257. Writing

It is uncertain as to whether I have mentioned this, but C.W. exhibits a tendency toward imitation. I think it is part of the training he received on Falloonia prior to coming here. Anyway, he sometimes goes to great lengths to imitate things he sees Earthlings do.

For example: he remains impressed by the fact that I have written a book and am on the verge of completing another. Evidently, reading is considered an admirable pastime on his home planet.

"How would a species that doesn't read ever expect to explore our marvelous galaxy?" he says. Good point.

So it was no surprise when I caught him, or at least him as Johnny Ray, the adolescent student, busily blasting away at my computer and muttering to himself.

"There you go," he said to the computer, "thrust it in and rotate. That'll make her scream. She loves it."

"C.W.," I said, yelling to get his attention. "What are you doing? Mrs. V can hear you."

"Now she's moaning," he said, ignoring me. "You got her motor purring now. She'll take you anywhere you want. Oh baby, baby."

"Johnny Ray, " I said. "Stop it."

That finally got his attention. He evidently wasn't answering to "C.W." today.

"Wait one," he said, "This gal is hot and ready to go."

"Stop it," I said. "What are you doing."

He finally looked up at me. "Writing," was all he said.

"I can see that," I said, "but what are you writing?"

"A novel."

"About what?"

"A time machine," he said. "It's creator has just inserted the rod that energizes its engine and it is becoming operational."

I covered my face with my hands. "And where did you get the idea for a novel? And what is it about, other than a time machine?"

"From reading the news," he said, "and it is about victors and victims."

"As in?"

He leaned back and smiled. "It's about the future."

"I thought that might be the case," I said. "What about the future?"

"It's like this," he said. "The powerful class has eliminated education and intellectual curiosity from among the victim class."

"Now where did you get that idea?"

He ignored me and continued. "And they have created a race that just prances around clueless all day, never questioning their fate or purpose, totally trusting in a mysterious higher power."

"And?"

"The power class becomes so depraved from all that unrestrained power that they even hate the illuminating power of sunlight and have taken to living underground."

"I see," I said. "Would you be interested ..."

He interrupted me. "That's not the best part."

"Oh?"

"No, the ruling demons feast on the helpless above-grounders, since food can't grow underground. It's a metaphor for symbiotic relationships among the classes: pleasure and sustenance and all that. Bound to be a best-seller." He leaned back and crossed his arms.

"I hate to tell you that it's already been done," I said.

"What, taking education from the masses, disempowering them, and devouring them?"

"Well," I said, "we'll talk about that later. What I mean is ... that book has been written."

"It's what?"

"Afraid so, by a man named H.G. Wells, back in the late 1800s."

Earthlings need to remember that their
future rests completely in their hands. - C.W.

His face fell. "Drats," was all he said.

"Sorry," I said.

"No sweat," he said. "I have a backup plan."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. A novel about a bunch of animals with no moral foundation other than self-enrichment taking over your farm and running it."

"Oh," I said, "that sounds like a good one. Go for it."


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246. Fresh Ideas

“So you want me to help you?”

“Please, I’m asking earnestly or humbly for something.”

“You are begging for my help?”

“Absolutely.”

There he stood, in his best chinos, looking much like a combo ad for Gucci, Lacoste Lopez, and  Ralph Lauren. C.W. was in one of his favorite forms, Reggie, from The Young Conservatives Club.

“What sort of help do you need?”

“I’m going to work in what your species calls a political campaign for the first time ever.”

“You are going to do what?”

“I’m going to help elect a candidate. I may get to go to Washington, they tell me.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn’t. “I thought you were permanently assigned here.”

“Oh, but if I can get a ‘behind the scenes’ posting, it will boost my career.” He paused and scratched his nose. “But first we must get through the first or highest in rank or importances.”

“You mean the primaries.”

“You are getting bad about repeating everything I say.”

“Never mind,” I said. “Which candidate are you working for?”

“Number Five.”

“Uh,” I said, “and who is that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Some campaign workers were having a hard time keeping them separate, so we just go by numbers, now.”

“I see,” I said, but I wasn’t sure I did. “So what is the major campaign issues that your Number, uh …, Five is going to focus on for the campaign?”

“That’s what you are going to help me with.”

“Oh,” I see, but I didn’t.

“Take a look.” With that, he turned took me to the kitchen table where a laptop computer was fired up and waiting. Across the screen was the beginning of a list, from One to Five, with the word “Against” behind each number.

“So let’s start filling in,” he said. “What goes by the first number?”

“C.W.,” I said.

“Reginald, please,” he said.

“Reggie, those are all negatives. What will Number Five be for?”

He looked at me as if I had just said that dry was wet. “Please,” he said, “our party has evolved beyond the advocacy paradigm.”

“The what?”

“You seem to be stuck in an era of reality and advocacy. That’s old fashioned. Get over it. Now let’s get busy. I have a deadline.”

I’d never seen him so forceful and full of hope. “Okay,” I said. “How about, uh, say, for the first number …Hillary Clinton.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Candidate Two, said early on that he would like to have her.”

I left that one alone. “President Obama?”

“Candidate Three, we call him ‘The Charmed One,’ captured him a month ago.”

“The Charmed One. So he is special?”

“Not particularly. It just means that maybe the third time is charmed, as you say.”

“I see,” I said, but I most assuredly didn’t. “War?”

“Please,” he said, “let’s be serious. We’re wasting valuable time.”

“Education?”

"Candidates One and Four are fighting over that one. Each claims he knows more about it.”

“Science?”

“Candidate Seven.” He nodded sadly. “And that’s a popular one. Wish I’d gotten it.”

“Immigrants?”

“Candidates One and Four are battling over that one as well.”

“Government?”

“Oh heck,” he said. “I wish. But Candidate Eight, you know, the one with the funny hairpiece, grabbed that one straight away, right out of Candidate Two’s hands.”

 “Children, women?”

“Nope, Candidate Nine, the fat one, is sitting on those.” He smiled. “Too bad for the women and kids.”

“C. …, Reggie, I’m running out of ideas. Why don’t you go against the grain and present your candidate as for something?”

He looked at me with a bit of sadness in his eyes. “Do you know what happens to our candidates who go against the grain, as you say, and advocate for something?”

“Not something good?”

He shook his head. “Have you ever heard of Archibald McGregor?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t.”

“My point exactly,” he said. “Now get busy. Time is money.”

They rejected this design I did for the
campaign. I don't understand  why. - C.W.

I searched my brain. I really wanted to help the poor guy. “Taxes?”

Number Nine, the crazy one, still claims them, but they really don’t bother our folks much anymore, so it is a weak platform.

I wasn’t sure which candidate he was talking about, but I kept thinking. Then it came to me. “Obamacare,” I said. “That’s a winner for sure.”

 He shook his head. "Off-limits. It’s now Reaganaid.”

“Oh,” I said. “I see. And this time I believe I did.

 

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245. Campaigns

What could be worse than an alien who doesn’t understand our politics? Try an alien who doesn’t understand our politics, or our language, but decides to get involved in a campaign.

Yep. It is C.W. I came in from taking care of some family matters and found that he had assumed the exact form of Norman Rockwell and was furiously painting away at an easel.

“What the …?”

“Hey, Big Dope,” he said. “You’ve been wanting me to get a job so I have a good one. Take a look.” He pointed a t what was evidently to be a campaign poster, for Hillary Clinton of all people. “I’m going to be making ads for Hillary.” He pointed at his work. “What do you think?”

Across the top of the ad was the word “Hillary!” Under it was her face. Under that was the message he had blocked out and was finishing. It read, “Because men should not always come first.”

I blinked. Then I blinked again. “Uh, C.W.,” I said.

“What?”

It took me a while to explain, as his face drooped in disappointment. Finally, he removed the poster and threw it into a corner. Picking up a finished one from a pile, he placed it on the easel. “Well,” he said, “what do you think of his one?”

It also had “Hillary” across the top in bold lettering. Under the name this time were portraits of Bill and Chelsea. Under them, the message, “Comes with a couple of nice ones,”

I stifled a laugh. This time he didn’t take the news so well. “Do you want to see more? If you do, quit laughing.”

“Oh,” I said. “More. Please, more.”

He sullenly removed the poster and replaced it with another. It had the faces of Hillary and President Obama in the middle. Above them were the words, “Choose Hillary.” Underneath the faces he had painted, “For a great climax.”

This time my knees grew weak and I had to sit as I explained. He sailed the poster across the room and glared at me. “You are being inclined to find fault or to judge with severity, often too readily,” he said.

“I’m not being critical,” I said. “I’m just being honest.” I tried to sooth him. “Let’s see your last one,” I said. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

I only chose her to work for because I
thought her possible opponents were limp. - C.W.

“You won’t laugh?”

“I won’t laugh.”

He reached over, picked up the final poster and placed it on the easel. It had a nice picture of Hillary saluting the American flag that fluttered atop a huge flagpole. The words above read, “Choose Hillary.” The ones below read, “And keep America erect.”

When I finally managed to quit rolling on the floor and managed to stand, C.W. was gone, as was his easel.

 

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- C.W.

 

 

Excerpt:

Nelson watched the woman screaming and looked puzzled. Most in the courtroom believed that the prosecution had proven the man guilty. The jurors themselves had all agreed on it. Nelson had brought up a point during the deliberations that he didn’t see a strong motive for such a crime. The others told him that he just had a lot to learn about Southern men. And, there hadn’t been much of a defense presented. What could the man’s attorney say—that his client had threatened to kill a man and then did, but that didn’t make a boy all bad?