It happens on the Summer Solstice, unfolding quietly during the night, while most people sleep peacefully. No one sees a thing. To the wary night-owls manning convenience store registers nothing is amiss. Cabbies continue to ply their trade, unloading drunks from their cars without interruption. The world’s most advanced radars and missile defense systems sleep like children while ten-story spaceships drop from the heavens and approach the earth’s crust. Floating to the ground like feathers, the vessels land in each and every Wal-Mart parking lot in America, silently covering the growing battalions of motor homes and tent cities like a warm, fluffy comforter. The ships are early, but they’re not here to hunt for bargains.
By the morning light word is out, racing across the internet, jamming email inboxes, and filling the air with annoying pop-song ringtones. TV crews in white vans race from store to store, repeating the same story over and over. The president appears on television to reassure the public that he’s got things under control, a claim that no one believes or bothers to pay much attention to. Within hours the same frantic scene is repeating itself throughout the world. The ships are everywhere, perched on rows of caterpillar-like legs and towering over the tent cities that have sprung up in the parking lots. They’re tall and perfectly rectangular, big boxes really, with rows of porthole windows running down their bright green, metallic sides. Big styrofoam buoys hang from their sides, Skippers style, suggesting a cosmic sense of humor. In front of each ship, just below a flat windshield and a dashboard graced with hula dolls, hangs a huge cloth banner, unfurled to deliver a message. The message reads: ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS. WELCOME TO THE APOCALYPSE.
While their subjects wait for an explanation, militaries dispatch fighters to destroy the unknown invaders. Jets roar off runways and scream through the air toward their bright green targets. But they turn around without explanation just before entering firing range and races back to base. The story reported from each military facility is exactly the same: The pilots feeling a wave of sudden, uncontrollable compassion and just turning around. Navies with tactical surface-to-air missiles report the same thing. Guard members don’t even bother to show up for duty.
Within hours all trains, busses, and planes are grounded, due to a lack of passenger interest. Their usual occupants are flocking to television screens and laptop monitors. For the first time ever the world sits perfectly still, waiting nervously.
Glued to their screens and monitors, humanity stares at the ships, waiting for a sign. Some people clutch bibles or Korans, awaiting their first glimpse of the True One. Others grip guns, preparing to leave their house and kick some alien ass. Most people stare in disbelief, unsure of what’s happening and not really eager to find out. Even the TV anchors and talk-radio gurus stop talking, another first. The world sits silent.
In a flash of light, screens and monitors fizzle and shake, sending wavy, neon lines across their surfaces. Humans release a collective gasp and check their connections, swearing in unison. When the live images resettle, the ships are resting on the pavement, their legs mysteriously recoiled and hidden, like a cat’s. Somehow the campers and tents underneath have been moved and organized neatly at the far edge of the parking lots. Standing perfectly still in front of each ship is a trio of lifeforms. Short and stick-like, the figures possess football-shaped heads covered with stiff bristles of bright yellow hair. For music fans, the resemblance to Billy Idol is unmistakable. The creatures’ eyes, if there are any, are covered by large blade shades that reflect the light from hundreds of TV cameras. Each of the visitors is dressed the same, wearing a shiny, purple one-piece suit covered with swirly patterns. Humans with an understanding of fashion history instantly recognize the outfits, which are smoking jackets from the 1970’s.
“Greetings earthlings!” the trio tone in unison, revealing pairs of huge buck-teeth, “We mean you no harm…you’re good enough at that already.” The lifeforms whip a leg forward, perfectly synchronized, executing a group high-kick that reveals infant-sized blue suede sneakers. Monitors across the earth fill with tiny, high-pitched giggles. Standing still again, the visitors continue, “We have arrived to help you complete your evolution.”
A gasp surges out of evangelical churches as members recoil from the foul word. Mystics and gnostics grin and nod, sensing what’s coming next.
“This is a new era,” the lifeforms continue, “You physical development is complete, but your minds are just beginning to flourish. Welcome to the age of conscious mental enlightenment.” The buck-teeth flash again, sparkling and perfectly white. “Some of you have already exhibited insight, and will come aboard our ship to Vandu. Others will stay behind for now and, as you put it, get up to speed”. The visitors jab an arm into the air and flash a peace sign, forming a “V” with long, bony fingers. Cheering crowd noise fills computers and television screens across the world. “Vanadu is the mirror dimension of planet earth, a galactic reflection of your home, where war, pollution, bigotry, and greed do not exist. The place is saahweet!”
The lifeforms do a back flip in unison and land with one leg backward and an arm stretched out, Chorus Line style. They look radiant standing below the ships as James Brown music starts to play. I feeeel good! In a pitch-perfect Bob Barker impersonation they smile and say, “So read the following and then … come on down!”
Monitors go blank and silent for a moment. Quiet wind-chime music begins to fill the devices as an image slowly fades in from a point on the horizon. People lean into their screens trying to decipher the approaching image. The picture suddenly rushes forward, sending viewers backwards in surprise. High pitched laughter arrives and then dissipates, replaced by a pastoral image on the screen. Tiny deer are frolicking in a profusion of waist deep, multicolored flowers, while small hummingbirds hover overhead. A brilliant yellow sun shines down. In the distant background a small human village goes about its business, quietly gathering roots.
A set of words dance in from the edge of the screens, forming a message. Big paisley letters exclaim: EXCESSIVE GREED AND VORACIOUS MATERIAL CONSUMPTION REVEAL AN UNDER-DEVELOPED MIND. IF THIS HAS BEEN YOUR PATH, YOU STILL HAVE WORK TO DO. IF YOUR HOUSE IS VISIBLE FROM OUTER-SPACE, DON’T BOTHER, JUST STAY HOME. THESE ARE QUALITIES OF THE PAST, USELESS FOR THE FUTURE.
Most of Wall Street and the entire cities of Houston and Riyadh go into panic mode.
The words on the screen dissolve. A new set appears: ONLY ACTION MATTERS. THOSE PEOPLE ENGAGED IN OR SUPPORTING EFFORTS FOR PEACE, JUSTICE, TOLERANCE, EQUALITY, AND THE ENVIRONMENT WILL BE THE FIRST TO BOARD. THESE ARE THE ESSENTIAL QUALITITES FOR A FUNCTIONING, SUSTAINABLE SOCIETY. DUH!!
Social workers and non-profit lawyers roar with approval. Payday lenders scamper for their checkbooks, furiously writing donations to green groups. But it’s too late, at least this time around.
A final message dances onto the screen: PHYSICAL STRENGTH AND BRUTE FORCE HAVE NO PLACE IN THE SOCITIES OF THE FUTURE. AGENTS OF ANGER, HATRED, AND AGGRESSION SHALL REMAIN A RELIC OF THE DESPOILED EARTH UNTIL THEY CHANGE THEIR WAYS.
Beefcakes and mercenaries stumble over their feet as they race into garages, desperate to dispose of guns and weight machines. Wild-eyed programmers race into their bedrooms and start deleting video game projects. The Pentagon goes silent. Blackwater employees just sit and stare, realizing that they’re fucked.
* * * *
The scene outside Wal-Mart is pure pandemonium. Crowds are surging toward the world’s largest retailer from all directions, packing highways and cluttering secondary roads. Gridlock quickly spurns alternative means of transport — people start arriving on skateboards, shopping carts, anything that rolls, while herds of edgy people plow through backyards, knocking down fences and seeking shortcuts. CEOs long accustomed to limousines are seen pedaling bikes furiously, trying to beat the crowds. It’s worse than the day after Thanksgiving.
Approaching the parking lots, newcomers witness an endless sea of bodies pressed up against the spaceships. They push forward and steel their resolve, preparing for chaos. But the scene near the ships is utterly tranquil. People mull about, chatting with strangers and patiently waiting their turn. The visiting lifeforms seem to have cast a calming spell over the assembled masses.
The lifeforms appear to be shape-shifting. They’re everywhere at once, talking to people and checking background information on furry, handheld devices. People are processed by the thousands, disappearing and suddenly rematerializing, Star Trek style, at the foot of the ships. The chosen are guided by an invisible hand to an orange circle under the center of the ship and then sucked up gently through a hole in the floor.
Television crews race around the world covering celebrity processing. Despite the new reality, where wealth and status no longer matter, the crews still can’t resist the lure of fame and affluence. Screens around the world zoom onto the scene in Johannesburg, where Nelson Mandela is being led toward a spaceship by a throng of admirers. A trio of aliens block his progress and say, “Sorry, not good enough.” They break into splits, do a windmill air guitar, and bounce back up, laughing. They bow slightly and say, “Just kidding … you’re riding up front with us.”
Televisions break away from this spectacle to report an “Urgent breaking story found only on [your local station name here]”. Cameras zoom to a Wal-Mart in Georgia, where Jimmy Carter is standing toward the back of a teeming crowd, clutching a hammer. The lifeforms materialize and invite him onto their ship. The ex-president graciously accepts the offer, but insists on being the last to board. He’s got a house to finish first.
Televisions then flash to a store outside Brooklyn, where a man in a shiny suit has pressed his way to the front of the crowd. He stares down at the lifeforms impatiently while they ask a series of questions. Grasping for good actions, he reveals his role as a Troop Leader for the Boy Scouts, oblivious to their discriminatory policies. It doesn’t work. The lifeforms ask about his legal work defending Union Carbide. In a spate of desperation he says, “Hey, even peace workers use chemicals.” The interviewers laugh and say “Next.”
* * * *
The visitors complete their work in one earth day, interviewing seven billion people. Suspicions are aroused that these visitors are operating on an accelerated, alternative time-plane. These folks definitely aren’t running on Tulsa time. A similar shift seems to be occurring in the physical world as well. The one million ships docked at a million Wal-Marts have, by early estimates, absorbed almost five billion guests. It’s extraordinary.
The only people not interviewed are members of the few surviving tribes sequestered deep in the remaining jungles, far from the industrialized world. The visitors intentionally bypass these forest dwellers, who live in harmony with one another and the land. As the visitors well know, the remaining humans on earth will require the assistance of master teachers.
The last people to board are the Wal-Mart workers. Ten million people in blue vests emerge from oversized buildings and eagerly load onto the ships. From their wide smiles it’s evident that they’re looking forward to a future where they don’t need permission to take a leak. Shortly before liftoff the lifeforms release a statement explaining this action, stating, “Anyone resilient enough to survive that place has the patience needed for the future.”
The ships lift into the air silently while the remaining humans stare open-mouthed at their screens. No one knows what’s next. The visitors seem genuinely compassionate, but it could still be a ruse. Humanity has seen these tricks before – a politician pledges to be compassionate, only to turn around and unleash death and destruction.
Screens go blank for a moment and are then filled with psychedelic swirls of brightly colored ribbons. A message pops into view. It says: “FRET NOT THYSELVES. DO NOT BLAME OR FEEL DESPAIR. THIS IS A MOMENT OF HOPE, FOR THE PRESSURE ON YOUR HOME IS NOW OFF. KEEP LEARNING AND FIX YOUR NEST. A HINT: YOU DON’T NEED MORE THAN YOU NEED.”
Nothing blows up. No one is incinerated. No one group is chosen to vacate the earth. Nothing perishes, except the conviction that self-interest is always good. People just sit and think, quietly pondering the needs of the future.
————
Thomas Sullivan’s writing has appeared in Word Riot, 3AM Magazine, and Lit-Up Magazine, among others. He is the author of Life In The Slow Lane, a comic memoir about a hair-raising summer spent teaching drivers education (available at http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/life-in-the-slow-lane/1085674).