From Where All Men Come, Pt. 1

Nothing Cures Boredom Like a Good Old Fashion Alien Abduction

They say the greatest leader is the best follower. Bullshit. A great leader understands what it means to be a follower, but hates doing it themselves. No, the greatest leaders do not do these things; they lead because that is who they are inside. I don’t know if I am a leader, but I am sure not a follower.

Maybe I am just a lone wolf, hating every instinct that should be within me; the guidance system to prevent against my own self-deprecation; social Darwinism demonstrated at its finest. The Lone Wolf never makes it far. That’s why others travel in packs. At least that is what they tell me. But I don’t listen to that hogwash. I’m against the grain, in every single way there could be.

Outside a moose eats through my vegetable garden, leaving a mockery of despair in the early hours of the cold winter. How can something that seems so lost have so much purpose at the same time? I want to question this animal, ask him the most important question: Why? He won’t answer—-most animals will not—-but you have to ask.

I guess its this mindset that makes me so alone. Why I live by myself in a now secluded mountain town can be explained by this attitude. I use to not be like this. Back in the day I was that go-lucky, happy fool, riding along with the daily grind that we call life. But I lost it. I lost it all over spaghetti and Cheerio’s. I know this doesn’t make sense, but it will, trust me.

The snow begins to fall again. A gunshot goes off in the distance. I can feel its death: A quick shot to the ribs, spilling guts onto the snowy ground as the world slows down to a still. And even then, life still exists, but it’s a useless life at this point. The Hunter knows this, says his prayers and fires the execution shot; dinner for the hungry. A man without food is a dead man. So it goes.

Being the hypocrite I am, I suddenly feel a need for a steak. I go into the fridge for the food and prepare the grill for cooking. The steak goes on and I open the first beer of the day. I then light up a cigarette and walk outside.

As I am staring at the mountain range just over the ridge, I hear another gunshot go off in the distance. A thought drifts into my head. More food. Because who the heck knows, that moose he just killed could be my next meal several weeks from now. I do buy from the local’s market. The chances do exist.

My mind begins to swirl from this fact. Am I eating dead man’s food? My heart pounds through my chest, screaming “hypocrite”. What a sadistic fool I am to be eating this food, the very animal’s death I can feel. I am eating the pain I sow. Upon this realization, I run into my house and throw away the half-cooked steak. No more meat for me.

My appetite becomes non-existent. I decide that a walk is in order, to cleanse myself of these sins. And so I walk, taking the usual paths until the unusual road comes to fruition. I choose that trail and go off into the unknowing distance.
I have never seen this path before in my life. From the looks of it, the road seems like a last-second attempt to clear the way. I find this odd, but I assume some hunters must have trampled through only hours before.

After about a half a mile of trekking the ragged path, I come upon an impasse. Snow has built up a wall, preventing any sort of creature such as myself from walking through. I then jokingly say aloud, “Oh dear Arthur, you have once again hit a dead end. Woe is me, woe is me. Damn, I need to stop being so sarcastic and melancholy. Woe is me. Who the fuck do I think I am?”

I turn back for my house, only to be confronted by a man in a white suit several yards in front of me. The man is an outlier of sorts: pasty skin, bald head, cloudy eyes. His sudden, inanimate presence is shocking, but as I slowly step closer, I begin to feel an eerie feeling. It is as if I am watching an episode of X-Files and I am Agent Mueller.
“Hello? Who goes there?”

The man in the white suit stands there watching me. He does not move nor flinch. His still body is unaverred by my presence. Being that I am nuts—-and trust me, I am as crazy as they come—-I decide the best way to get him to speak is to pick up a rock lying next to me and chuck it at the man.

“I am going to throw this at you if you do not speak. Three, two, one…”

Plop. It hits him right on the head, leaving a gnawing bruise that most of time would be followed by someone being knocked out. But for the man in the white suit, he barely notices. Naturally, I become terrified.

“Who the heck are you? What do you want?”

I throw another rock. And then another. The same result. I become scared, fearing that my life may actually be in danger.

For a brief second, I start to think about my discussions with my mentor, Peter Arcomone. Back in the day, school shootings were becoming a national issue. The first VT shooter situation had just occurred, and, like all controversial events, Peter and I were deep in conversation about the basis of how to survive these type of tragedies. I will never forget what he said to me:

“Arthur, in these situations, you have two choices: Fight or Flight. When you decide not to decide is when you impose your impending fate. But if you decide, and act swiftly, your chances of survival are that much higher.”

I turn back and see the impasse once more. I cannot run from this man, so I have to fight.
I lightly tap my feet to the icy ground, assuring a stable foot. I dig my feet into the dirt and launch myself into a sprint. The man does not move nor embrace for my impact. His apathetic response to my gesture forces me to holler like maniac escaping from the asylum.

“Get out of the way!” Still, he does not waver.

Ten yards, five yards, and now just mere feet away. I get as close as an arms-length before I am supplanted by a beam of light from up above and tossed on to a cement surface.

I know these surfaces like I know the back of my hand. The smell of stale beer is just as familiar. I turn over on to my back, in shock by where I am: My favorite bar hangout from my college years. The establishment is empty except for the man in the white suit before, now sitting on my favorite stool at the corner of the bar.

My writer’s corner, as I like to call it. I spent more time on this stool drinking whiskey neats than I had in the classroom. My point of inspiration and solitude. And now I was back under very unusual circumstances.

I pull myself around and face the man in the white suit. At this point, I clearly know this man is not trying to hurt me. He could have easily killed me on the trail. His intentions are a lot more mysterious that I had previously thought.

“So, I’m not sure what’s going on. I don’t know if you’ve just drugged me, or, even more fascinating, you are not from here. I get the whole “silent treatment, but please let me get up and serve myself a drink.”

For the first time, the man gives me a smirk. I get up from the ground and walk behind the bar to make myself a whiskey neat. The man turns his face towards me, never taking his eyes off my stature. At this point, I am surprisingly excited. What is happening to me is a once in a lifetime opportunity; a breath of fresh air you never quite have ever breathed before. I indulge.

“So, as I can see it, you are not a man of this place, am I right? Yes, no, you know what, I don’t care. You clearly have some sort of prerogative. I really couldn’t give a shit. Just… I need something, you know? Something to wrap my head around. Because what’s happening right now, this is straight out of a sci-fi novel. And it’s kind of awesome, actually.”

He starts to laugh. Even an alien can’t hold in his laughter at the thought of a human being fascinated by alien abduction.

“You know, I had this philosophy teacher once. Great guy. He was probably the only professor I actually liked. He once told us, ‘The only way to get a real answer is to ask the right question. And the right question usually needs to be the first question.’ So, I think I got this. Why?”

Finally, I get a quizzical look from the alien in the white suit. I had hit some sort of nerve.

“Yeah, you heard me. Why?”

He then responded in a surprisingly humorous tone, “Why not?”

The front door bursts open. A very similar looking alien in what looked like a 70’s James Brown-esque blue suit strolls into the bar and stares at me. He puts his head down and chuckles to himself. It was as if he wanted to burst out laughing, but at the same time didn’t want to blow his cover.

“He’s not supposed to say anything. Jerrah, thank you for your services. That is enough for now.”

The alien in the blue suit then looks back at me.

“I got here as soon as I could, as you clearly understand space travel is a long and arduous journey. Hey, can I get one of those?”

I look down at my drink and realize he wanted the same. I turn, pour a drink and give it to the alien in the blue suit.

“No sweat. Here’s a whiskey on the house, as it seems. Cheers!”

“Cheers to what, may I ask?”

“I don’t know, the conversation between two different beings from places so far away no alcohol or LSD could ever transport a brain to. This is all a mind screw in my head.”

The alien in the blue suit then looks at me, and laughs.

“Shiimiyan. With my people, that means ‘Live long. Live hard. Live right.’ And to you, good sir. And if that shmuck who couldn’t keep his mouth shut hasn’t already said, my name is Vary, although I am quite the same most of the time.”

We then clash our drinks and drink down the shot.

“Well, it is very nice meeting you, Vary. So, why am I here?”

“You humans and why. Some ask it too little. Some ask it way too much. I personally am for the former. Asking “why” is so, I don’t know, cliché, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but how else do you get an answer?”

“You seek it out yourself. Which is what you will be doing. What is to come next will all be a dream to most, but to you, will be your reality. Are you ready?”

I look at him and pour another shot for ourselves.

“Eh, why not?”