Adult Children of Alien Beings Read Free Page B

doubt—and Bill trots off to tend to it. Katyana smiles, cocks an eyebrow. It’s just the two of us. She has enormous eyes even for an ACAB, whose eyes tend to run large. “Think like one of them. That shouldn’t be so hard for you. You’re the most alien of us all. Who knows more?”
    It’s true. I’ve sort of thrown myself into it, like an abyss, researching the subject endlessly, contributing regularly to the ACAB blog. I don’t know whether she’s teasing me or has faith in me, but Katyana inspires me to ponder the issue like worrying a bone. If any of the original aliens are still among us, how would I go about finding them? They all supposedly died somewhat mysteriously within a few months of each other, leaving no bodies behind, which is generally held to mean they abandoned their human form, their mission fulfilled, and left the planet en masse, by wormhole or starship. Opinion is divided and not really relevant to the more important question—did any remain behind? Even the most ardent believers in the Stayed Behinds or the Left Behinds, depending on who you ask, admit only a handful would be living now. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack, like aliens finding Earth on the outskirts of the Milky Way. If you’re an ACAB, you have to believe anything is possible.
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    Later on, I’m sitting at home watching a rehash of the Black Friday craziness on TV with Myrna’s head in my lap, muttering, “Sometimes I just don’t understand people,” as they run clips of folks trampling each other for deals to show how well things are going this holiday season, when it hits me: Christmastime. Peace on Earth. “Away in a Manger.” Hysterical consumerism and lots of sappy movies—the season for aliens to restock their freezers with peppermint ice cream and cry happy tears. I love Christmas. I’m not a believer, but I love the story—strangers in a strange land, the most important kid on the planet born in a barn. Come let us adore him. Nothing wrong with that.
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    It’s not hard to figure out where I might spot a shopping alien early in the holiday season. The peppermint ice cream at the Kroger fills an end box across from the soft cheeses where I figure I can dither indefinitely over whether to get dill or pimiento or chipotle or just forego this artery-clogging glop altogether—one of the privileges of old age, indecision—while I wait for an old alien. It’s senior discount day. The aisles teem with us. Still, for even so weighty a question as to brie or not to brie, there must be a limit, and fairly soon I’m joined by the youthful dimwit I recognize to be the manager, who pretends to tidy up some tiny cheeses with smiling cows on the label. There are cameras everywhere. Alert: Senior beached at the cheeses without a purchase for going on a quarter hour.
    â€œAre you finding everything all right, sir?”
    Who can honestly answer yes to that one? Sir with the right inflection means doddering old fool in managerspeak. Screw you very much, Sonny Boy, I’m waiting for ancient aliens. “Just fine,” I say. He glances down into my basket. There’s a bag of frozen kale thawing, a pound of black beans, and a couple of yams to show I’m serious about the shopping thing. Aliens didn’t eat cheese and ice cream and thick, juicy steaks because it was good for them. They knew they were only in their human form for the short term and didn’t have to live with the consequences. I’ve been vegan since my heart attack four years ago this spring. I’ll have to move along. There’s nothing within arm’s reach I can eat. Maybe I can lurk by the frozen berries and dither there if the sight line’s right. So far there’s only been a handful of single quart peppermint ice cream buyers. Nobody’s made a purchase of alien