We Are You

by Jack Phillips Lowe

conclusion

The needle on my b.s. gauge was sitting solidly on “F.” I’d had enough. If I didn’t take flak from crotchety old ladies, I wasn’t going to take it from spacemen, either.

“Don’t count us out yet,” I said, closing my spiral and capping my pen. “We’re exercising more, eating right. Humans are living longer every year.”

“The damage is already done,” Bud replied, pointing at the menu. “Generations of you have been raised on diets lousy with sugar, fat and caffeine. Know what that means?”

“Yeah. You’re a vegan. I thought so. Here comes the clogged arteries speech.”

“Forget clogged arteries. All that junk launches the pituitary gland into overdrive. I’m five-foot-one, the height of an average Olf male. We’re an advanced race with interplanetary capabilities. How tall are you?”

“Six feet.”

“The brain, either Olf or human, needs an abundance of oxygen-rich blood in order to develop. The heart, either Olf or human, can’t supply that much blood in a body taller than five-foot-eight. The required amount never gets all the way up here,” Bud said, tapping his forehead with his index finger. “Humanity is a race of mentally stunted giants too stupid to save themselves.”

I smiled. “The soy milk question is answered.”

“Animal milk is brain-damaging poison.”

“What about humans under five-eight?”

“They may have hope of rehabilitation, for they are genetically closest to the Olf source material. Only partially, of course. In our society, they’d be considered imbeciles, kept solely for menial tasks. Hey, you stopped taking notes.”

I stood up and puffed out my chest. I wanted to look every inch of six feet tall. “That’s because I’ve had my fill of bull. You’re not a character. You’re a psycho and I want you out of here. Now.”

Funny; the world-conqueror from an advanced planet actually looked scared. “But Quiz, our Council has chosen you to play an important role in the transition! With your nosiness and flapping mouth, you’re a perfect oracle. You’ll be the one to break the news to Earth!”

I grabbed him by the “X” on his “X-Files” shirt and dragged him to the exit. “I’ll be the one to break your jaw, if you don’t shut up!” I shouted. “No more ranting! Nurse Ratchet is missing you at bed-check!”

“But you wanted a story! This is the ultimate story! You’ll be the most famous reporter ever!”

I seized Bud by his flabby neck and shoved him against the window. “You’ve wasted my whole night with your lies! No more!” I balled up my fist and jammed it into his gut.

Do you know the sound a balloon makes when you untie its stem and let the air out all at once? Bud made that sound as he dropped to his knees. “Ahhhhnnkk! Don’t hurt me!” he pleaded. “I’ll ensure you a place on the Olf Colonial Congress! You’ll be a powerful man, I promise!”

As I unlocked the door and bounced Bud onto the sidewalk, his PDA fell out of his pocket and clattered onto the floor. I picked it up. The screen was covered with multi-colored symbols that resembled Arabic letters. I tossed the gadget out after him.

Bud struggled to his feet. “Spread the word, Quiz! If you have any compassion for humankind at all, spread the word! We’re coming sooner than you think! We’re coming —”

I slammed the door and locked it. I returned to the table where we’d sat and collapsed onto a chair. Skimming over the pages and pages of notes I’d made, I realized that insanity is contagious. It can infect you — not only your mind, but your senses — as quickly and easily as the flu, and I’d nearly caught it. Nearly, I hoped.

Shortly thereafter, someone pulled on the door. Finding it locked, they knocked a couple of times. I turned to see the puzzled face of Officer Mark Vega through the glass. He was munching on a corn dog.

I got up and opened the door. “Ah, the comforting presence of law and order.”

“Your sign says you’re open till ten,” said Vega, chewing. “What gives?”

“I could ask you the same question. Didn’t you get my note?”

He fished the receipt out of his shirt pocket. “Yeah, but I know you. You’re so fu–frigging cynical, I paid it no mind. My priest says cynicism is a cancer on the soul. That’s why I keep asking you to come to church. Father Grosso could help you pull your head out of your a–I mean, the clouds.”

“Vega, your holiness almost cost me my life, or at least my sanity. Remember that guy who was in here when you bought your French roast?”

“The albino? Yeah.”

“He’s a major league psycho. You wouldn’t believe the nutty story he told me tonight. He’d still be here if I hadn’t thrown him out.”

“That little guy? He seemed harmless.”

“Didn’t you see him outside?”

“Nope.”

“You had to. I kicked him out no more than five minutes before you showed up.”

Vega shrugged. “Maybe he followed the gawkers over to the next block.”

“What’s there?”

“A trucker lost control of his rig at the corner of Lake and Gary. He rammed into a telephone pole while he was blabbing on his cell phone. Lines are down everywhere. That’s why I came over. I figured you’d be wondering why the phone was out. And because I heard the Dog & Suds is handing out free corn dogs for its grand opening.”

“The phone is out, but the guy told me he did it. He thinks he’s a spaceman with super powers.”

“Thinks he’s E.T., huh?”

I nodded. “He’s a total lunatic and he’s wandering the streets right now. He could be dangerous. You’ve got to arrest him.”

“Come on, man. He can’t be the worst customer you ever had. Besides, I ain’t heard nothing about escaped loonies, not today anyway.” Vega finished his corn dog and tossed the stick into a trash can by the door. “How come you guys never give freebies?”

“They attract the wrong kinds of people. Vega, I’m not fooling. He’s got to be somewhere nearby. Maybe we can still spot him. Let’s take a look.”

“All right, all right, if only to keep your pants dry.”

Vega and I stepped outside. We looked up and down the sidewalk. It was deserted.

“Told you,” said Vega. “Everybody went to look at the trucker.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Damn it, he was right here.”

“What did I tell you about cussing in front of me? You just had an off night. I got an idea. Lock up the shop. You and me will go across the street, grab some more corn dogs and I’ll introduce you to a friend who will put your mind at ease. His name’s Jesus Christ. How about it?”

Suppressing the urge to slug Vega, I glanced over at the Dog & Suds. The spotlight was still shining. The “GRAND OPENING!” banner, haphazardly draped over the edge of the restaurant’s roof, was blowing in the wind. The Edsel was gone.

I hurried back into the coffee shop, grabbed my pen and opened my spiral to a blank page. I wrote a new list: Fate Magazine, The Globe, The Sun.

Big-shot journalists start out small and move up fast. I’d make time for details after the story broke.

Open Challenge 316...