| |
Wish
I Was Here
By
Jon Alan Carroll
The Stray Mutt was a divey dive for slackers and art-wrecks and anyone else who did nothing all day. Kech, Nted and Frank were sitting at their usual table.
"The annihilation machines are here," Nted said.
Kech drank his espresso and watched Nted click off his cell phone.
"Those darn annihilation machines," Frank said. "There goes my whole afternoon."
"It's not a joke, Frank," Nted said. "The Fataka only care about one thing: killing everything that is not Fataka. They are very good at it. Exterminating your species will be like shooting babies in a barrel."
Frank nodded in mock agreement. "The weekend starts pretty early at your house, Nted," he said.
Nted's face turned glum and frowny, like a news anchor reporting a playoff loss or office massacre. Kech never got over the fact that his friend Nted looked just like a TV newscaster.
"This is serious, Frank," Nted said. "The Fataka are tearing through the galaxy. We have to leave now."
Local art covered the walls of the Stray Mutt like cameras on a drunken celebrity. One of Kech's bubble-studies, Xmas with Crackhead Mom, hung in a place of honor near the cash register.
"I guess I won't quit smoking, since we're going to be exterminated and all," Frank said. As usual, he was wearing his uniform of ink, head stubble and 1977 mechanic's overalls.
Nted ignored Frank and looked directly at Kech. "You're the only one who ever believed me, Kech," he said. "So I want you to come with us."
"OK," Kech said. The espresso at the Stray Mutt was good and strong, and Kech was going to miss it.
"Be at my house at 1:00 this afternoon," Nted said. "Leave everything behind."
The people at the Stray Mutt drank their coffee and stared at their laptops. Sitting alone, a young boho made a tragic mistake when she decided to become a poet.
Frank said he was leaving and asked Kech if he wanted a ride home. Kech nodded and said goodbye.
As they walked down Valencia, Frank lit a smoke to top off the five espressos he'd had that morning. "Space aliens, biocide machines," he said, "you don't really believe Emperor Norton back there, do you?"
Frank had slopped his thrash car into an alley off 16th. A giant FEER covered one wall, while another recommended,
Die, Hipster Scum!
Near the back of the alley, a woman was kneeling in front of a fat white guy.
Frank cut off a Muni bus as he pulled into traffic. A tourist in a Volvo blocked the street while she searched for imaginary parking.
"Nted marches down Market Street with a picket sign every Tuesday," Frank said. "He's crackers, nuts, headful of broken toys, can't you see that, Kech?"
Near Capp Street, a friendly girl waved hi. "Just because he's crazy," Kech said, "doesn't mean he's wrong."
Frank drifted along through the cramped and potholed streets. "I'm sick of it, buddy," he said. "Post-pomo jokiness is a dead end. I'm wasting my time."
Every three months, Frank gave up on his work in mangled discourses and fractured parataxic narratives.
They turned left on Shotwell and screeched to a stop in front of Kech's storefront.
"Maybe I'll kill myself," Frank said, "or go to business school and join the money-team."
Kech hoped Frank made the right decision.
"You'd better wise up, too, Kech," Frank said. "Soap bubbles and cool shoes ain't gonna save you."
"OK," Kech said. It was also true that sarcastic detachment wasn't going to save him, either.
Two cops and a medical examiner were standing around and blocking off the sidewalk. It looked like the drug gangsters were shooting each other again for reasons of their own.
Kech walked back into his storefront, where he'd been living for a couple of years. He'd left the vegetable bins where they were and camped out in the storeroom.
He turned on his TV and clicked past Fox No-News and sports-talk and business-babble and settled on the Christian Apocalypse Network. Kech always found a lot of comfort in the God whose holy name appeared on the local money.
He worked for about an hour on his next bubble-study, Wish I Was Here. Seven bubbles floating around, all dreaming of friendship and love and immortality.
Kech flopped on the couch and flipped up his PC. Splattered with paint splotches and fingerprints, his laptop was so old it ran on coal and whale oil.
There were still only 966 visitors to Fataka.com. The Fataka came from a dirty and violent neighborhood near the core of the galaxy. So far, they'd exterminated 673 species of sentient life.
The preacher-anchor on the Christian Apocalypse Network was telling the faithful to prepare themselves. "These are end times," the preacher said. "These are the last days of planet Earth."
The Fataka appeared to be vaguely humanoid, with two eyes, four fingers and big bald skulls. The Fataka did not look particularly cruel or evil--they looked like highly efficient technicians. Professionals.
"And zeal and ruin and fiery wrath," the preacher said.
Kech powered down and turned off his Goodwill TV. He called what was left of his friends, but no one picked up.
Kech grabbed his toothbrush and started walking down to Nted's place. The streets hadn't been cleaned in months and fast-food wrappers and other trash blew all over.
He wandered over to Guerrero and passed a sidewalk filled with weary-looking workers. Kech wondered about the sidewalk people, their dreams, their cars, all the people who had to die to keep things as they are.
He buzzed Nted's flat at 1019 Guerrero and Nted's girlfriend let him up. With her media-girl hair, Xux looked just like a standard-issue Asian female newscaster.
"So Nted let the worm out of the bag," Xux said. "I always liked you, Kech, I'm glad you're coming with us."
Xux told Kech she'd been a cloud-shaper on Sinak 3 before the arrival of the Fataka.
She pointed out the DNA reconstitution device in a wall of glossy black machines and told him the process was almost painless.
Kech thought the black machines were a pomo installation, but now they were glowing and whirring and showing read-outs in some strange alien algebra.
Xux reached over and touched his shoulder. "Please remember, Kech, the extermination of your species is nothing personal," she said. "The Fataka are what your people would call corporate types. Your species just doesn't fit into their business plan."
She walked him over to a corner where her other roommates, Hx and Jex, were watching TV and lazing around. Jex was a handsome African-American news anchor, while Hx was more PBS-looking.
The roommates were watching live coverage of the U.S. Senate and cracking up. Hx liked the Raving Madman, but Jex thought the Eloquent Statesman was a much more nuanced performance.
"You mammals are pretty funny," Jex said to Kech. "All over the quadrant, your planet is famous for its jokes."
Xux added, "Earth was a pretty little planet. We'll miss it."
Nted walked back into the flat and ordered Hx and Jex to quit screwing around and get ready.
"All right," Nted said. "It's time to go."
Soon enough, Kech was back at his table with his usual beverage.
"Sooo," one guy said, "for reasons of their own, space aliens are going to exterminate us all."
Amused, Kech's tablemates waved their antennae and made clicking noises of derision and disbelief. One slapped a claw on the table.
No one would believe him, of course. They couldn't believe him, because not-believing was their nature.
Kech took a drink of his plok and scratched his exoskeleton. Sometimes the truth was so insane and inane that it was barely worth repeating.
But the plok was good and strong here at the Missing Fish, and that was something.
Dedicated to ROBERT SHECKLEY
(1928-2005)
Copyright © 2007 Jon Alan Carroll
|
