FIRST CONTACT

Narian is alright, for an alien. I met him on a Tuesday night when he landed in my backyard, waking both the wife and I from an ever-deepening sleep. I do not think he intended to land. By the time I put on my pants and peeped out the backdoor, he was out of his ship and seemed to be idly stumbling about the yard.

I hollered at him when he almost blundered through our dogless doghouse. His reply was I think telepathic, but one of those strange telepathies that mimic the sense they are mentally transmitting, leaving you just a bit off syntax.

“Sorry, mate. Is this your house?” He pointed to the doghouse.

“No, but I wouldn’t want you to bust it up, or it to bust you. My house is the bigger one behind me.” He glanced over my shoulder to take in the mostly dark two-story residence. “By the way, might I ask why are you here?” I was not about to take him to our leader, as our leaders are a mixed lot these days, and less likely than I to react well to a sudden alien. A seemingly clumsy alien at that. One that flies in a spaceship that looks to be about the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, a Beetle like in my youth we would fill with as many friends you could stuff into and still leave the vehicle sort of drivable.

“I was in the neighborhood.” I thought I saw his mouth move, but maybe I imagined it. I had only been asleep around two hours and I had had three good rum drinks before bed, and the cobwebs were still satisfied in my brain.

“Are in the neighborhood. If you haven’t noticed, you are in my backyard, your ship is killing my grass, and you would have collided with my doghouse if I hadn’t stopped you.” I do not know if he was impressed that I was unimpressed. I’ve read a bit of science fiction and the cable channels spit out tons of alien and UFO documentaries. I have been seasoned.

“Listen, I hate to ask, but is there some place I can stash my ship until the repair crew gets here?” He seemed to shrug. He had the build for it: two legs, two arms, narrow shoulders, oversized head.

I have a garage, but I don’t keep my car there. The garage instead is given over to a little workshop, a minifridge for beer. It is a good place to hide when the wife is out of sorts.

“If you can move it, you likely can get it into my garage.” I pointed to the detached garage, given the confusion about the doghouse.

“Oh, the antigrav still works. It will be light as a feather once I turn it back on.” He did not look like an alien that would use a feather simile, but it must be the translation using objects I would be familiar with. I never say ‘light as a feather’, but it is a phrase I understand.

“Sure.” I always grab my keys when I run out, so I had them in my pocket. I went over, unlocked the main-bay garage door, and slid it up. I never bought a garage door opener. Too expensive, too much trouble to install alone, and there is a side door I usually go in and out of. The main drive-in door had not been opened in six months. More.

He was right behind me, the craft a foot off the ground, he guiding it with one hand alone. I stood aside as he nudged it in, a hair closer to the outer wall than the workshop area. He had a good foot and a half clearance on either side.

“Will you want to wait out here, or in the house?” I had no idea how long it would take for his repair crew to arrive, but I needed to go in. The wife would be getting curious. I suspect she was glued to the bedroom window, but she would get at best an oblique view of what was going on. She would be waiting for my scantily detailed explanation.

“I don’t know. Maybe the house.” I was sure there was a shrug again. Or maybe that was his telepathy filling in appropriate signals, altering my visual as well as aural perception. Perhaps putting me at ease.

“Okay, I’ll leave the garage unlocked. We will just draw down the door.” We stepped together out of the garage, checking each other for irony or sarcasm or belief.

I started across the yard for the house backdoor. He started off towards the doghouse.

I did not ask him that night how long the repair team would take to get here. Nor have I ever told him he could wait in my house, that possibly I would let him set up shop on the couch. I have not introduced him to the wife, nor told her we have a spaceship in the garage. Some things require too much explanation, get people worked up for reasons even they cannot fathom. I have not even asked this low maintenance alien his name, assuming he has one. I made up Narian, as it seemed too dramatic to call him ‘the alien’.

How long he is going to be in my doghouse, I cannot fathom. Who knows what the backlog is on an interstellar spaceship repair crew? Eventually, it could get awkward, but for now he is no trouble. I carried him out a beer yesterday. I think he drank it. He hasn’t asked for anything.

Next week my sister and her family are coming over for their monthly mission from the city. They pretend to be cordial, admit we are all still family, secretly are glad we live too many miles apart to have well integrated lives. We get through it, find some way to reward ourselves for our acceptable behavior afterwards. But this time, if Narian is still here when she and her brood show up, this is one time I will win the hand wringing and ‘guess what happened’ contest. I can’t wait to see the look on her face, the trouble in her eye, the stutter of defeat in her voice.

She will bust a blood vessel trying to think of what she can do to have something that will beat me next month.