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The Prolix Club

by Marshall Payne

     See, it's me. That is Billy. And Rex. Also Kip. My two buddies. Roasting weenies. Campfire style. Watching the stars. A summer campout. Behind our farmhouse. Near the pond. Ma didn't mind. Pa said same.

      "Save me one" This from Rex.

      Kip's face knots. "Me, too"

      "There's more inside" From me.

      "Go get 'em"

      "I'm plenty hungry"

      I sigh. "Go yourself"

      "Your house"

      "Your weenies"

      I grin. "Right you are" Take another bite. My weenies. My backyard. My call.

      A sudden shriek. Overhead. Shooting star?

      Kip looks up. "What's that?"

      Rex's eyes widen. "Wow!"

      My weenie wavers. Falls. As does--

      --blazing light. Beyond the pond.

      Kaboom!

      It's raining debris.

      Splash! Splash! Splash!

      "Oh, my . . " From Rex.

      Kip turns, stunned. "Billy. . . ?"

      "Let's go see" This from me.

      "You sure?" Rex is doubtful.

      "Shouldn't we. . . ?" Kip is uncertain. Finally: "Your folks. Like get them?"

      "Naw," I say. "Hey. My place, too"

      So we hurry. Scurry. Toward the crash. Hearts pounding chests.

      Through the smoke. Sudden fog. Haze . . .

      Kip pinches nose. "Whew!"

      "Yeah" From Rex. "Somethin' stinks"

      "Bigtime" This from me. And he's right. Eggs Rotting. Metallic burning. Match on carpet. Fart in bathroom. Bunches of stuff.

      Kip points. "Look!"

      "Oh, my God"

      Through the fog. Something. We squint. Silver from smoke. Silver suit. Helmet. Gloves. Silver boots. Coming our way. It's all silver. Except faceplate. Dark. Reflecting . . . us.

      "Run," says Rex.

      Kip's half there.

      "Wait," I say.

      "No" Rex's eyes welling. Trembling.

      "I'm scared" From Kip.

      So am I.

      But . . .

      Gloves meet helmet. Turning. Helmet comes off.

      "Monster," says Kip.

      "Yes, monster" From Rex.

      I wave firm. "No, wait. Not monster. Spaceman"

      Kip looks closer.

      So does Rex.

      Footsteps crunch. Coming closer. Clearer. The spaceman. It's a man. A bearded man. A man spaceman. He says:

      "Greetings, lads, allow me to introduce myself: I am Algonomadora pa dez Agreal Zor-shoph, from the Prolix system--which, by the way, is registered on your local, or not so local . . . all right, let's say galactic-regional starcharts--a fine, ultra-modern collection of worlds that has sent me as their sole representative (although, don't for one moment believe that if I didn't want a crew I couldn't have had one, but I prefer to travel alone) to your planet, which upon initial examination I find . . "

      Rex starts: "Are you . . "

      ". . . a real spaceman?" Kip finishes.

      Me: "Really?"

      Without breaking cadence: ". . . certainly, young swains--and I hope I use the word correctly, the word 'swain' meaning 'country youth'--which I assume you three must be from these rustic surroundings in which my interstellar craft has landed (okay, crashed, I frankly admit!)--and, yes, I am of extraterrestrial origins, sent here as an ambassador (actually, truth be told, Second Adjutant to the Minister of Protocol of the Polymanian out-system ConFed Beta II sector, formerly known as Prolix Nine) to make First Contact with . . "

      Rex eyeballs me. "What's he saying?"

      "Haven't a clue"

      "Weird, weird talk" Kip's comment.

      "No doubt"

      "What now, Billy?" Rex again.

      "Tell your parents" From Kip.

      Rex: "Parents, yes"

      I shrug. "Might as well"

      Spaceman still babbling.

      Moments later. After introductions. Still rambling:

      ". . . yes, Billy, I'd say this is some fine, arable bottomland that your parents have chosen to homestead on, and replete with a pond -- I assume it is stocked with fish to accommodate those of a piscivorous inclination--oh, I can see by the looks on your faces that you three are wondering, How can he see in the dark? -- well, before departing from my beloved homeworld, I was equipped with the latest IR optical technology which allows me to see just about any -- ah, and here we are at your parent's house, Billy, so please alert them of my arrival, and I'll stay here and continue this discussion with your two most fine friends Rex and Kip who . . . " On and on. And on. Leaving us bewildered. Baffled. Clueless.

      I go inside.

      Folks on sofa. Boob-tubing it.

      "Pa!" I say. "Come look! Spaceman!"

      Pa says nothing. As usual. Just eyeballs screen.

      "Ma! Man from space. Real live spaceman. Come see! Come see!"

      Ma only moans. Eyes glued forward.

      "Ma! Pa! Come see. Please"

      Pa grunts. Dismissive wave. Meaning: Go play. Now!

      "Please believe me. Spaceman. For real. For real"

      Ma turns. Stares sullenly. Disbelievingly. Exhales. Eyes forward again. Ignoring me. Seen not heard. Me. Not even seen. Silent-movie night. I can't compete.

      Go back outside.

      ". . . don't trouble yourself over it, Billy, and frankly, I wouldn't have believed you either if I hadn't seen it--meaning me--with my own two eyes, but let's not let it spoil a good evening because at first light I shall be off to your village to contact the authorities who most certainly will be interested in my arrival, but until then would you do me the honor of escorting me around and showing me all the marvels of farming . . "

      "What's he saying?" From Kip.

      Rex scratches brow. "He talks weird. I don't understand"

      "Wants a tour. I think" From me. "Show him around. I guess."

      "What's to see?"

      "Just farm stuff"

      I shrug. "I know, but . . ." So we do.

      A while later. Spaceman astride tractor. Saying:   " . . . and a fine, though quaint, piece of machinery it is, boys, with a six-cylinder internal combustion engine, using petroleum based fluids for fuel and lubrication, quite different than the agricultural implements we employ on my homeworld, of which all -- or almost all -- function by means of quantum drive -- yes, we've learned to harness the atom, thereby permitting its various constituent parts to produce pure energy -- and where you require such large quantities of gasoline, as you call your fuel source, we can operate our implement on the equivalent of a blade of grass, or a small stone or a . . " So it goes. All night long. On and on. And on. And on. Do I understand? Get the gist? Barely.

      Sunrise. All ears tired. Brains too. On overload. Standing on road. Road into town. Spaceman saying: ". . . and I would like to take this opportunity to express my supreme gratitude to you three boys -- Billy, Rex, Kip --for the cultural experience you have opted to extend to me this evening; but now I must be off to pay visitation upon your village elders, to make First Contact, as it were, to open up a new line of communications between my world and yours, and so with that I bid you a fond adieu, and I hope to see all three of you soon so we can continue . . "

      Down the road. All waving. Good-bye silver spaceman.

      "Rather annoying, huh?" From Kip.

      Rex grabs head. "Gave me headache"

      "I liked him" This from me. "Really, I did"

      Very next weekend. Fishing in pond. Me. Rex. Kip. Barefoot. Poles in hand. Lines in water.

      "It was weird" From Rex.

      "Very weird" From Kip.

      "I enjoyed the encounter" This from me. Believe it or not. A foursey. Pushing the limit.

      Rex's eyes widen. "Huh?"

      "Billy. . . ?"

      "I enjoyed the encounter with spaceman" A sixer, now.

      Rex giggles. So does Kip.

      "Let me try" This from Rex. Brows crinkle. Eyes narrow. Finally: "I thought the spaceman weird but funny. Yes!"

      Kip giggles bigtime. Grabs his side.

      "A sevener," I say.

      "A what?"

      "Oh, I get it" This from Rex. With an unconscious foursey.

      Soon, we're all giggling. Uncontrollably. Talking like the spaceman. Trying to, anyway.

      That was many years ago, and I'm grown now. But Rex and Kip and I are still best of friends. In fact, we see each other every Tuesday evening at our clubhouse. At the weekly meetings of our secret society. Over the years we've allowed -- after a careful screening process --others to join: wives, girlfriends, co-workers, and such. Those who share our desire to speak a less laconic language, to be more voluble like our silver mentor. But we are quite careful to keep our society and our solemn, though loquacious, conclaves of a clandestine nature. It's due to the fate of the spaceman that we've chosen this prudent path. It was on that morning, so very long ago, when he walked into town, that he was met by a soon-to-be angry mob. A group of bewildered citizens that couldn't comprehend his garrulous nature. Though all the town elders were responsible for his fate, it was one elder in particular, an otherwise extremely taciturn man, who rose to the occasion and spoke those three fatal words: "String him up!"

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