I.


Outside the coliseum, or hippodrome which was Manner’s estate, the golden spring of restless socialites tiring their tongues over subjects of sophistication decorated the air with a lifeless buzz. Dr. Baker, the middle aged psychologist, integrated into the buzz with obligatory politeness, feigning interest in business and art as his mind dragged him towards worry. His appointment with the physicist fell through and he hadn’t heard from his good friend, world famous entrepreneur and fellow MIT graduate, Neil Anderson since wednesday.

    There were a few circles of conversation which fell to discussion of a dead senator, in which Dr. Baker inserted himself, and took a concealed, morbid pride in stating that the senator was shot dead on the way to a lunch with him. This was sure to stir up a few “I’m afraid we haven’t met”s and a couple “what did you say your name was?”s, which the semi-shallow doctor happily obliged with an introduction. The rapidly disappearing champagne from his glass had the negative effect of that which Dr. Baker had been hoping for. With each drink, he simply worried more about Mr Anderson, who he hadn’t heard from since their missed luncheon with the dead senator, and became more and more anti-social.

    It would be impossible to forget what the occasion was for such a party. The birthday boy, Doug Manner, made his way around the crowd like a used car salesman prowling his lot, but rather than selling automobiles, Doug Manner was only selling his relevance and regalty. Dr Baker had not been invited directly, but as Neil Anderson’s guest.

    “Where is Neil anyhow?” the giant Mr Doug Manner inquired gleefully with an air of genuine curiosity after the doctor had introduced himself.

    “I haven’t heard from him in three days since our appointment, and we were supposed to have lunch with the senator that day.”

    “Oh no, the senator.” Doug lost his bearing and recovered by pulling two young men, a blonde, and a moustached burnette toward the conversation.

    “These two are the future of the investment industry!” He gloated, “Dr. Banner, meet my nephew, Ryan Sherlock(the blonde) and his partner Jack Pilot(moustache)!”

    “Dr. Banner? Like the Hulk?” the blonde mused.

    “It’s Baker, actually.” the doctor shook hands with both , Doug was aloof to the mistake.

    “They both work for my firm, Harvard MBAs, hardworking, hungry…” Doug leaned in, “and a little bit sleazy.” He chuckled. The young sleazes pretended not to notice.

    “Dr. Baker, the psychologist?” Jack Pilot politely asked, assuming a relaxed yet authoritative position. He struck the doctor as one of the few opportunistic fellows on the scene who knew how to play the aristocrats very well, but had a controlled disdain for everything in the business beside the money and influence strictly.

    “The very one,” the doctor was now at the level of drunkenness where every question asked of him would draw only a sarcastic and pseudo-clever remark. The doctor understood this, but was still powerless to it.

    “Yes, I remember hearing a lot about your work on cognitive function from Mrs. Anderson.”

    The doctor’s heart jumped up onto a spike and impaled itself, the drops turned hot and milked themselves into every vessel in his intoxicated body, once again the mythical tamperer sings her song, unannounced into the doctor’s unsound conscience.

    “Yes, my… Berkeley days. You know Mrs. Anderson, you must also know Mr. Anderson, then.” The doctor managed to, despite his ricocheting streams of thought, form a civilized response, in an attempt to bring the conversation away from that woman.

    “She said you also served in the military,” the audacious Jack Pilot pioneered on, taking interest in the nerve struck in the doctor, “ thank you for your service.”

    “Thank you for your…” AHHHHHHHH “...support…” the doctor’s internal screaming danced in his eyes. When did she talk with this Harvard sleazeball? Why did she talk with this sleazy MBA about me? The sleazy future of investment must be putting me on, he must be as bored as I am.

    The doctor opened his mouth to speak, but, despite his extensive research in the field, his own cognitive ability failed him. Damnit, damn, damn, damn. Damn this sleaze.

    “I was supposed to have lunch with Mr and Mrs Anderson, that was… before the senator was killed.”

    “Oh, I’m sorry.” the young moustached sleaze was a little taken back.

The doctor had no idea why he said that, or what repercussions it would arouse, but he was only glad he said it, as it had the desired effect of throwing Jack Pilot out of the driver’s seat of the conversation.

“Yes, I only hope they find whatever villain did such a horrible thing.” The doctor had brought the conversation back down to aristocratic drone he was used to.

“Yes, I’m sure they will.” The Harvard sleaze submitted. The doctor politely nodded at both of the MBAs, Doug having long since vanished. Dr. Baker wandered toward a nearby wall to ponder what it was that Jack Pilot was trying to stir. Simple entertainment? But then why did he go straight for Mrs Anderson unless he knew… Did she say something about Dr. Baker that he didn’t know about? Oh, it tortured the doctor to imagine Jack Pilot, Harvard MBA and sleaze extraordinaire,sitting comfortably by a living room fire, sipping on pinot grigio with Mrs Anderson (Mr Anderson away on business), and instead of having the common courtesy of just being normal aristocrats and having an affair, deciding to trade deep secrets about people they are close to. Fragile people, too, people who mind their own business, on no conquest for power, and of course, these secrets would be traded out of no means of actual curiosity, but rather to laugh at the shallowness of these people’s secrets, and to accumulate more and more power over them. It sickened Dr Baker to think he would be worth being talked about around a fire in place of an affair. He felt his grasp on the comfortable cusp of aristocracy slipping, he felt himself being dragged by the shepherd’s cane onto center stage, but all he wanted was more champagne, and to know that Mr Anderson was alright.


☐    ☐    ☐    ☐


Dr Baker calculated his route through the meat of the party with careful precision. He walked past a pixie cut blond in a dress of crystals, talking fastly and at rapid lengths about her son’s new hotel complex. He walked past a slack-jawed, bald-headed, bow-tie wearing fat man struggling to keep his eyelids from ascending into his skull as he braved conversations about bulls and bears. He walked past self-righteous journalists harvesting conversational accidents for their arsenal. The fat happiness copulated with the wicked excitement to create a synthetic bond of shameless self-indulgence. Now came the time of night when the creature’s blood wished for cocaine. Being called by the invisible drug hand to the bathroom in groups of threes or fours, the patrons disappeared and shed their sober skin. Dr Baker knew this was the last stage of alienation for him at the party. He approached a humble brown door and out of curiosity (and under the guise that he was simply looking for a room to do cocaine in) opened the door and entered. A short hallway stood before the doctor, with noises of a tv and drunken arguing dancing off the walls. He walked down the hall into a small basement-like room with a rinky dink couch, fridge and tv. There were four working class men enjoying Yingling and a movie, so entranced by the tv that they did not notice the stranger approach them.

“No fuckin’ way I’m going in the cage with Jaws in the water.” a baseball cap said vindictively from a bar stool.

A few slow moments passed, Jaws was slamming against the poor shark enthusiast’s cage on the tv. The doctor imagined what it would be like to be in a shark cage. Surely one of the most amazing yet terrifying things you can do in life, akin to skydiving, he thought, which he had not done either. He figured he would have to go skydiving at some point, there is something about it… it is sort of the concrete mark that you didn’t wuss around your whole life and had confidently resigned to the fact that one day you would die anyway. But this shark enthusiast in the movie must love being in shark cages, he is, after all, a shark enthusiast.

More slams and panic on the tv. The man in the cage drops his spear gun.

To be in love with something so dangerous, the doctor thought, it is surely a curse among humans. In love with sharks. How metaphoric to the times.

“What?” an Italian man turned around on the couch.

“Pardon?” the doctor replied.

“You said something, bro.”

“Oh, I was just saying,” he couldn’t believe he had said something so obviously inappropriate to the crowd and time, “He’s in love with sharks, I thought it was metaphoric.”

…

“Like how we fall in love with things that want to hurt us?” the doctor continued but felt he should just leave the house hop in his car and go back home.

    After studying the doctor for a minute, the Italian returned to Jaws.

    “Yooooooo, doessthis giedie?” the baseball cap slurred.

    “Have you never seen Jaws before?” a pot belly sounded disappointed.

    “Yeaah, but…. I sswear this dude doesn show up for the rest of the moovie.” the baseball cap was having a crisis of faith trying to remember the ending of Jaws. The doctor could not contain himself any longer.

    “Yes he makes it, after the sheriff kills Jaws.” the doctor was suddenly the subject of all four pairs of eyes.

    “Get out.”



☐    ☐    ☐    ☐



The band was here. In through the two grand doors at the front of Doug Manner’s estate came 16 flute players, 10 trombones, 12 trumpets, 14 violins, 4 cellos, 8 percussionists (to include a triangle and miracha expert) 8 clarinet players, 2 pianists, 6 oboists, 2 harps, 3 saxophone players (1 tenor and 2 altos), a third grade class of recorder players, the St Stephen’s All Boys Preparatory School Choir, 2 conductors, 1 resistor and a bass player. The doctor stood in awe at the magnificent musicians, the coked out party-goers enthusiastically awaited the start of the performance. They started with a beautiful rendition of Mozart’s Requiem K, 626: Lacrimosa then transitioned into CeeLo Green’s F*** You.

    “Hey, this party is pretty lame isn’t it?” the doctor heard a young female voice from behind him. He turned around to see a slightly chubby young woman with smeared eyeliner and black bangs.

    “Whaddya say we get outta here and see where the wind takes us.” her eyes were watery and full of desire.

    “N-now I really would rather stay and watch the performance.” the doctor replied earnestly.

    “Ugh,” the woman rolled her eyes, “These guys suck, Hank Long and the Boyz do it much better. They played here last year. C’mon let’s go do some E.”

    “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with Mr. Long’s work.” was all the doctor could manage.

    “Are you familiar with E?”

    “... yes, I am familiar with ecstasy.” the doctor was becoming tired of this desperate girl. She laughed and grabbed him by the arm to drag him outside. The doctor’s curiosity allowed him to be pulled away from the music as he heard them singing a special song made just for Doug.



Doug’s Song


A jolly man, always gi-ving

He knows what to spend, to keep on li-ving

In big houses and fast cars

And his friend Neil who’s been to Mars

Has been missing since his missed luncheon

With Dr Baaaaker.


    The triangle solo was the last thing he heard before the glass door to the patio was shut behind him. The chubby young woman brought the doctor to a remote corner on the opposite end of the super sized pool. They sat down on some rocks and let the glowing blue light create images of dancing ripples on their bodies. The girl took some ecstasy and wrapped her arms around the reflective doctor. The doctor was beyond caring and simply gazed into the seemingly endless, oceanic chlorine. These parties, he thought, aren’t the same without Neil. He must be coming, that’s the only reason I’m here. They sat on the rocks for 10 minutes until the young woman got up in front of the doctor and started stripping and dancing to her own internal score.

    “What is your name?” he finally asked.

    “It doesn’t matter who I am. It only matters what I’m doing.” she replied breathily.

    The doctor looked at her, puzzled.

    “Well, what are you doing.”

    “Falling in love in reverse.” she said.

    The doctor looked at the stars and the trees surrounding the estate. Maybe he should just leave, there’s nothing here.

    Then he heard the sound of beating air, fast chops through the aristocratic night time atmosphere. Could it be? He thought, there’s no mistake. Helo inbound. The doctor stood up to pinpoint the direction of the helicopter. There! Behind him there was a searchlight jolting around. The bird was black, metallic, and luxurious as it glided quickly to an open area behind the pool. Someone was trying to use the megaphone from inside the cockpit, but the voice kept cutting out and the result was unintelligible. The wind thrashed all the grass and a few pool chairs as the helo landed. The doctor was filled with hope and awe as he rushed towards it, there could only be one man who would show up like this....

    Sure enough, the door to the helicopter slid open and out stumbled Neil Anderson, in all his glory, straight on to the dirt. His hawaiian shirt was unbuttoned and he was missing a slipper, he stood up and took a second to gain his bearings before realizing he was standing in front of Dr Baker.

    “Doc!” He exclaimed before embracing his friend, “where you been, man?”

    The entrepreneur’s breath reeked and he struggled to keep any sort of balance.

“Can’t stand showing up to these things before the cocaine stage anymore.” Neil laughed and burped as the blades of the helicopter winded down.

“I haven’t heard from you since Wednesday! Neil what have you been up to?” the doctor desperately wanted his answers.

“I’ve been in the lab with uhh…” he looked back toward the helo, “Rick! Rick! Get out here, man, it’s safe!”

A short man with glasses and a lab coat was white knuckle gripping the handles on the sides of the door as he cautiously, and ever so slowly stepped down from the helicopter… and fell flat on his ass.

“That’s the physicist, Rick, the one I told you about.” Neil explained and motioned toward Rick, still knocked on his ass and now just laying down in the soft grass.

“Neil, why didn’t you contact me after the senator incident? I was worried to death.” the doctor disregarded the passed out scientist on the floor.

“What? I thought I told my wife to call you and make sure you were alright, and that we wouldn’t be going to lunch.”

His wife, Mrs Anderson, oh how that thought brings a cold draft down from the doctor’s throat into his gut. Mr. Anderson’s wife, Mrs. Anderson, calling up the doctor and asking how he was, and letting him know that she was sorry they wouldn’t be able to make it to lunch. Perhaps another time? So great talking with you. Truly yours, heartless bitch.

“Well, she didn’t.” the doctor sassed.

“Neil!”

Oh no, the Harvard MBAs marched hungrily out onto the patio.

“Come on in! Party’s all warmed up for ya!”


☐    ☐    ☐    ☐








II.



    “Ingenuity runs in my blood, once my great grandfather was stranded on an island with a brute. My great grandfather, Barnie, broke wind one morning and the brute called ‘doorknob’. Of course there are no doorknobs on an island untouched by humanity, so the brute proceeded to wail on my poor grandfather over and over again. Against the licks from the wretched brute Barnie found some rocks and twigs and crafted an axe to knock down a tree. Then, while still being punched, he whittled a doorknob out of said tree. The brute was amazed at the craftiness of the young man and promised to be forever his servant. Another cocktail, Mr. Baker?”

    Wet, drunk sweat glistened on Neil Anderson’s body as he recited his oft rehearsed monologue; The Tale of Barnie and the Brute. Dr Baker was still recovering from the death defying helicopter ride from Manner’s estate to Neil’s lab. The physicist was fumbling with a radio, dropping tools and letting shadows dance off his white lab coat. The doctor hadn’t taken a drink from his glass (with an unknown substance in it, definitely expensive) since he could remember. The first yawns of sunrise peered in through the monolithic windows and gently scolded the three nocturnal beings, who were fighting every urge to close their eyes for fear of what they might see.

    “You ever mess around with shortwave radios, doc?” Neil finally registered what the physicist was fumbling with.

    “Not really, well, back in the military I knew a thing or two about radio but, it’s all outdated now I assume.” the whites of his eyes like Samson in the temple.

    Neil shook his head. “Not really, doc. The whole point of shortwave is the old fashioned aspect… it’s sort of a precedent for how we gather information now, I think.” he rested his forehead on the window and stared vengefully at the sun, “you scroll around the different stations, just seeing what there is out there… no purpose besides what to see- besides what the universe wants you to see. When you open an app, you have no aim besides for some algorithm to provide you with information or entertainment. When you scroll through shortwave though it is different, it’s more primal.”

    “I remember hearing some weird shit on radios back in the day,” the doctor struggled to contribute, but Neil perked up like a dog. “Like what?”

    “Well,” the doctor started, “things like beeps and alarms of course, then foreign languages, counting and such. Speaking in code. It was a popular method for communicating with spies. That was my job, er counterintelligence.”

    “Well what sort of things did you hear?” Neil was surprised to learn about this new side to his old friend.

    “Nothing too eventful, I’m afraid, though I did stumble across what I thought at the time was an alien cover-up.” the physicist dropped his soldering iron and stopped moving. Neil stared at the floor panels. The doctor was bewildered. The physicist turned around and for the first time the doctor got a good look at him. Bug eyes and a receding hairline.

    “Do you believe?” bug eyes said.

    “In aliens? I neither believe nor disbelieve.”

    Aliens and God, the doctor thought, God’s next on the list for conversation. He bet on it. Every time, at this hour, it was honestly surprising they hadn’t already been there. 1990, the time when the doctor became sick of late night drunk conversations. Resting outside in the bed of pick-up trucks in someone’s farm, listening to the radio, nothing shortwave of course, no aliens scored the backtrack of a summer night in Kentucky.

“Do ya believe in God?” of course the country sweetheart would ask. Too poisoned by the overflow of cynicism from the city, crept into the innocent countryside with the help of new technology. Dr Baker (or Joshua, since he had not earned his PhD yet) would shift in the blanket and wonder what stupid question would follow his stupid answer.

“What does it mean to believe, I guess. I believe there is a possibility of a God.” as if he was entitled to any opinion on the matter. How can there be experts on a subject like God? Is it like math? His young summer brain would wonder. Do we know the basics and then just leave the rest of the hard stuff to the experts? Just trusting that, behind some wall in academia, they know what they are doing? The experts on God, should be no such thing, but there has to be, and there is.

“But you don’t know that there is a God,” the modern doubt of a preacher’s daughter.

“Well jeez, Polly it’s not like he set a fuckin bush on fire in front of me or anything.”  he wasn’t sure where he got this reputation for enjoying intellectual discussion. Especially on a subject so opinionated and varying, and especially with someone who he wasn’t even sure why he was with. She was pretty? Nice? His herd mind just pushed him to do it cause he knew he could.

“But do you believe in the possibility of aliens?” the physicist asked.

“Of course, I think more people than not believe in a possibility of aliens.”

“Do you believe we’ve made contact?” the physicist pursued. Eyes wide with an unknown paranoia.

“Rick,” Neil spoke like the manifestation of a leash, “your iron is ruining my floor.”

The physicist flinched then hurriedly bent over to pick up his soldering iron.

“No idea if we’ve made contact.” Dr. Baker yawned, hoping to piss his company off enough to spill whatever secret they were obviously hiding. Rick the physicist tinkered with his circuits some more and all the sudden a static voice erupted from the connected speaker.


The Circuit Board Boogie


6, 7, 1, 5, 4, Zebra, Whiskey

Grab your secrets and dance,

With me.

8, 8, Alpha Tango

Lie awake, and smoke in limbo.

Ultra, mega, cryptic shroud.

7, 7, 999, Bravo, Zulu.

The Lizard Men rule,

Believe no source, worship no man.

Bow to the stone of lost kings lands.

Atlantis is descending into the ocean in reverse.

Cryptids walk among us, wearing ties and

Wingtip shoes.

Believe in nothing, nothing is your truth.

Saturday afternoons, and sundays we rehearse.

Atlantis is descending into space in reverse.


    The physicist began to cry and the doctor, wide-eyed pinged his gaze back and forth from Neil to Rick, both equally devastated from the message.

“What the fuck was that?” the doctor finally managed to say.

“Did that remind you of your days in counterintelligence, doctor?” the physicist began putting his tools away.

“What does it mean? What frequency was that? I mean it was probably just some bored circuit junkies messing around, but…” Dr Baker trailed off, lost in his own imagination of the possibility to the cryptic message.

“Dr. Baker,” Neil was grave. “We have been leading you on, I’m afraid. We have made contact.”

The doctor shivered, “you mean… alien? Contact?”



☐    ☐    ☐    ☐


The stone was shining and green. It stood upright and regal in a white room facing a computer.