“Scotch – another double,” I murmured, sliding the empty tumbler across the polished bar top with an absent flick of one finger. The glass barely moved.
“You’ve had enough, Paul. Go home.”
I squinted up at the speaker, for a moment unable to place a name to the aged but still pretty face behind the bar.
“Elizabeth…” I pronounced, finally remembering, but the word came out sounding like E-lith-a-beth.
“One double scotch, pleath.” I fished in my pocket for change, but pulled out some fluff. Where was my money? I looked back up at Elizabeth, tried to grin, but my face didn’t seem to be working properly. “On my tab…you can put it on my tab.”
“You don’t have a tab, Paul. Now go home, before I get Stan to throw your ass out.”
I stared back at her, carefully processing these words. Stan was her bouncer; a black guy almost bigger than a small car. It wouldn’t be the first time Stan had had to help me out of the bar, sometimes forcefully, other times gently. Still, I wasn’t that drunk – and I’d known Elizabeth for a few years now. I was a regular customer. I stared back at her, tried to look angry, insulted, ready to demand my drink or else…but now there were two Elizabeth’s hovering above me. Did she have a sister? I wasn’t sure which one to ask for my scotch.
“Go home, Paul,” they said gently, in unison, with identical looks of pity in their eyes. That got to me. I didn’t need their or anyone else’s pity. I had enough self-pity of my own.
“S’all right. I’m gone…going, whatever. Stan can help me, as long as he’s gentle. Did he take my money?” I held up the little ball of fluff I’d fished out of my pocket and showed it to the two faces of Elizabeth, the erstwhile proprietor of the Grand Lager. I’d been drinking at that corner tavern for years, ever since…I couldn’t remember. “Stan…!”
“It’s alright, Mr. Simmons, I’m right here,” a bass rumble answered my shout. “Come on; let’s get you off that stool and out the door.”
I let Stan do all the work. He was big enough to handle the job and I suddenly felt tired. I was like a baby in his thickly muscled arms. I looked up at him, smiled weakly. “Stan? Did you take my money?” He didn’t answer, which could have been a sign of guilt, or maybe he just didn’t give a shit about my loss of fortune.
Out on the street. The door to the tavern firmly closed behind me. I took a deep steadying breath of summer air and tried to get my bearings. The afternoon sun made my eyes hurt and sent pains shooting directly into my brain. I looked up and down the street; too fast. I lost balance and almost fell over. Turning my head too fast was not a good idea. It took a while, but the scenery started to look familiar, and feeling pretty sure in which direction to head, I set off to my home a block and a half away.
It took some time and I only got lost twice.
Once inside I tried putting the locking chain on the front door, but for some strange reason my hands were shaking too much. I let the little chain drop, unattached; if someone wanted to walk straight in and rob me, they were welcome to do so.
By sheer chance, or devious design, there was a gap between every single building, leading all the way across the city, to the setting sun on the distant horizon. That vertical bar of red glare blasted through the solitary window and invaded my one-bedroom apartment every summer afternoon. I used to enjoy that little slice of the distant countryside, but now I hated it. I stumbled across the messy living room made pungent with the heady smell of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol and firmly pulled the drapes.
The darkness of the apartment suited my mood. Light was too intrusive, painful, a harsh glare that cut straight into my brain.
I made my way to the small kitchenette and opened a cupboard. There was very little food. When I did go shopping I only got the basics. I grabbed an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label whiskey from the cupboard, refused to acknowledge the pit of dirty dishes and city of take-out boxes and went back out into the lounge room. I sank down onto the comfy groove my ass had made from recent use, kicked off my shoes, fished out the remote from the crack between two cushions of the lounge and turned on the television.
News, more news…and then just some news. I opened the bottle and took a swig, enjoying the burning in my throat as it went down. I lit a cigarette from the fresh carton on the coffee table, took a deep breath, exhaled, and sank a little deeper into the couch. Just me in my dark apartment with no outside influences intruding on my solitude. Just TV and my thoughts. What more could a man want?
My cherry burnt itself out and dropped an inch or two of ash in a growing pile on the carpet next to the lounge. I’d eventually vacuum it all up..Right after I finished the dishes.
“…and no one has any idea what to do about them. This is the most amazing thing to happen in the history of the human race, of that there is no doubt. We now go live to Sandra..”
The reporter buzzed melodically in the background as I fought off the urge to sleep. Best to stay awake as long as possible and when I did sleep, I’d be so fucked out of my brain I I wouldn’t remember a thing come morning. At least, that was the plan. It never really worked, but I’d keep on trying. I flicked my attention to the reporter on the T.V There seemed to be a lot of military personnel on the White House lawn.
“…but as yet we have not been able to get any interviews or comments from senior officials. The White House press secretary has yet to make any statements regarding the extraordinary broadcast…”
I had no idea what she was talking about, but she looked go doing it. A blaring police siren tore down the street making my head throb. It faded, but didn’t completely disappear;, there seemed to be a lot of sirens going off out there in the city somewhere. Something must have happened. I thought about getting up and peeking through the drapes for any signs of trouble. I took another drink, held the bottle before me to see how much was left but couldn’t get my eyes focused enough. It still felt pretty full. That was good.
I got another smoke out of the packet then remembered I just did that…didn’t I? I didn’t want to die getting burnt alive if my apartment caught fire. No, that would definitely not be a good way to go. I looked down but couldn’t see any burning cigarette on the carpet. I shrugged, went to put the smoke in my mouth – but there was already one there, lit. While pondering that, I took another drink and looked at the television. My face was there, staring back at me.
I laughed aloud. My face on the TV wasn’t amused and didn’t join in. “Fuck you, asshole.” I saluted my face with the half empty bottle.
I didn’t remember falling asleep. I woke up the next day feeling like my head was being forced apart from the inside. My throat was raw. Maybe because of all the whiskey - or maybe it was because I’d been screaming in my sleep again. My memory of the night before was cloudy. Not that it mattered.
The first order of the morning’s business was to drape an arm over the side of the couch, flailing around for the bottle. I grunted in frustration but eventually made contact. I started to pick it up but my fingers were shaking again, badly. The sound when the bottle fell against the ashen carpet was hollow; empty. Briefly, tension shook my body, anxiety making my guts roil, but the sensation faded as I fished out and lit my first cigarette of the day.
I sat up, waited for the room to stop spinning, and then heaved myself up and stumbled to the small kitchen. I needed aspirin, plenty of it. My head was pounding and those damned police sirens weren’t making it easier to deal with. A memory of the previous night tried to grab my attention, but I forced it away; it was too soon to be thinking or remembering anything. I needed painkillers and a piss – in that order.
Looking bleary eyed at the dirty tile in the shower as I was taking care of the second item on today’s agenda I decided splashing water over my face would be an adequate`substitution. Switching out the soiled clothes I had slept in for some sweatpants and a bathrobe I was ready to start the day. I skipped coffee in favor of a long swig of scotch from a freshly opened bottle. It was time to go to the office and try to do some work.
The office was just a desk littered with papers and a threadbare swivel chair crammed into one corner of my living room. I opened the drapes, grunted at the clear blue summer day outside, then turned on my computer and tried to figure out what I had been writing about the day before.
“God damn…” I muttered, scrolling through the pages. “I’ve still got it.” Certain that I had my next long awaited bestseller on my hands.
I spent an hour or so going over my notes, comparing them to the draft. What I’d written was good stuff, no doubt about it, but that morning I just couldn’t get the words to flow. I’d type in a few words, a sentence here and there, and then end up mashing the backspace button and starting all over again. Writing was like that sometimes; an entire chapter could get hung up on one wrong sentence, one wrong word. The particular paragraph I was trying to get down was profound, and the wording had to be exact.
After a while the words became meaningless and my headache worsen as I slumped back in the chair.
“Shut those fucking sirens up!” I barked toward the window. The wail of police sirens is an ever-present fact in a large metropolis, but that day they seemed much worse. Already the day seemed like torture, and I thought about going back down to the tavern. Normally I could manage to at least make it till lunch before thinking about calling it a day. I saved the document and closed down the computer. A nagging voice in my head pointed out that I seemed to be doing less writing every day, yet more drinking down at the pub.
I decided that I’d have a wholesome breakfast is what i needed to carry out a productive day. With somewhat renewed energy, I scoured the refrigerator for some ingredients. There wasn’t much to choose from, but I had the important staples; eggs and reasonably fresh bacon. I even found a tomato. After meticulously cutting the ingredients with slightly shaking hands, I whipped it all together and soon had myself a passingly good omelette. I sat down, ready to eat – then, the phone rang. I figured it was worth ignoring for now – probably a telemarketer anyway. It kept ringing. I sighed, groaned, and heaved myself up. I wasn’t going to answer it, just lift the cradle so the damn thing would be engaged. I grabbed it, slammed the phone back down to cancel the connection, picked it up again, and threw the receiver on the end table. The number 43 flashing in red on the little display of the answering machine caught my eye as I turned back to my breakfast. I stared at it a moment, confused. I had 43 messages on my answering machine? I tried remembering ever getting one before. I hadn’t heard the phone ring all night, but then…I did spend the night in my self-made deadzone.
Curious, I reached out a finger to press the play button, and then jolted at a sharp, loud knock on the apartment door. First phone messages, now visitors? The lock turned as if by magic and the door swung opened.
“Mr. Simmons?” A female police officer asked taking a step inside. She scanned the apartment as she tucked a silver key in her pocket with one hand, and the other rested on the butt of her sidearm. “Paul Simmons?”
“Trouble?” I asked, eyeing her curiously.
“In fact, there is. I’m Officer Young.” I cast a brief glance at her badge. Patrol Officer Sarah Young. “Are you alone?”
I nodded in my muddled state.
“Have you been watching the news, sir?”
I shook my head.
“You ought to. Mind if I come inside?” She was already inside, but I saw no reason to argue with her over the finer points. I nodded my head and vaguely motioned behind me into the messy lounge room. She closed the door behind her, walked over and rested her helmet on the kitchen bench. Keeping her eyes on me, she activated the radio that was strapped to the front of her suit. I hadn’t failed to notice her other hand remained on her gun.
“This is Patrol Officer Young. I’m at Paul Simmons’ apartment. He’s here.” She said into the radio strapped to her shoulder, never taking her eyes off me.
“Acknowledged, Young. Sit tight. Over.” A voice on the other end crackled.
A cold chill went down my spine. Shaking my head – disdaining the officer who stared at me like I was her cornered prey – I sat down in front of my now congealed omelette and forked in a bite. The scotch in my stomach stirred angrily. Pushing the plate away I poured another two fingers of scotch and drank in honor of the breaking of my life’s monotony. I offered the young officer Young a cigarette and laughed at the play on words.
“Is something funny, sir?” She asked, predictably declining my offer.
“No, no; I just thought of a part for my book. I’m a writer, you know.”
“Yes.” she grunted staring at me like she was ready to turn me into a twitching heap at the first sign of funny business.
“You wondered if I’d watched the news…why?” I asked trying to break her complete and utter disinterest in talking to me.
“You’ve been on it. Does your television work?” She glanced quickly around my apartment and grimaced.
“Yes it works officer.” I replied snidely raising my glass to point at her. The sudden tension in her stance and narrowing of her eyes as my arm moved created a pit in my chest. Christ, what the hell was going on? Digging through the trash near my sofa, I reclaimed the remote and switched on my T.V
“…that a strange alien life form has made contact with us. Many questions remain unanswered. Foremost, are these extraterrestrial visitors a threat to planet Earth? And if not, what is their motivation for giving us the technology to cure all the world’s diseases? Leading scientists from around the world are already being gathered to begin processing the massive amounts of raw data that has been sent to us from these extraterrestrial visitors. And what use do they have for the man named Paul Simmons, and what ultimate role must he play in the execution of the alien’s plans? We will bring you the answers to these questions and more…”
“If that’s what you’re thinking, it’s not me.” were the first words out of my mouth. I laughed; I couldn’t help it. It was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. It was like something out of a…a science fiction novel.
“Is your social security number 56425465?”
“H-how the hell do you know that?” I spluttered, choking on a lung-full of smoke. I dabbed the burning cigarette against the wall, flicked away the butt and lit another one.
“It was the little bit of crucial information they transmitted with your name and face so we could locate you. Actually, that’s about all I know – I never saw the footage, nor heard the transmission, just whatever the news is saying. My sergeant asked me to watch over you until the big guys arrived.”
“You think this is serious, don’t you?” I asked even though I was unable as yet to come up with another explanation. A thought occurred to me, and I looked at her sideways, considering. Was she a stripper? I’d heard of strippers who would go the whole nine yards, arrest you and cuff you and have you thinking you were completely fucked – and then start taking their clothes off. I laughed again, opened my mouth to ask her straight out, but that look in her eyes stopped me.
She noticed me staring and nodded behind me at the television. I turned to look. The screen showed a fuzzy image that I assumed was up there in space. Stark on a backdrop of pure blackness there was an immense ship. There was nothing to give reference to its size, but one nonetheless got the feeling the thing was huge. The shape was perfectly spherical and strange rainbow colours swam haphazardly over its blackened surface. The glass of whiskey I’d been holding fell onto carpet unheeded, its contents wasted.
“…that we should be successful in delivering Paul Simmons to their spacecraft no later than six weeks from today…”
For a moment, I was at a loss for words, slowly drew in from my cigarette while staring at the television, my thoughts frozen.
Patrol Officer Young started speaking; “I bet NASA is snapping every picture they can, but they haven’t released any official response yet, and neither has our government. All the images the media are showing are from foreign sources.” I glanced at her in alarm and I think she almost smiled. “I meant other countries, not the aliens. There’s a lot of satellites and stuff up there.”
“So how do I know for sure that this thing is real?” Despite my many addictions and shortcomings, I knew I had my share of intellect, and I needed time to stall, to figure out if this was some kind of elaborate hoax. She may not have been a stripper, but there was no way all this could be real. “I mean, we’re talking aliens here…”
“…having already supplied hundreds of terabytes of medical data, what is this nature of the state-of-the-art, alien technology they are offering as a secondary incentive for the presentation of Paul Simmons…?”
“What the fuck! They want me…ME?!” The constant repeating of my name jarred my memory and I had a vague recollection of seeing my face on the news the night before. Aliens were here, and they wanted me. I groaned aloud and suddenly felt very ill. Stepping in the kitchen, I grabbed the chair and sank into the seat. The display on my answering machine now read 87.
“This is bullshit. I’m expected to believe that aliens allegedly want to exchange knowledge and technology for me? But what the hell could they possibly want with me? People on earth barely know me or recognize me, so why would some aliens? No – this is bullshit. It has to be.”
“…continue to search for the real Paul Simmons. Officials are urging citizens to remain calm until we learn more about the current situation. Already there have been reports of mobs accosting individuals with the same name. The amount of fatalities so far is unconfirmed. I repeat, police are urging everyone to just go home, do not take the law into your own hands… ”
I groaned again and put a hand up to my mouth. I felt like I was going to throw up. Then the importance of that latest report really sank home. I sprang up and grabbed the officer by the shoulders.
“There are fucking aliens after me! What if they come here? You have to protect me!” I all but screamed into her face. Deftly disengaging, she manhandled me back into the chair.
“Calm down, sir. We don’t know everything yet. Regardless, you’ll have to be brought into custody to maintain peace, and for you own safety.”
There was another loud knock on the door, which quickly opened. Four big men wearing dark suits and ear pieces barged into the apartment, handguns drawn. One remained by the front door, two did a quick search through my apartment while the other thrust an iPhone in my face and took a picture. He tapped the screen a few times, waited a moment, then put his sleeve up to his mouth.
“It’s him, sir.”
Another agent walked into the apartment and stopped before officer Young. The man towered over her and the young police woman had to crane her neck to look him in the eye.
“So this is Paul Simmons.” the big agent rumbled. It wasn’t a question. Officer Young nodded.
“We’ll take him from here.” He motioned his head back toward the door. Officer Young frowned at the curt dismissal, stood straighter and squared off before the giant agent before her. Even in my sick, muddled, fearful state, I felt nothing but respect for the small young woman.
“Don’t even bother,” the agent snapped when Young opened her mouth to retort. “We’re from the Office of Homeland Security and your department has been informed we’re here, so unless you want to be guarding tomatoes in Alaska by the end of the day, get the fuck out!”
Officer Young hesitated a moment, then headed toward the door without a backward glance.
“Oh and Patrol Officer Young, one more thing.” Young stopped dead but didn’t look back. “You’re going to forget you, or we, were ever here, understand?”
She nodded once, stiffly, and left. The big agent finally looked down at me. I returned his gaze as blandly as I could.
“Please get dressed Paul Simmons. You’re coming with us, now, and we don’t have much time.”
I hadn’t noticed I was still in my stained bathrobe and I unconsciously held the front of it closed over my naked chest. Whatever was going to happen, these men were obviously intent on handling it urgently. Despite all that was happening and knowing that being in official custody was probably safer than sitting there waiting for the lynch mob to show up, I couldn’t help digging in my heals. I knew it was a personality flaw of mine and had gotten me into trouble many times in the past, but I hated being told what do. I hated the way this guy threw around orders and threats like everyone around him was a bug to be stepped on.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on first?” I demanded.
The big agent smiled, showing a mouth full of square white teeth. “What’s going on is this; you’re going to get dressed and accompany us to the vehicle we have waiting downstairs.”
“Like fuck I am; I know my rights,” I was pushing it, but I couldn’t help myself. I hated bullies. The big man smiled wider, yet there was no humour in his eyes.
“You’re an asset of interest to the United States government and we’re from Homeland Security. Do you know what that means? It means as of now you have no rights, unless I decide to give them to you. Now get dressed!”
I struggled to hold his stare and tried to think of a retort. Despite my brave front I couldn’t help thinking what it would be like rotting away in some secret government detention center, rubbing shoulders with terrorists and would-be letter bombers.
“You’re going to do this now, Paul Simmons, quietly and quickly and you are not going to make a scene. If you choose not to do this – and I’m really starting to hope you don’t – my friend over there is going to taser you in the neck and you will then be carried down and thrown into the vehicle. Have you ever seen anyone tasered in the neck before? No? Well the first thing you will do from the 50,000 volts is start screaming like a little bitch, and then you will puke all over yourself and shit and piss your pants.” He leaned in close and I could smell black liquorice on his breath. “I don’t care who you are or why your alien friends want you; I have a job to do and I’m going do it one way or another. Your choice, Mr. Simmons.”
I got dressed – though I did it slowly.
“What if there’s press out there or something?” I asked as we were making our way down the stairwell to the ground floor. I was surprised to see agents on every landing, and another couple hovering near the front doors into the apartment complex. “Shouldn’t you hide my face?”
“Everything is taken care of. Please, stay close to us. There’s three black SUV’s outside. We’re making for the middle one, back seat. Walk quickly, but don’t run.” The big man kept his face forward, eyes constantly flicking about for possible threats. The agents we were passing all seemed to be sizing me up, looking at me like I was the alien.
“Let’s go,” the big agent ordered.
I did what I was told, this time without aggravating the situation. Surrounded by a wall of agents – the others had come down from their posts within the stairwell - I had no choice but to go with them outside and toward the waiting vehicles. In what seemed a well-rehearsed maneuver, the big group split into three and piled into the SUVs. I was quickly bundled into the back-seat of the middle one. The three vehicles moved off in unison, but I noticed through the heavily tinted windows that the other two had soon taken different streets.
“Shit, I forgot to lock the door,” I said to the big agent in the passenger seat next to me.
“You’ve got more important things to worry about,” he told me.
“But what if—”
“Don’t worry, everything is taken care of.”