Dance Lessons For Space Invaders.
A short story about our possible future and breast appreciation.
“Over my window, they’d written my name, said, ‘So long, see you again.’” Mr. Spaceman, The Byrds
The aliens came and shut everything off, warning us we were going to end up back in the Protozoa Era if we didn’t straighten out. They’d been through this evolutionary backspin many times themselves. We hadn’t, obviously, so we took their advice, dismantling our weaponry, and developing a new form of geopolitical harmony.
Unfortunately, with wars and strife out of the way — and AI replacing most of our jobs — there wasn’t much to do except watch movies and entertain the aliens. Hollywood executives even cast them in some of their many action features.
The aliens thought the fake laser guns were hysterical.
They claimed they could do more with the tips of their fingers.
You have to picture a little green man, sounding like Cary Grant, ordering the populace to keep their heads down when the automatons come looking for a bit of action.
Some of these movies are still available on Geriotronflix, a national film library accessed on the Home Channel. The acting is a bit stilted, but the voices — simulated through their own AI — are eerie, to say the least. You have to picture a little green man, sounding like Cary Grant, ordering the populace to keep their heads down when the automatons come looking for a bit of action.
I wasn’t much of a moviegoer at that point. I was too busy holding down one of the few jobs still needed in our invaded world. In fact, my classes more than doubled the first year alone. I teach ballroom dancing. If you look at the chart on my wall, I’m versed in over thirty international styles and techniques.
Some of the moves are obviously a stretch for our alien visitors, given their short legs and tiny arms. I’ve developed variations, though, keeping the foxtrot and samba simple, leaving the tango out entirely.
Word of mouth has certainly spread. Aliens have been showing up day and night. They bob through the lobby, sounding like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. One alien — who comes twice a day — uses a Mae West voice. Every time I tell her to move her hips, she says, “Make me, big boy, I’ll give you a lollipop.”
She says she’s not a fan of their movies, or stealing the voices of some of our beloved Hollywood personalities.
You’d be surprised how funny aliens can be. I’ve told my wife about it, but she’s skeptical. She says she’s not a fan of their movies, or stealing the voices of some of our beloved Hollywood personalities.
“One of them did a commercial the other week,” she said. “He sounded like Robin Williams. The only part that made sense was ‘nano, nano.’”
“I think they just threw that in,” I said.
“They’re playing us for idiots.”
“Why complain?” I said. “We’re doing better than most people.”
She couldn’t argue with that. Before aliens came along, my wife was District Manager for a large mortgage and loan company. In came AI, replacing most of her office, then her. She took to the couch. She watched movies eighteen hours a day because of her insomnia. I suggested needlepoint but it’s not the kind of numbers she likes.
Then, one night, she came running in the bedroom.
“The aliens are coming!” she screamed. “The aliens are coming!”
She did that for a month. Boy, it got old fast.
In fact, most executives went from earning millions to selling eye drops on the corner.
Still, we couldn’t have asked for a better invasion. Once those aliens hit the ground, they stabilized everything in a couple of days. All weapons, all nukes were quickly wisked away, along with the dictators, sociopaths and corporate raiders. Big media corporations were left with practically nothing to say. In fact, most executives went from earning millions to selling eye drops on the corner.
One of Fox’s top on-air personalities is setting pins in a bowling alley now. The aliens figured it was worth returning to some old ways. They’ve got us taking out the garbage again and grinding our own coffee.
It breaks up the monotony a bit.
I’ve been lucky with the dance studio. It fits right in with the alien initiatives, especially keeping the populace occupied. Things have been so busy lately, I’ve brought my wife back into the business. She used to be a third-ranked tango dancer. A bit rusty now, though. Twenty years of mortgages and loans will do that to you. At least she isn’t watching re-runs of “Aliens I Now Know and Love.”
Once my wife got used to the alien’s spindly arms and googly eyes, she’s been a real trooper, teaching eight classes a week. The other day, she got the aliens into a conga line and made the local paper.
Their smiles are weak laser beams.
Except for the long hours, and accompanying blisters, we’re breezing along. Carmen — my wife’s name’s Carmen — started monthly dance contests. We’ve got a hundred percent join-in rate. I don’t know whether the aliens are competitive or just enjoying the exercise. Their smiles are weak laser beams.
Right now, we’re working on the internationals, a yearly event taking place in San Diego. All the dance studios participate, some travelling thousands of miles for the opportunity to win The Golden Tap Shoe. Nobody taps anymore. Someone just had a bunch of Golden Tap Shoe trophies lying around. Might as well use them up.
We’re taking fourteen of our best dancers — seven humans and seven aliens. The entry fees have been paid, the train schedules sorted. Aliens love trains — and not just because you can fit six in a sleeping birth — they like seeing the country.
Before we leave, though, we’ve arranged two nights of intensive last-minute dancing. Our fourteen stars will go through all eight dances, focusing particularly on the Samba de Gafieira, a judge’s favourite at any competition.
In the locker room earlier, I found Carmen stretching her still muscular legs on one of the benches. “Nervous?” I asked, and she said her back’s been giving her some problems. It’s all this bending down for the aliens. They’re only four-foot five at best, although they can jump buildings.
“Mr. Klein,” one of the aliens said, sounding like Burt Lancaster. “We have some bad news.”
Anyway, we’re talking, and these two aliens come through the door wearing zoot suits. It’s for one of the numbers, but they refuse to take them off.
“Mr. Klein,” one of the aliens said, sounding like Burt Lancaster. “We have some bad news.”
“What is it, Sincko?” I asked, which, believe it or not, is his name.
“We, unfortunately, will not be able to perform.”
“Why not?”
“We got word from home,” the other alien — Blinko — said. “All competitive dancing is suspended.”
“Suspended?” I asked. “Until when?”
“Indefinitely,” Sincko said.
“But we’ve made all the arrangements — ”
“Our superiors feel these dance competitions demonstrate our vast superiority over earthlings, which they feel could be detrimental.”
“But if we take home The Golden Tap Shoe, something could happen like it did on Uranus.”
“In what way?”
“We’re showing off too much,” Sincko said. “Dancing here in the studio is okay. But if we take home The Golden Tap Shoe, something could happen like it did on Uranus.”
“What happened on Uranus?” Carmen asked.
“Revolt,” Blinko said.
“They revolted because you won a contest?”
“Eighteen contests, actually. They were really miffed.”
“Look,” I said, “do your superiors realize this competition has over three hundred applicants? I mean, the chances of you winning — ”
“We’re programmed to win,” Sincko interjected.
“I mean, really programmed to win,” Blinko added.
“So that’s it, then?” I said. “All the planning — all the money — ”
“You’ll certainly be reimbursed,” Sincko said.
“It’s not just that,” I said. “You’re representing this studio. If none of you aliens show up, we’ll be the laughing stock. We won’t even get invited next year.”
When they finished, they stuck their long fingers in their ears and started talking to their superiors.”
That certainly gave Sincko and Blinko food for thought. They started discussing amongst themselves, using their gibberish native tongue. When they finished, they stuck their long fingers in their ears and started talking to their superiors.”
“Right, yes, we understand,” Sincko said after some discussion.
Blinko was nodding away. I made a mental note that their pants needed to be hemmed up around thirty inches.
They pulled their fingers out of their ears and pushed back their fedoras.
“The rule stands, I’m afraid,” Sincko said. “We can’t dance.”
Carmen started walking around, bouncing her fists off her hips.
“We’re going to look like idiots,” she said.
“Well,” Sincko said nervously, “not necessarily.”
“What do you mean, not necessarily?”
“We don’t necessarily have to dance as ourselves.”
“Who are you going to dance as?” Carmen asked.
With that, Sincko and Blinko turned themselves into holograms. Only these holograms were so advanced, you couldn’t tell them from the originals. In this case, they were characters from Bernstein’s West Side Story.
“Not bad, huh?” Sincko said.
“Why didn’t you do this before?” Carmen said. “My back’s been killing me bending over for you guys.”
Carmen’s dance outfit was quite low cut. I suspected they’d been staring down her top for months.
Sincko and Blinko both exchanged sheepish smiles. Carmen’s dance outfit was quite low cut. I suspected they’d been staring down her top for months. Her breasts are still perky, as is her nose.
“Holograms aren’t allowed outside our own planet,” Sincko explains.
“How come?” I asked.
“We’ve been a bit naughty in the past,” Blinko said.
“A little too naughty,” Sincko added.
“Uranus?” I asked.
“Among others,” Sincko said. “We get around.”
“So,” Carmen said, still pounding her hips, “we take you to this dance contest looking like Bernstein’s Jets. And nobody’s going to find that a bit suspicious?”
“We can be anybody,” Sincko said.
“Sure,” Blinko said. “Even you guys.”
“And if we win?” Carmen said.
“You collect the trophies and we get out of town on the next train.”
Sincko was sounding an awful lot like Buddy Hackett in The Music Man.
It certainly caused some consternation with the Red Caps on the train, not to mention the judging panel at the other end.
To make a long story short, we got on the train two days later with seven holograms looking like Jets. It certainly caused some consternation with the Red Caps on the train, not to mention the judging panel at the other end.
Good news is, we ended up taking home four Golden Tap Shoes. They’re all displayed in the main lobby at our dance studio. The photos, framed above, are a little weird. Anyone familiar with West Side Story will note the similarities.
Who cares, though, right? Business is booming. We’ve had to hire two more instructors. Sincko and Blinko, unfortunately, aren’t with us anymore. They got in trouble downtown doing “America” in a karaoke bar. One of the alien MPs recognized their West Side Story holograms and reported them.
They’re off somewhere in another galaxy. We still hear from them occasionally. Their alien superiors don’t discourage this. Friendship is essential to keeping good relations between all cultures, intergalactic or otherwise. They’ve even supplied their own form of video conferencing on a broadband the width of the Atlantic Ocean. We watch it instead of television sometimes.
It’s a little strange against a backdrop of mafic rocks and regolith soil, but they do “Soul Man” and raise a little dust.
Out on the frontier — where Sincko claims they are — all rules are pretty lax. They ring us up some evenings, wearing their fedoras and sunglasses. They look like The Blues Brothers. It’s a little strange against a backdrop of mafic rocks and regolith soil. They do “Soul Man” and raise a little dust.
Carmen thinks it’s a hoot. They sign off, dancing across the martian landscape, doing those Jake and Elwood moves. It’s pretty surreal but, as Carmen says, “When in Rome.”
Maybe one day we’ll be able to visit them. We’re so busy with one thing or another, but Carmen keeps looking at the travel brochures. A trip would do us the world of good. Especially for Carmen’s back. She’s still bending down for those aliens all the time, saying to me: “They’re looking down my blouse.”
Well, it happens, right? Aliens will be aliens. We need to get used to them, just like they need to get used to us. Such is life. Say la vie. And don’t take it so seriously, Carmen. They like perky breasts. I think that’s a big step forward. They’ll be liking our soup next. We’re making inroads.
Robert Cormack is a novelist, short story writer, blogger and journalist. His work is now free here on Medium. His first novel “You Can Lead A Horse To Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online through Simon & Schuster. I’ve even learned Walmart is selling “good, used copies.” His stories and articles are also available at robertcormack.net
