nights? No. The phone kept vibrating. He slammed the phone closed, disconnecting the call before it could go to voice mail.

He shook with the cold. He shook with emotion. His teeth would be chattering if he wasn’t gritting them so fiercely. His hands clenched, his nails digging into his numb palms. His eyes screwed shut. He wondered if his tears could freeze, sealing them shut. He imagined that his muscles were beyond his control, that he was being electrocuted, or was in the clutches of a deadly poison. He imagined that he was slowly wrenching control back, fighting off the foreign influence. He wrenched his eyes open and his mouth suddenly gaped. He was COLD.

He stared down into the ravine, to the shining stream frozen in place, winding from the drainage pipe. He stared at the rocks, sharp and cruel. He stared at fallen tree trunks, still attached to stumps by strips of bark and jagged splinters. He saw something glint in the fallen timbers, embedded in the wood. He knew what it was. The tiny, crystalline cubes of glass from a shattered windshield.

Suddenly he was startled by the renewed vibration of his mobile phone, clutched so tight in his hand that he was amazed he hadn’t cracked the plastic casing. He was seized with rage, flipping it open with the flick of his wrist, a movement curiously carefree for someone so self-conscious and tortured. The gesture was a relic, a clue as to who the man had once been, a year ago. The brief flash of history was gone just as soon as it had appeared, and the weary anger returned to his being as he stared at the screen. UNKOWN CALLER.

Fuck! This was his night. How dare somebody try to wrest his attention away from the ravine and his memory and his guilt? Fuck. He shut the phone to disconnect the call, and then reopened it, and with shaking hands set the phone to silent. He had to focus. He was fucking this up. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t fuck this up. He stared into the ravine, but just as his eyes focused on the evil glint in the fallen timber, his phone vibrated again.

He let out a tortured moan that quivered along with his muscles in the bitter chill. The phone was cheap, second-hand; borrowed indefinitely from a work friend he’d lost contact with during his months of miserable solace. The silent function must be broken. He held his thumb down on the red power button, the skin around his nail whitening from the pressure. He held his thumb down, hoping the casing would break and slice his skin, or that the pressure would snap his bone. He wanted pain, he deserved pain, he deserved unbroken solitude to experience this pain, and he hated whoever was calling him.

He held the button for ten seconds or more, until the blue light faded. He began to close the phone, finally, until he realized that it had not powered off, but the back light had only deactivated as the phone went idle. It was if he hadn’t been pressing the button at all. Perhaps the pressure he had exerted had shaken something loose, some electrical component that stopped the circuit from completing. The phone began a renewed vibration. UNKNOWN CALLER.

Fuck! Even this was his fault. He had broken the mobile phone, and now it wouldn’t power down until the battery died, or was removed. The man, trembling violently in the gusty, desolate cold, picked at the flat panel hiding the battery. His nails were short and ragged; he’d started biting them recently. His fingers hurt, and beads of blood began to appear beneath the nail of his index finger as he finally hooked the tab that let him remove the battery panel. It fell into the snow, and he didn’t bother to locate it. His fingers were so numb, that he couldn’t remove the battery. He violently shook the phone, trying to dislodge the power source.

He trembled uncontrollably now, and his teeth were gritted in rage, directed against the phone, and himself, and the caller, and fucking battery. He realized he was on his knees, soaked in the snow. The phone fell into a drift, but he could still hear the buzz of the vibration. He was shivering so badly he could barely control his movements. As his bare hands clumsily groped in the wet snow, he felt a sharp contact on his brow, and realized he had smacked his forehead against the top bar of the railing he had been leaning on. His hands finally found the phone, now vibrating incessantly, just as he looked between the first and second bars down into the ravine.

He slowly brought the phone up, clasping it against his chest, his attention now completely absorbed by the ditch below him. He was hyperventilating, clouds of breath surrounding him, given an eerie blue color by the glowing phone. For a second, the first since it had begun vibrating, he forgot entirely about the phone, and looked down into the shattered trees, the jagged stones, and the frozen stream. He could see how it had appeared a year ago. He had lain in this spot, hurled into the pavement, hopelessly unharmed, as he gazed down. His wife, his daughter, trapped inside an overturned vehicle with its wheels spinning wildly, treading the night air. The headlights illuminated the wreckage, the shattered glass, the inverted roof, the deafening silence of the scene.

He didn’t know or care how long he stared down into the ravine. But as he traced his gaze over every line of the accident, every shard of glass, every splinter of wood, every displaced chunk of ice, every red stain on the snow, his trembling finally stopped, and an emotional numbness finally came, and he calmly shut his eyes.

The phone kept vibrating. He glanced at it in his hands, and realized he held it backwards, so that the empty battery compartment faced him. The empty battery compartment… And yet it vibrated on. He opened it, calmly, with no emotion. UNKNOWN CALLER. He pressed the green button, and held the phone to his ear. He listened to the voice on the other end. He gave no response. He nodded silently, and shut the phone. He rose from the ground, and gave the ravine one last glance. It was empty. The snow sparkled. He could see each tree and rock without squinting. Day was breaking. He looked up at the lightening sky. He sighed once, and let the silent, powerless phone slip from his unfeeling grasp into the banks of snow.

He walked slowly back to his car. He shut the door. He started the engine. It was a new year.

Inspiring the Lonely Gunman

“The misunderstanding of postmodern literature often derives from the misunderstanding of its goal, that is, that there is no goal. With the progression of time, literature has also progressed forward from the days of explicitly polemic stories specifically aimed at a purpose that, if you missed it, you’d wasted your time, to a much more personal experience, that of drawing one’s own conclusions based on an emotional reaction to the story. We’ve seen the timeless question “what’s the point?” asked in countless situations to which the question simply does not apply. Literature now aims to move the reader, not necessarily toward a conclusion drawn up and mapped out by the writer, but toward an introverted response in which he or she is pushed to delve deeper than the point of comfort into his or her own thoughts and discover there something that may have previously gone ignored.”

Either I’m supposed to be having a revelation about the laws of physics right now, or this guy’s a terrible writer.

There were 39 architects in my hotel for the convention. One of them was named Marvin. The other 38 were named Phil.

I remember meeting an eccentric bartender while I was there. I asked him for a beer and he said that would be better than a bear full of beer. I said drinking with bears is all fun and games until somebody gets viciously mauled. After that he pulled out his black leather-bound book and asked me to write in it.

I read the other things people had written in it. One of them went like this:

“Hello other people! My name is Yellow. Quite the name, isn’t it? Plenty of people over the years have made this comment or that comment, most of them being ridicule, but not one, not a single one, has had the guts to ask me where I got such a name! I suppose they’re all too yellow, no?

You see, it’s a very interesting story. My parents were strung out on drugs, which severely hindered their cognitive function, causing them to give me this stupid-ass name that doesn’t make any sense and raise me with the competence of a pack of stray three-legged cats. Now I bang other people’s girlfriends to get my self-confidence. Go to hell.”

I could imagine worse things happening in my life than meeting Yellow. Just as long as my girlfriend wasn’t around. Just as long as the girlfriend I don’t have wasn’t around.

Another person wrote this:

“I can’t deal with it anymore. This bartender handed me this book, and it seems like a safe enough place for a confession, because he’s not going to read it until it’s full, and by then plenty of other grubby hands will have left their fingers on it. I killed Mason Anderson. I did it with a knife I bought off a homeless person and never touched with my fingers, then I ditched it. I moved. I disappeared, but now I’m back, because exile is too much. If I get caught, so be it, but I’m living in my own city until then.

If you’re looking for a justification, find me yourself and I’ll tell you.”

Mason Anderson had been one of the most controversial mayors in city history. He had survived six assassination attempts prior to the one that got him, all by an incompetent underground group that later confessed to deriving their inspiration from playing Assassin’s Creed. Anderson wasn’t so lucky the 7^th time. They found him in his bed on the morning of April 1^st with 47 stab wounds. It ruined April Fools Day that year.

For a second I shook, knowing my hands were the reason this guy was going to get away with one of the highest profile murders the city had ever seen. Half of me felt satisfied that I was part of the reason he could write freely, the other half wanted to go into hiding.

Both those feelings faded when I saw the entry four pages later.

It started with “I did it. I killed Mason Anderson.” And it went from there.

All the entries seemed the same after that, everybody trying to be more interesting than the rest, trying to say something more different. They all ended up the same.

It made me wonder if Yellow’s name was really Yellow. I hoped it was. I hoped at least some of the things people were writing were real. Just a few, at least.

Then came my page.

For a while I stared at it, so annoyingly white, daring me to do better than the rest of them. It made sense right then how it had all happened. They’d probably felt the same as me, then the stark white had tricked them into trying too hard. Sneaky bastard.

Finally, I decided not to say anything. Instead I wrote this:

“I run. I rap, I rock, I write, I roll, I wreck, I reign, Iraq, Iran, I roam.

I return,

I remember,

I reevaluate.

I am the victim.”

I figured that would at least get somebody thinking.

They say that a pistol going off next to your head is enough to leave you deaf. I guess I’ll believe it, because of how long my ears were ringing in the hotel.

No one saw it coming.

There was a reception going on in the hotel lobby for the architects, the ones who were there for the convention. I was on my way out, and I almost made it before I saw a woman reading Cosmo in a chair by the door. The cover said on it “7 Hot sex secrets that’ll make him roar.”

Oh, I get it. Gravity operates on the same principle as a flat, malleable surface, where heavy objects such as planets form a dip on which objects then roll toward the planet, orbiting it.

The five seconds that I spent walking slower to get a glimpse of what else the cover said were the five seconds I needed to get out. Instead he walked in and let loose a bullet straight into the air.

He was right next to me.

It made my ears hurt, and I fell down.

Falling was convenient, because once everyone was silent, he yelled “EVERYBODY GET DOWN!”

Done and done, Mr. Gunman.

Backstory: The hotel I was at was called the Riston, because it was owned by George Riston, and had been owned by George Riston for the last 7 months. I know this because George Riston is my uncle. When my apartment he said I could stay at the Riston, free of charge, until I got somewhere else to live, because I’d been planning on moving out anyway. At that point it had been four days, and that was supposed to be my last day in the Riston. That’s what I was thinking when it happened, that this hostage situation was going to keep me from moving into my new apartment, and that was a shame, because the pool at my new apartment had a waterslide. All the Riston’s pool had was several Jacuzzis and a fountain. You can’t get drunk and slide down a fountain. People yell at you for that kind of thing.

The reason that it matters when George Riston took over the Hotel Riston, 7 months, is the fact that before Uncle George got it was a western-themed hotel called The Lone Gunman. The name didn’t come from the theme, it came from the fact that the Lone Gunman was owned and operated by James Gunman.

Riston and Gunman had gone to business school together, and they weren’t friends. When word got out that Gunman’s gambling addiction had caught up to him and The Lone Gunman had been forced to close, Uncle George had been the first to book a flight. He’s not the conceited type who would name a hotel after himself for no reason, he did it completely out of spite.

Now he was holding an architects convention to find someone to design hotels for his new chain. He’d decided he liked the hotel business.

That’s why Mr. Gunman had burst through the door and shot his pistol into the air, because he was a broke old man who’d been spited a little too hard.

After everyone was down he started yelling all the typical crazed gunman chatter. “Nobody be a hero,” and “if I see a cell phone I’m putting a bullet through your skull,” and all that stuff. Then somebody decided to do something about it.

One of the architects made eye contact with him, then he got up. Gunman started screaming at him to get back down, but he didn’t, he just kept walking. He advanced slow enough that he wouldn’t startle anybody, and there was Gunman, the gunman, pointing his gun at the man. His hand was shaking.

Phil stuck out his hand “Hi,” he said, “I’m Phil.”

James ignored his hand.

“Not much for handshakes are ya? I respect that. Listen, we’re not here for anything other than to talk about designing buildings, alright? We’re not looking to save the day or anything like that, alright? Now, when the police get here, they’ll be looking for all kinds of trouble, so I’ll tell you right here, Mr. Hostage-taker (he got the name wrong), that if you head out now we won’t say anything to anybody. You just step out, let us go, and it’ll be none the wiser, alright?”

Gunman shot him in the leg.

“I TOLD YOU TO FREAKING GET DOWN!” That’s what he said, then he pushed Phil back and he fell.

“ARE THERE ANY OTHER PHILS IN THIS HOTEL?! ARE THERE?!”

One hand went up, then it shot back down. Too late. Gunman saw it, and he walked over.

I remember one of the entries I read at the bar. I remember it because I read it after I’d decided everyone was just going for shock value, and I thought it was the most clichéd.

“I’ve lost it all. My wife is gone, she took the kids. My money is gone, all of it’s gone. I’ve got nothing left, and can I build it back up? No! No, I can’t, I can’t do it. Why should I? I’ll never get my wife back, she doesn’t trust me. I’ll lose my money again. Why put myself through the hard work to get it all back when I’ll do this again? No, no, I can’t. It’s about to be over.

It’ll be over once I finish the one job I have left. I’ve been laughed at by fate plenty of times, but this time it has a face. Fate has a face, I can see it laughing at me, and I’m going to shut it up before it’s over. I’m going to pistol whip it.”

There he was. James Gunman, perpetually laughed at by George Restin for the last 7 months, was pistol-whipping fate in the face. No one signed their entries, that was one of the things that the bartender said I specifically wasn’t supposed to do when I wrote mine.

I can’t know for sure whether it was James Gunman or somebody in the same boat or just somebody trying to scare a reader. I looked at that entry and thought it was clichéd and stupid. Sometimes when you say what you mean you don’t say it right. This is a place where you have to say things right.

Phil looked terrified. Gunman was right over his face, holding the pistol up against his neck. Judging by how he moved and how dazed he’d looked between yelling sprees, I don’t think he’d been sleeping. I never saw his face from as close up as Phil saw it, but I imagine it was terrifying. His grizzly beard right there, his greasy, wild hair up above it, and between the two his two bloodshot eyes. Phil looked like he was about to piss his pants.

He couldn’t stop stuttering. “I—N-no…I-I didn’t m-m-mean it l-like that, I-I…I just…I j-just…m-my name is Phil.”

Not all Phils have the same swagger when they deal with gunmen. Or Gunmans.

“Oh,” said James, backing his face away “is that so?”

“IS IT SO?!...I’m sure it all makes sense, I’m sure it does, after all, Phil’s a very common name….isn’t it?”

“Y-yes…i-it’s very common.”

“Oh, oh I’m sure, in fact I’m sure there are plenty of other Phils in the room, I’m sure you just misunderstood my question. Go on, does anyone want to prove that Phil is just a common name? Does anyone want to prove to me that he just misunderstood my question?” He turned back to Phil “so I don’t have to shoot him in the face?”

36 more hands went up.

James snapped back up. “YOU’RE ALL LYING TO ME!”

“No one in this room cares…no one does. No one thinks about why I’m here with this gun, YELLING AT EVERYONE, no one wants to think about why I haven’t slept in THREE FUCKING DAYS. No, no all you see is this stuttering, pathetic mess.” He turned back to Phil. “Maybe I should go ahead and remove the distraction.”

I run. I rap, I rock, I write, I roll, I wreck, I reign, Iraq, Iran, I roam.

I remember.

I reevaluate.

I return.

I am James Gunman.

The SWAT team spoiled Gunman’s homecoming. After his menacing return to looking at Phil my ears got shattered again. This time it was glass breaking. Gunman had six machine guns from different spots pointed at him before he knew what was happening. Someone had had a video feed going. They knew he wasn’t watching the door when they showed up.

People talked about the first Phil as the hero, the one who had made his valiant attempt with so much poise. They talked about the second Phil as the victim, the one who’d faced his nightmares and come within an inch of death. The word that people used the most to describe it afterwards was bizarre.

It was bizarre that so many people named Phil had been there.

It was bizarre the way that Gunman had acted.

It was bizarre that no one had seen it coming.

I run. I rap, I rock, I write, I roll, I wreck, I reign, Iraq, Iran, I roam.

I return,

I remember,

I reevaluate.

I am still the victim.

I run. I rap, I rock, I write, I roll, I wreck, I reign, Iraq, Iran, I roam.

I read,

I judge,

I ignore.

I am the gunman.

Closed Doors

I once read somewhere that most scientists and historians and all sorts of other educated people agree that the moment we humans first make contact with extraterrestrial life will be the most important in our history. The article went on to say that after such an incident, even our system of keeping time would change, with B.C. meaning Before Contact instead of Christ, and that therefore the person who first encounters them will be the most important person who ever lived, again superseding even our dear Jesus Christ.

So just keep that in mind.

Another thing to keep in mind. A symphony is held on a stage that only has one real entrance or exit short of coming down off that stage and walking out the main doors, where the audience goes in and out. It’s for acoustic reasons, of course. Now, the interesting part of that is, that exit, which is just a small door for the musicians to go in and out of, can only be opened or closed by one person. That one person has the job of standing by the door and opening or closing it at the correct times, and it is quite literally illegal for anyone else, including even the conductor, to open or close that door. What that means is, the entire symphony depends on that one person to open the door at the right time, making that one person standing behind the scenes secretly the most important component of the entire symphony.

Which makes me pretty fucking important.

Here’s the thing, though. Concert halls don’t exactly pay according to importance, so I was just barely scraping by. I lived in this shitty little one room apartment in this shitty little neighborhood outside of this shitty little town with my shitty dog and shitty clothes and shitty appliances and shitty food. I had to work this other job, too, and if I had to describe it in one word, it would probably be “shitty.”

I was a pretty qualified, likeable guy, and if I’d really wanted to, I bet I could’ve turned that situation around, but that would’ve meant quitting at the symphony, and that was the best part of my day. I mean, I’m not really a fan of that kind of music or anything, but they’re good people, and I had the most kick-ass job. All I had to do was stand there and sometimes open a door, and nobody could do anything without me.

My weeks followed a pretty predictable routine. Monday through Friday I’d work my normal desk job, and on the weekend and usually Tuesday and Thursday I’d run the symphony at night. During the day on the weekend, I sort of just did whatever the hell I wanted. Lately, that meant motocross. I rode a mean dirt bike, but it cost a lot of money, so I doubted that would last long. It wasn’t the greatest lifestyle in the history of the world, but it sure wasn’t the worst either, and I didn’t mind. At least it wasn’t too crazy.

That is, until the weekend of October the second. That Saturday was opening night at the symphony, and I was pretty excited to go back to work. I went to practices all through that week to prepare because I liked to get the schedule down ahead of time, and I talked with the conductor once or twice. I always liked to have a good relationship with the people I’d be in charge of, and the symphony had just gotten a new conductor, so I went out of my way to meet with him. He seemed nice enough. He looked exactly how a conductor should: really skinny with messy grey hair and an abnormal amount of enthusiasm.

Really, there was nothing too different about that night. I picked up my tuxedo from the cleaners’ and went to bed a little early, just to be at my best for the next night, but that wasn’t much of a change.

For some reason, though, I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and went for a walk with my dog. He didn’t want to go very far because, as I said, he was pretty shitty. That’s not to say I didn’t like him, of course; man’s best friend fit him just as well as it did any other dog. So we walked a little bit, just around the block, and then he started digging in his heels, so I had to yank him around to get him to move at all. Eventually, I pulled so hard that his collar slipped off over his head, and he went charging off after something, suddenly full of energy. That’s just like dogs. I chased him, and he ran down this alley where the alien made its move. Right as I was putting on his collar again, there was this flash, and I ended up in a room.

If movies had their way, every alien spaceship would look like an operating room, with everything sterile, white, and glowing, but let me tell you, nothing is further from the truth. The interior of the ship was a light shade of pink and actually very soft. Everything was almost plushy, which makes sense. I mean, if they have to travel millions of light years in that thing like everyone assumes, wouldn’t their transportation be more comfortable?

In fact, everything was much less hostile than I would’ve expected from an alien ship, and it caught me off guard. I wasn’t sure what to do at first, so I knelt down and put the collar back on my dog. While I was doing that, I heard movement behind me, so I stood up, turned around, and ended up face-to-face with humanity’s first extraterrestrial life. The alien was fairly close to a person in appearance, actually. I know that might seem illogical, since it would’ve had all these years to develop separately from us, but there it was, two arms, two legs, a torso, a neck, and a head, fitting the basic build strikingly well. Even its height was unremarkable. Of course, there were abnormal things about it, like the third eye, the purple skin, and just the overall fragility, but honestly, most people would probably be disappointed if they saw it.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I said hello, which didn’t amount to shit. Apparently, I hadn’t lucked out and found the one alien who spoke English. The thing just sort of stood there staring at me, and then, before I knew it, I was back in my house. I might’ve thought the whole thing was a dream if the alien hadn’t kept my dog.

The next day I stayed in and looked up everything I could about aliens on the Internet. I didn’t find too much that helped, but there was this one article, the one where I read about Before Contact, that gave all sorts of tips for what to do if you ever meet an alien, like using numbers to communicate and being very understanding of the its ignorance. I thought that seemed reasonable and spent the day planning out my strategy in case I ever met it again. I hoped I did, because I wanted my dog back.

I went to the symphony like usual that night, but the performance wasn’t doing it for me as well as usual. For one thing, they opened with Mahler. If there’s anything I hate, it’s Mahler, but I had to just stand there like usual the whole time. And for another thing, I’d been wrong about the conductor, because he turned out to be a real douche. At the intermission, he walked up to me and said something about how I’d been off the whole night.

“Excuse me?” I said, incredulous.

“Your timing was just a little spotty, that’s all,” he said, trying to turn around, but I stopped him.

“My timing?” I said, attempting not to sound too angry. “Look, you’re new around here, so I’ll let you off the hook this time, but my timing is never off. You probably just missed a beat or two.”

That really hit a nerve, because he came straight back at me, saying, “Hey, buddy, you have one job here, and that’s to open that door on time. If that’s too difficult for you, I’m sure some audience member would be more than happy to take your place.”

He ran off after that, probably hoping to avoid my counter-attack, and I let him go. He was a novice – he’d learn the pecking order around here soon enough.

I mulled around for a few minutes until I ended up next to Melanie, one of the long-time violinists. I told her what happened, figuring she’d find it as ridiculous as I did. She sort of nodded and then had to prepare to go back on stage, but I could tell that she was appalled at the conductor, too. I can read her like a book.

I moved back into position and considered leaving the door shut when he asked me to open it, but I didn’t want to do that to the other musicians. I was pretty good friends with a couple of them, like Melanie. But even if the problem wasn’t Mahler or the conductor, I wasn’t feeling as good as I usually did, so I went back to that alley. I wanted something to happen.

Nothing did, though, which was upsetting, and when I got home my apartment felt really empty without my dog, so I hardly slept at all.

I went back through the whole thing the next day without anything remarkable happening, and at the end of the symphony I returned to the alley again. I sat there for a while, until around one or two in the morning, when I gave up and started to go home, but as soon as I stood up there was a flash and I was on the ship.

I immediately ran through everything I’d read in that article. I held out my hands, waving my fingers and counting them one by one. That didn’t register much of a reaction, so I pulled out a piece of paper I’d been keeping in my back pocket and drew a triangle. The alien definitely got excited then. It started changing colors, going from purple to red to blue and then just sort of all over the place. I can’t quite describe it, it was so unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

I kept doing things like that, drawing shapes and graphs and numbers, and we eventually reached the point where it could recognize the numbers one through ten. I ended up working myself up so much that I forgot to ask about my dog, and then I was standing in my apartment again.

I decided that if it’d already let me back once, I’d probably see the alien another time, and maybe I could retrieve my dog then, but now even that seemed unlikely.

A few more days passed, and I attended a couple extra orchestra practices. I timed myself and I was exactly right every run-through. I stayed quiet about the alien, because I didn’t want to sound like an idiot, and everyone had to focus on their music anyway.

Our next performances went fine, but that conductor and I still didn’t get along. He wanted to be the center of the universe all the time, and he never gave me any credit. I’d love to see an asshole like that try and deal with the pressure of my job.

I’d been right in thinking the alien would abduct me again, though. As soon as I caught sight of that plush interior, I pulled out a picture of my dog and gave the photo to the alien. It teleported me straight back home, which I took to be a “no.”

After that, it contacted me much more often. It wanted to learn all kinds of things about us. I could tell because whenever I showed it things on my piece of paper it switched colors like crazy.

We spent a long time just doing that sort of thing, attempting to figure out how to communicate with each other, and I had a sneaking suspicion that it wanted to reveal itself to the public soon. Then, I’d be like its ambassador, and everybody would be falling at my feet. The sales for the symphony would skyrocket, too, I knew. They’d probably have to install some sort of glass window so people could watch me at work, pulling the strings behind the whole goddamn operation.

Then, one night, as I walked to the concert hall, running through the movements in my mind so I could time my openings and closings correctly, it abducted me right then and there. I motioned downward, where I imagined the Earth was, and even drew my dog a few times, hoping that would get me back on the ground, but it didn’t, and when I got back, I’d been fired. The conductor had been waiting for an excuse to get rid of me, and he was pissed about me missing without letting him know.

The next day I went to the church where the orchestra practiced. I hovered by the doors until they finished, and then, when they were beginning to filter out, I sped over to the conductor. He stood up by the altar, and when I got close he held his arms up over his face, like he expected me to attack him or something.

I didn’t beat around the bush. “I need my job back.” I swallowed. “Please.”

He lowered his hands slowly, sighing. “Look. There’s no need for you to make this any harder on yourself,” he said.

“No, you don’t understand. That was one mistake. I wouldn’t miss the symphony again for anything, I swear.”

“Then why did you?” he asked.

“I– you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I didn’t have any choice.” I almost mentioned the alien, but decided that probably wouldn’t help. “You need me,” I continued.

Then he laughed. “Somebody’s already replaced you,” he said. “I gave you your chance. You can find another job.” And just like that he strode away from me toward the door.

“No! Please!” I begged. I would’ve dropped to my knees if I had to. I thought I might cry. But he refused to pay me any attention, leaving me all alone in that church.

Later, I tried calling Melanie to see if she could fight for me at all, but I got her voicemail and didn’t feel comfortable leaving a message.

I wasn’t abducted for a while after that, and I don’t know if I’ve ever been so unhappy. I started feeling very bitter, and I found myself in that alley a lot, mad at everything. I decided I didn’t want to see the alien again, not anymore.

But after a few weeks I did get abducted again. I had it all figured out by then, though. I drew a picture of my apartment, hoping it could recognize my home from my crude rendering. Then, inside that, I sketched a purple person standing next to a pink person. I gestured at the paper wildly and flash, we both found ourselves in my apartment.

As soon as that flash stopped, I grabbed the nearest blunt object (my tuxedo shoe) and beat the alien to death.

I wanted my fucking dog back.