|
"Juan for All"
by Chris Radloff
"Pass the salt, please?" asked Gladys.
Harold hated when she did that. She knew that he liked to read the paper undisturbed during supper. The drive home from work at the bank wasn't quite enough time to unwind and generally put him in a quiet mood. He just wanted to be quiet. Other people could do what they wanted, just as long as they left him to his coffee and his paper. He even bought a TV especially for the kitchen to keep Gladys company during dinner. Since he had told her all of this at least six times this week, he knew that by requesting the salt she was winding up to something. Probably something he didn't want to hear.
"Mmmm," he said, pushing the salt towards her.
"Thanks, Honey," she replied, nervously toying with the salt. Harold always thought it was interesting that such a mild, nervous woman would work with the police department. Of course, maybe working with the police department is what made her mild and nervous. That was where Harold first met his wife-to-be several years ago. She was on duty at the communications center while he was being booked for public indecency. (A fine way to treat an upright citizen such as himself, a simple bookkeeper who happened to pick a rather unfortunate tree to relieve himself behind. Who could have known that it was the mayor's yard? He had never voted for her anyway.)
Harold had fallen in love with Gladys at first sight. The slightly mousy looking, timid woman who had captured his attention all those years ago had, however, turned into a slightly mousy looking, timid woman. Her one good quality is that she never once told him that he looked like Les Nessman from WKRP in Cincinnati.
Harold rattled his paper in mild annoyance, determined to ignore whatever ploy Gladys came up with to capture his attention. "Five," he thought. "Four." She played with her meatloaf a little. "Three." She cleared her throat and reached for her coffee. "Two." She sipped a bit of her coffee and looked into the cup thoughtfully. "One," he thought. "Here it comes."
"You know, Harold, this is Colombian coffee."
"Mmmm," was Harold's rather pathetic attempt at inattention.
"I was wondering. The new neighbors up the street, they're Colombian, aren't they? Juan and his little wife, they're from Colombia I think. Or somewhere south of here. Maybe Mexico, though they don't seem Mexican. Anyway, I was out looking in the neighbor's bushes for our newspaper this morning and I saw the strangest thing."
"I think maybe I'll watch some TV in the other room," Harold said, hoping to avoid what looked like a rather lengthy conversation. He put his paper down and started to get up.
"You know what I saw?" Gladys continued blithely. "I saw that man, Juan, the Colombian man. I saw him go into his back yard." Harold sighed and sat back down.
After a few moments, Harold realized that he was supposed to say something. "Well, people are allowed to go into their back yards, you know. Maybe he was just getting some air." Harold stood up, stretching out his full five-foot-four frame. "I think I may get some air myself."
"Well, I know, but he was doing something strange."
Harold suddenly had an image of the neighbor man relieving himself behind a tree. He pushed the painful thought aside and faced Gladys.
"So? Don't you ever do strange things when no one is looking? Just for the fun of it?" he asked.
"Me? Oh, my, no," Gladys replied, aghast at the thought. "I think he's a spy. The Colombian, I mean. He had a metal box with him, and a satellite dish. A small one." She looked at Harold for a moment after revealing this bit of information, but quickly resumed fidgeting as Harold simply stood there, looking at her with that look that translated (he hoped) into "quit bothering me."
"Well, I'm sure he's not a spy. He's probably got one of those 'direct TV' things and can't figure out how to hook it up. Poor guy may have forgotten where he was and was trying to point the thing north or something." Harold was quite proud of his knowledge of the heavens, and was often spouting inane things about Hale-Boppe or some impending meteor shower. It annoyed Gladys to no end as Harold learned most of his astronomy from book stand magazines such as Asimov's or Analog, while she had actually taken a night class at the local university on astronomy before she joined "The Force" and thought she knew considerably more than he.
"That's the confusing part," Gladys said. "If he were pointing the dish south he could pick up the geosynchronous communication satellites. If he were pointing it north, he could be confused, being from below the equator and all. But he was pointing it over towards the Johnson's house, east of here. Maybe I should call Bill at the department."
Harold harumphed, annoyed that she one-upped him on the geo-synchronous orbit thing. "Well, maybe he is a spy and he's spying on the Johnsons." he said. "I've always wondered how a pair of schoolteachers could have that much money in the bank." If he couldn't impress his wife with astronomy, he'd try to impress her with meaningless neighborhood gossip. "And I hear they have a boat at the marina, too."
"No, I don't think he was spying on the Johnsons. He just went into his yard, put a metal box on the ground, pointed a dish at the sky, fiddled around for a bit, and went back inside. Juanita, that's his wife's name. Juanita. Anyway, he left the whole contraption sitting in his yard. Besides, the Johnson's inherited their money about five years ago. Nothing mysterious about them at all." Gladys had a habit of switching topics rather too quickly sometimes. "Maybe they can show me how to make my tacos taste right. I bet Juanita can cook."
Harold stood by the door, staring morosely at his newspaper, which was sitting half-read on the table. He hadn't even gotten through the sports. He knew he was never going to finish the paper. He knew that she was going to talk at him every time he made any sort of move simply to keep him there. He was caught once again. He watched as a fly landed on the remains of the meatloaf. He saw the fly taste the meatloaf. He witnessed the fly settle in for a meal. Moments later, the fly was joined by another fly. He could swear he heard the second fly, after a few seconds, ask the first fly to pass the salt. He mentally wished the first fly luck, and prepared his move.
"I, um, have to go shave now," was the only thing he could think to say. He bolted for the door, but was stunned by another of Gladys' zingers.
"He was wearing sunglasses, you know."
Harold stopped and slowly turned back towards Gladys, one hand on the doorknob. "Was the sun out?" he asked.
"Yes, it was quite bright this morning."
"Well, then, what's unusual about wearing sunglasses?"
"Well, it made him look sinister, I suppose," Gladys said. "Come to think of it, I've never seen him without sunglasses on. Do you think he's part of a drug cartel or something? Those men always seem to be wearing sunglasses."
"No, he's not part of a drug cartel. He's simply a new neighbor playing in his yard," Harold stated firmly, backing out the kitchen door. "Please, watch your TV show and quit playing detective."
Gladys sat for a few minutes toying miserably with her meatloaf. She made a little pile of salt on her mashed potatoes, and then scrunched the whole works together. The two flies on Harold's plate caught her attention. She watched the flies interact for a few minutes, and decided that one of the flies was decidedly ignoring the other fly. She felt sorry for the poor, misunderstood, unheard fly as the other fly turned its back and left for another part of the plate.
Bored of the flies, she wandered over to the window. She poked her finger in the blinds and peered out, aware that she probably looked rather furtive while doing this, and felt mildly annoyed that she had nothing to act furtive about. With a sigh she turned back to the TV, which had been rumbling away in the background. "If I ever get a cat," she said to herself, "I'm going to name it Harold and never pay any attention to it at all."
Meanwhile, Harold was standing in the middle of his living room highly aware of the fact that he had absolutely nothing at all to do in the living room. His newspaper was in the kitchen, and he didn't feel ready to interact with people yet. Therefore, going into the kitchen to retrieve the paper was completely out of the question as Gladys did fit some of the looser definitions of "people." He also realized that he had about a minute and a half to get out of the living room before Gladys came out and continued the inanities.
He decided that he would go outside. "Fresh air is what I need," he thought. "Nobody ever disturbs anyone while they're poking about in their yard. They only watch and conjecture."
Once outside, he realized that he should have grabbed his coat. The sun was just setting, the warm day rapidly becoming a memory. He decided not to risk going back inside and tottered off to look at the begonias that grew next to the fence. As Harold poked about in the flowers, he was reminded of the old joke -- "You can lead a horticulture but you can't make her think." That was the sole remainder of all the information imparted him during a sad semester in Biology 101. His miserable failure in that class ultimately led him to his comfortably dull life with numbers.
As he pondered these various things, he glanced idly over the fence. Gladys was right, there was indeed a strange looking metal box in the middle of the neighbor's yard attached by a cable to a dish about a meter in diameter. The dish was mounted on a broom handle and was pointed to a portion of the sky above the Johnson's house. It certainly didn't look like a TV dish, but it was most definitely some sort of receiver. As Harold studied the neighbor's yard, he suddenly realized that the neighbor was, in fact, in his yard, and was, in fact, staring back at him. As he was thinking frantically for some neighborly thing to say in greeting, Juan calmly pushed his sunglasses further up his nose and waved to Harold. Harold gestured back rather uncertainly and turned away. The unexpected encounter rattled him enough that he got his feet tangled in his begonias and nearly fell. "Well, at least I didn't have to talk to him," he thought.
"Are you okay, my friend?" came a voice from over the fence.
"Oh, no," Harold thought. "Oh, yes," he said. "Thank you." He turned to go back into his house. Better Gladys yammering at him than some stranger trying to pry into his thoughts.
"This is a nice neighborhood," came the voice from over the fence. The statement was perfect, just like Gladys'. It wasn't a question, but it demanded a response. A person couldn't just walk away. One has to respond. Unlike a question, though, statements of this kind have no proper answers. One has to actually come up with something trite to reply with or be considered rude.
"Mmmm. Yes, it is," was Harold's effort. He turned slowly to face his neighbor, who had come closer to lean over the fence.
"It is a nice change for us," said the man in dark glasses. "Juanita is pleased. We hope to be able to stay for some time."
"Yes. Yes, it is a nice neighborhood," hemmed Harold. "Do you move often?"
"Oh, yes. Whenever we get the call," Juan responded. "One must answer the call when it arrives."
Harold noticed with a start that Juan had no accent. He sounded just like any other person from Ohio. Except, perhaps, just a trace of a lisp, or perhaps an English accent. "No," though Harold, "not quite English. More like Harvard. An 'educated' accent." Harold didn't like the tone of this conversation. All this talk about receiving the call reminded him of the Jehovah's Witnesses who appeared on his doorstep every now and then. Of course, Harold went to church, but more because it was his duty as an upstanding citizen than out of faith.
"Well, it was nice to meet you," said Harold, turning back to his house. He tromped through his begonias, hoping to escape. "Enjoy the night."
"Yes, thank you," was the reply.
Once safely on the doorstep Harold looked back. He could see Juan standing next to his dish looking up at the sky. He was still wearing his sunglasses in spite of the intruding dusk.
"Probably waiting for a comet to appear with a spaceship behind it," thought Harold. "I wouldn't doubt it if he was one of those extremists you see in the news."
Once happily ensconced in his living room, Harold faced the fact that Gladys was in the house somewhere. He took off his shoes in case some mud happened to be living under them and headed towards the kitchen, hoping to retrieve his newspaper with a minimum of fuss.
"I see you were talking to the new neighbor. Did you ask him about his contraption?" came the familiar voice from behind him. "Drat," he thought. "I was hoping she was still in the kitchen."
"Mmmm. No," said Harold without looking at her. He went into the kitchen, sat down in front of his leftover meatloaf, and picked up his paper. He sincerely hoped to pick up where he left off. Unfortunately, so did Gladys. She followed him into the kitchen and took her appointed seat.
"What was he like?" she prompted. "Is he a spy?"
"No, he's not a spy. I think he's a missionary or some other religious zealot."
"Why? What did he say?"
Harold looked over his paper at her. "He said he moves whenever he gets the call."
"Oh, dear," said Gladys. "I've heard of these people at the department. The kingpin of the operation calls the underlings when he finds a place that is ready to be scammed. Then all the minions move into the town and fleece the populace. Imagine, a syndicate right here in Brownsville. Imagine."
"No, no. Nothing like that," snapped Harold, still glaring at his paper. "He was very polite. He just said that they move when they get the call. I imagine his church told him to move here. Or maybe it's not a religious thing at all. Maybe he just has to relocate often because of his job."
"Maybe they move often and put satellite dishes in their back yard because they're spies," said Gladys with emphasis. "I think I was right the first time."
"Well, he's probably still out in his yard. Why don't you go ask him?"
"Hmmph. I think I will." With that Gladys stood up and left, which was fine with Harold. He pretended to read the paper until he heard the back door slam shut, then got up and cleared the table off. He put the dishes in the dishwasher and sorted the various condiments out and put them in their proper places in the refrigerator and cupboard. That finished, he settled down to his paper once more. He read a story about the FBI tracking cults. Then he read a story about NASA and their never-ending public relations woes. He was about halfway through an article concerning the mayor's obsession with placing more public restrooms in the park adjacent to her mansion when he realized that Gladys should have been back some time ago.
He had never known Gladys to approach strangers, or even strange neighbors. Subconsciously he had expected Gladys to go outside, notice the tromped-on begonias, lose her nerve to talk to Juan, and return to the safe confines of the kitchen where she could badger him some more. Now it seemed that she may actually have made contact with the Colombian in question.
He stood and went to the window. He put his finger in the blinds and peeked out, feeling a little foolish. He could see his wife standing in the gloom by the fence, but couldn't make out Juan. He could see his wife gesturing as she accented her points. "Probably telling Juan that I'm a spy," he thought. With a sigh, Harold returned to his appointed throne and his beleaguered newspaper.
About half an hour later, Gladys made her entrance.
"Such an exciting man, that Juan," she breathed. "And so very intelligent."
"What did he do?" asked Harold, who was not nearly as interested now as he had been before he found out his wife was breathless over the man.
"Well, nothing really. But he's been all over the world. It IS his job, I guess." Gladys looked at Harold. "He's even been to Africa."
"Well, that's not really very exciting. We went to Canada two years ago. We're travelers too," said the wounded Harold.
"You're an accountant. I'm a clerk. We are not travelers," snipped Gladys. She twirled her fingers in her hair and stretched back in a way that accented her bust. Harold had never seen her stretch quite like that before. "Juan says that he's an anthropologist."
"What can an anthropologist study in Brownsville, Ohio?" asked Harold. "Anthropologists study primitive civilizations. There are no primitives here, except maybe that ape Joe who works on our car."
"I asked him that. He said that anthropology isn't just thinking about primitive civilizations, but is the study of different cultures and ethnic groups and their interactions. He's studying us."
"What on earth can anyone learn from us?" Harold demanded. "This is America. We are the best known and most emulated culture on earth. Everyone knows America. I bet he's happy to be here, and not back in Africa or Peru with all the poor savages squabbling about. He's probably come to Ohio to get away from all the poverty and filth so he can write his book."
"No, he said he's studying us. Anyway, I'm going to go to bed," said Gladys as she got up from the table. "Please don't bother me. Tomorrow's Saturday and I have a lot of errands to do." With that, she breezed out of the room with a sly little smile on her face.
Harold woke up about 6:30 the next morning fully dressed lying on the couch as usual. He went through his morning routine and was happily reading his morning paper over a cup of coffee when he heard Gladys leave. He finished his paper and peeped out the window. Juan was still standing in his yard, looking up and east, just as he had been the night before. Harold sighed and turned on the TV in the living room and settled in to watch whatever was on. He decided that Bugs Bunny wasn't a bad thing to watch and was mentally warning the Road Runner not to fall for the "Stop Here and Eat Some Nice Birdseed" trick when he heard the car pull into the driveway. After a few moments it was obvious that Gladys wasn't going to come in right away. So, for the third time in two days, Harold peeped out the window. There was Gladys, talking with Juan over the fence. She was wearing a rather daring, low-cut dress, and was taking care to lean forward fairly often.
Harold grumbled back to the TV set and fumed until Gladys came through the door half an hour later.
"Juan said that he's almost done with his project and that he'll be moving again shortly," she said. "I told him what you said about him being happy to be here in America away from the filth, and I told him that regardless of why he's here we're happy to have him as a neighbor." She was almost floating. "We talked for a while and he told me that our conversation had helped him finalize his plans. He said that I actually helped him. Can you believe it?"
"Mmmm," Harold mumbled, eyes glued to Wile E. Coyote.
"He said that his dish setup is really a communication device so that he can get messages from his boss. I asked him why anthropology would demand such a sophisticated way of communicating, but he didn't really answer me. He just looked up to the sky again."
"That doesn't make sense," Harold said. "Anthropology is about as vital as studying medieval Scandinavian languages. There's no need for a satellite link. He's lying to you about something. I don't trust him."
"So now you think he's a spy? You're the one who convinced me he wasn't."
"Look, I don't want you talking to him any more, okay. I just don't trust him." With that Harold stood up and stalked out the front door. For once he was going to put his foot down. Just once in his life he was going to tell someone to get out of his way. He rounded the corner to the back yard and paused long enough to swoop his hair over his bald spot, and marched over to the fence.
"Look here, mister wonderful, I don't want you talking with my wife again," he called over the fence. He didn't see Juan, but he felt he had to continue now or lose his courage. "We're quiet people and we lead quiet lives and we don't want to be bothered by smooth-talking, wife-seducing foreigners. Leave us alone or go back and play with your savages." Harold paused, feeling a little disgruntled that his speech was apparently going into thin air.
Juan then stepped out from the shadows behind his dish. Now that Harold was looking he could see that Juan had been sitting on a lounge chair below his line of sight. Harold had by this time lost the initial burst of indignation, and was completely befuddled as to how to handle the situation. He had a momentary image of the Hispanic man actually attacking him.
"I'm sorry," said Juan. "I didn't mean to cause any fuss. It's simply that my job is to study indigenous cultures, and your wife is a part of this culture, so when she approached me I took the opportunity to speak with her." He looked up at the point in the sky that had held his attention for so long. "Ahh, at last. There it is," he said quietly.
Harold watched as the man walked quickly to his apparatus. Apparently Juan had no problem seeing in shadows with his dark glasses on as he swiftly opened the metal box next to the dish and pulled out a keyboard of sorts. From Harold's vantage point it looked like no other keyboard he'd ever seen.
Juan pecked steadily away for several minutes, pausing now and then to turn a knob that was mounted on the front of the keyboard. Harold stood in his begonias and watched in silence. Finally Juan seemed to finish. He closed the box and stood up to face Harold.
"Well, my assignment is done. I will be leaving now. I hope I have not been much of a bother. Please excuse me," he said, and turned away.
Somewhat chastened, Harold retreated to his house. He started to tell Gladys what had transpired when he heard a door slam next door. He turned down the blinds and saw Juan and a pretty woman he had to assume was Juanita standing in the back yard with several suitcases, staring at the sky.
"Our neighbors are crazy," he said. Gladys joined him at the window. As they watched, a bright flash appeared in the sky above the Johnson's house. A real, true-to-life flying saucer appeared and swooped to a position over the Colombians. A moment later, both Juan and Juanita disappeared into thin air.
"No," said Gladys into the silence, "we're crazy."
The two looked at each other for a long moment, then looked back at the now-empty yard next door. Suddenly from nowhere in particular a voice spoke. It had what Harold would have termed an "educated" accent. Harold was so stunned by the crystal clarity of the rich baritone voice that he missed part of what was said.
"...twenty minutes to prepare yourselves. We will leave only those members of your species who live in harmony with nature. These few will be the guardians of your planet. Most of the Inuit tribe will remain, as well as many of those who practice Shintoism. Other members of your species who qualify will also remain, mostly in the areas known as Africa and South America. The rest have nineteen minutes to prepare."
Harold and Gladys looked at each other.
"An alien species must be taking us somewhere," said Gladys.
"Yes, and leaving the barbarians behind." Harold was quite pleased with this. He went into the bedroom and got their suitcases out.
"I wonder what it'll be like, where they're taking us," Gladys mused. "I bet it's going to be like it is on 'Star Trek'."
"As long as they're not taking those Indians and eco-nuts I'll be happy. Science and numbers, and never mind the whiney bleeding-hearts," Harold said. He noted that the street was full of cars, which was unusual -- they lived on a quiet street. He kept packing. In a secret place deep in his soul, he was looking forward to a new start with Gladys. Maybe having someone else pay attention to her made a difference.
Several minutes later optimistic Harold and excited Gladys were standing in their yard, looking to the east, with several suitcases between them when they were annihilated by a benevolent alien species.
Twenty minutes after that, the flies mated on the meatloaf.
|
