by Ross Goldstein
He wasn't smaller than most, just of a slighter build. And you could say that his hair was greasy, like many did, but he'd tell you it was just healthy. Proportionally, he was only slightly off-as if the definition of the word 'lanky' in Websters would have a picture of him next to it. All arms, legs, and adams apple. He'd spend hours staring at his posterior in the mirror, studying its girth. One comment, made many years back, had produced in him a constant fear of "buttocks gigantus" or so the layman had referred to the condition.
His shoes, though--his shoes were the real problem. The leather (if it ever had indeed been leather) was so entirely worn through so that only patches were left holding together the wafer thin soles.
"Jim, please!" Sally would beg.
"Buddy, c'mon!" Thomas would urge.
"Dude, what the fuck?" the rest of the world would say.
But the shoes were his, and he loved them. Probably as he had never loved anything else. As he's never loved his mother. That much was certain.
"If only you'd come to terms with it all, you wouldn't need those shoes." Sally again.
He'd respond, bored with the conversation, "Shut the fuck up."
Jim Johnson wasn't like other men. He was other men. He was every other man that had ever walked the planet, or would ever walk it again.
At least, that's what he told himself.
"DAMN!"
The toaster was on the fritz again. It was the one they'd given him. It never worked. Or maybe he just couldn't figure it out. The metal was of an alloy he'd never seen before-shiny and smooth. No imperfections. It never rusted or scratched, and it sure as hell couldn't be dented. Sally had proven that by missing him and hitting the wall with it. Of all the toasters in all the galaxy, why did his have to suck?
"I'm getting tired of this, babe. I need some appliances that actually work."
"So give it back."
"Cheery this morning."
"Shut the fuck up."
And so it went.
To the objective eye, Jim Johnson may not have been first choice as a Earth's representative of the human species. But to the Glaconians, Jim Johnson was it. IT. He was the prototypical human. The human to which all humans aspired, in the perfect state, to be.
"Yo, pass me a beer." Thomas belched.
They were seated in Jim Johnson's spacious living room. On Jim Johnson's spacious couch. The one with the Lazyboy reclining action on both ends and the center console that became a multi-purpose beer/chip holder. They were watching a college basketball game. Jim Johnson leaned forward, passing Thomas a Coors Light, and then settled back, cradling into the impression his body had left in the couch.
"So have they told you more about your mission?" Thomas said the word 'mission' with barely concealed contempt. Thomas and Sally were the only two people in the world with whom Jim Johnson had confided the truth. He'd threatened them with galactic-level reprisals should they ever so much as mention it to anyone. They had smiled at him, and when his back was turned they winked at each other-a signal of conspiracy and silence. A personal signal. Their signal, though, dealt with a different conspiracy and a different silence.
"Nah. I haven't seen any of them for a few weeks now. I'm not worried, though. These things take time," Jim Johnson nodded reassuringly.
"Yeah," Thomas smirked.
"Dude! Nice shot!" Jim Johnson never looked at Thomas never, caught his smirk. Thomas rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the television set.
Most of the time Thomas was satisfied with one or two comments, a smirk, and a roll of the eyes. Most of the time. Today, however, he was in an ugly mood. He hadn't slept well for several nights, and he couldn't figure out why. Having ignored his conscience for so long, Thomas had forgotten that it even existed. He could not fathom why he might be having trouble sleeping. Nor could he understand why his anger continued to grow and focus upon his life-long friend Jim Johnson.
"Where the fuck is Sally?"
"She went out, yo. I don't know with who," Jim Johnson monotoned, eyes never leaving the television.
Thomas felt a surge of anger begin to rise from the base of his spine. It began in his lower back, around his kidneys, and it rose steadily up his flanks and the middle of his back. By the time it reached his shoulders he was already past the point of no return.
"What the FUCK do you mean you don't know with who?" he screamed.
Jim Johnson turned his head now. He was startled by his friend's sudden outburst and unsure how to respond. "Uh..."
"How fucking stupid are you? Huh? How can you let a hot number like Sally just go out? Huh!? And you don't even fucking know with fucking who she's fucking with?"
"Dude-"
"No, Bitch! No! You and you're dumbass delusions of grandeur…"
Thomas's unprecedented use of a word like 'grandeur' startled Jim Johnson almost more than his anger. "What the fuck are you talking about, dickhead?"
Thomas spoke slowly, his voice deepened by anger, "I'm talking about SALLY, man. You know, your girl? Sally…"
Jim cocked his head to one side. Thomas imagined something akin to a dim light bulb appearing head. "What..." Jim slowly began, "do you care... about Sally?"
Thomas blanched. His anger began to recede. The turbulence of his thoughts began to settle and his brain turned back on. He realized that he had entered dangerous territory-territory that he never wanted to enter. There was only one way to get out of this, he knew.
"YOU ARE A FUCKING MORON!" he screamed, raising his body several feet off of the couch in order to amplify the sound. "You and you're stupid fucking psychosis! You and you're aliens, man! It's pathetic!" He lowered his voice slightly, "Why, man? Just tell me that one fucking thing… Why would they come to...to..."
"To what?"
"To you man! To fucking YOU! I mean, look at your goddamned shoes!"
Jim Johnson stared at his life-long friend for a few seconds, maybe more, before answering. "Because," he said quietly, "they like me."
"Ohhhh," Thomas raised his hands, beer bottle and all, over his head in exasperation.
Jim was not deterred. "And because I'm the highest form of the human species. I'm sorry, man, but it's true. I'm the top." Self- conscious, he allowed his voice to trail off at the last word.
Suddenly, as if on cue, a slow sound began to emanate from the basement. Softly at first, the it quickly grew into a dull roar. With fear and confusion filling his eyes, Thomas looked at Jim. Jim Johnson only stared back, calm. To Thomas, his friend appeared almost annoyed, as if the sound was interrupting a conversation he was actually interested in continuing.
Flashing lights blazed from the crack along the base of the basement door. Smoke and dust billowed from the space and into the room. The house began to shake. Jim Johnson's Kathy Ireland poster peeled from the wall, on corner falling over and cover the nearly-naked woman in a bashful, protecting embrace. "Shit," Jim muttered, gazing at the folded-over poster.
All at once the noise and the lights stopped, as if a switch had been thrown to cut the power. Jim Johnson stood up and casually walked to the basement door. Thomas was speechless, but mustered the courage to carefully follow his friend. Then Jim turned to Thomas and smiled. "No," he said simply, "I must go alone."
Thomas choked back a terrified sound that threatened to escape him. "Is this it?" he asked in a trembling voice.
Jim Johnson looked into the fearful eyes of his life-long friend. "Yes," he said.
The entrance to the Glaconian space ship was unlike any science fiction writer's wildest dream. Quite the contrary, it was as unimpressive and unassuming as everything else about the Glaconian's. Off-white walls surrounding a square doorway leading to a long hallway of the same off-white color. The simple hallway was connected to several other unimpressive hallways, which branched of various directions.
There were no doors along an of the hallways to indicate the presence of rooms, just those unassuming off-white walls. There was a time when Jim Johnson had wondered if they decorated the ship this way in order to make him feel comfortable. The tint of off-white was remarkably like the Gliden Number 23 White that Sally had picked for their house. Over time, though he'd come to the conclusion that the Glaconians simply liked the color.
Disnt met him at the entrance to the main chamber. Glaconian ships have one large main chamber where primary functions are held, the ship is controlled, and the crew sleeps and eats and does just about everything else. In fact, the main chamber is the only chamber-the only open space, other than hallways, on the entire ship. The main chamber is just as off-white (if not more off-white) as the rest of the ship.
As far as Jim Johnson had established, Disnt seemed to be the Galconian ambassador. He always met Disnt at the beginning of any encounter with the Glaconians. And Disnt always acted as his liason throughout his stay.
Disnt was a typical looking Glaconian. Of course, the words typical and Glaconian are somewhat of an oxymoron. Glaconians all looked exactly the same. Even to one another. The only way Jim Johnson could tell one Glaconian from another was by the tags that each wore. The square, off-white tags were attached to each Glaconians right breast. On each tag was written in small print, "HELLO, MY NAME IS ____________". It was had taken some time before Jim had realized that the tags were not just for his benefit, but were necessary for the Glaconians, as well. It was the only method by which they could tell one another apart.
After the extensive Glaconian greeting, which consisting mostly of waving a large, unnamable extremity around in a circular motion through the air, Jim Johnson (long having given up trying to return the greeting) smiled at Disnt.
"You should not have told them, Jim Johnson," Disnt's voice resonated in Jim's head.
"Told who, Disnt? Told them what?" Jim attempted to look innocent, but it came off as moronic.
"The ones you call Sally and Thomas. You told them your mission. That was not wise." Disnt's alien features took on a stern, constipated look.
"Awww, that's okay big guy!" Jim Johnson tried to sound disarming, but it only came off as aggravating. "They won't say anything to anyone! I trust both of them completely. Besides, I never told them what the mission was."
Disnt's mouth (or at the very least, the gelatinous orifice from which he seemed to speak) curled into something vaguely resembling a smirk. But he said nothing. Instead, he slowly rotated his globular body and motioned with his trunk for Jim Johnson to follow.
Jim followed Disnt into a small antechamber-a room that he had never known existed. In fact, it had no door that was visible. Disnt simply approached a portion of the wall, muttered a few guttural syllable in an alien tongue, and a section of the wall disappeared.
The antechamber was much smaller than the main chamber, but it was just as square and just as off-white as all the rest. The only furniture in the room was a single high-backed chair, standing exactly in the center. In the chair sat the only Glaconian Jim Johnson had ever seen without a name tag. He was flanked on either side by Galconians of regal bearing. Or at least that was Jim Johnson's impression-for the most part they simply globulated less than your average Glaconian.
"You are the one they call Jim Johnson," the one with no name-tag stated matter-of-factly.
"Yes," Jim was proud that he was able to answer without so much as a flutter in his voice.
"You are the one for Earth." Again just a statement with no hint of a question.
"I'm from Earth..."
"And also are for it," No-tag flatly intoned.
Jim Johnson didn't know where this was leading. Of course he was for Earth. It was his home. How could someone be against their home?
"Yes."
No-tag seemed to smile, but to the end Jim was never sure about that. It was maybe just a feeling that the Glaconian was pleased.
No-tag started abruptly, "The journey will be a long one. Two of your Earth years, round trip. You will sleep for entire journey and only be awakened to attend the conference."
"Conference?"
" The impression you make will determine whether Earth will be allowed to enter the Community of Beings."
Jim Johnson felt sick.
"Disnt will take care of the details." No-tag turned away. Disnt began to briskly usher Jim Johnson from the antechamber, but stopped when No-tag turned again to face them. "By the way Jim Johnson, nice shoes."
By Jim's count, Disnt was trying for the eleventh time to explain it. "The Community of Beings is similar to your United Nations. It covers the entire galaxy. Members are afforded certain privileges and are charged with certain duties. Technology is shared between member civilizations. It is set up for the advancement and protection of the galaxy."
The word 'protection' stuck in Jim Johnson's overwhelmed brain. "Protection from what?" he asked.
"From other galaxies."
"Why?"
"They hate us."
"Why?"
"Why does one organism hate another. Why are the stars in your sky?"
"Why?"
"I don't know!" Disnt seemed to be getting annoyed. "They just do."
Jim Johnson paused and closed his eyes, trying to absorb it all. He failed. "I'm still a little confused at to where Earth fits into all of this."
"Well, Jim Johnson, Earth is really a backwater planet. It is what your friend Thomas might call the 'ass-end' of the galaxy. But you do have one thing that the galaxy is in great need of in these trying times." Disnt stopped, seeming to struggle with his words.
"Yes?"
"Earth beings have a great capacity for… Well, for..."
"Spit it out, man!"
"For hatred," stammered the alien. "For violence. For degradation. But mostly for sneaky, underhanded, back-stabbing, general meanness."
Jim was floored. He considered punching Disnt in his globular 'excuse for a mouth. But he controlled this urge. "No we don't!"
When Jim Johnson awoke it felt like the next morning, except for the thick layer of crust that had formed in and around his eyes. Disnt led him to a shower which had been constructed specially for him. "Wash behind the ears," the Glaconian pointed. "This is a 'big day.'"
After the shower and a breakfast of something that looked like eggs but tasted like cardboard, Jim Johnson dressed while Disnt paced, globulating back and forth.
As Jim finished dressing, Disnt turned to him with what Jim was almost positive was an expression of guild. "There's something I didn't tell you," he said.
Sleepy-eyed, Jim Johnson regarded the ailen.
"You, Jim Johnson, are our last hope. Our only hope."
Jim Johnson's expression waivered. "Hope? Last hope for what?"
"You are our last hope for many things. For peace. For the continuance of our being. For the continuance of the galaxy, really."
"What's going to happen to the galaxy?"
"We will lose the war. We will lose everything. Those who are not enslaved will be slaughtered."
"What war? How come you never told me about any war?"
"There isn't one yet. But if this conference fails, there will be," Disnt frowned. "There will be."
"And Earth, Disnt, Earth is a part of the galaxy, right?"
"Most definitely."
"If Earth doesn't get accepted, our galaxy will lose the war. Is that what you're telling me?"
"Yes."
"So all of this-- All of this is riding on me?"
"Yes."
Jim Johnson passed out.
According to Disnt, it had taken four hours to rouse him from his mental overload and fear-induced slumber. Disnt had tried to make light of it, blaming his fainting on the effects of the long sleep endured during travel. But he was fit now, Disnt assured him, "fit as a fiddle" was the alien's exact phrase, and ready to attend the conference. For the second time, Jim Johnson passed out.
But this time he awoke after only a few minutes. Upon regaining consciousness he set himself to the task before him.
"Dude- The fuck and I supposed to do?"
"Just relax, Jim Johnson. Relax and be yourself."
"But," and now it came right down to it. "But, I don't like myself! "Myself" isn't good enough to save the world, man! Let alone the galaxy… Don't you see, you fella's made a mistake. I'm tellin' ya, you blew it. I'm not the perfect human. Dude, look at my shoes for god's sake!"
"Exactly!" Disnt interjected, "The shoes, Jim Johnson. The shoes." The Glaconian focused his stern eyes and locked Jim Johnson's wild, fearful gaze. "That is why you are the perfect human. Your shoes. They are advanced beyond anywhere those of your fellow beings. They are-"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Jim Johnson felt more tired than he had ever felt in his life.
Disnt straightened. "Come, then," he offered in a hurt tone. "There's no more time for talk. Go with the knowledge that you are the finest your beings have to offer. Go confident. Go with god. Just go!"
And within six Earth months the galaxy was overrun.
| "Ross Goldstein acts as Assistant D.A. in the Bronx, NYC municipal court system. In his spare time he writes science--, zombie--, and WWII fiction." |
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