wildcat

Broken receiver hung like a Christmas ornament from the phone booth's cradle, swinging to and fro, to and fro. Definitely broken, plastic shell split down the middle with wires severed. "Lovely," muttered Ambrosia as she slipped the quarter back into her purse. "Bloody lovely." Be sensible, her father always said. Buy a cellphone. Never know when you'll need it. "It's a good thing," she mumbled, reaching up into the cobwebs of her enormous and extravagant blonde wig to extract barrettes and elastic bands. "That I'm such a very clever girl. And resourceful." Thus she went to work, teasing and futzing with the stupid thing's inner workings, wrapping wires together as best she could -- never mind the fluttering feathers that made up her ridiculous frock, chilling her underthings with the draft as it was. "And don't think I don't know you're watching me." She hiccuped aggressively.

The grey-skinned alien was about four feet tall, even with the massive head. For something with little in the way of expressive features, it managed to look scandalized. "I was not watching you." And then, more awkwardly, "Actually, you people aren't even supposed to see me. I'm supposed to be invisible."

Ambrosia -- darling of the stage, and something of a miracle-worker with phone booths -- swept up to stand tall, glaring down at the bit of suburban space-trash with its beady little eyes all over her ass. "Don't take that tone of voice with me, honey." She rubbed at the corner of her eye, not bothering to care about the mascara and eyeliner dragged to hell across her nose and cheek. There had been far worse atrocities than her at the bar that night. "I've had nearly half a bottle of tequila, probably, and if I'm choosing to see you than you're going to be seen. Will you be probing me directly, or can I expect dinner first?"

"This isn't the start of an invasion, if that's what you're thinking."

"Charming." Ambrosia pulled the old quarter from her little black purse and slipped it into the phone, pressing the receiver to her ear. There was definitely a dial tone at work. She kept her eyes on the alien and dialed without looking. A girl of many talents. The phone buzzed insistently in her ear and then there was the click of somebody picking up. "Oy, Robert, it's Adrian," she dropped her voice. "I'm on the corner of Seventeenth and Lampshade. Some little space monster's looking at me and I need you to come pick me up." Didn't even wait for the reply, just hung up right then. "And as for you, little weirdo..."

"Well," said the alien. "If you're not busy. We could go to Denny's?"

***

Yeah, yeah, I don't know. It sputtered out, draft-like, and you're going to have to put up with it.

Should have brought the dog out with her. Cool air brushes her bare ankles and wheat crunches under her slippers -- Sarah shuffles through in her ratty nightgown and Bob's old jacket. She should pack the jacket away, throw it out, buy something for herself. But, even after all those washings it smells a little bit like him, or maybe she thinks it does. Should have brought the dog, maybe it's dangerous to be out here this late, with the noises. Clem will be hiding under the kitchen table, Clem's not a fierce dog.

The noises. The battering, the caterwauling, the sizzle. It's always aliens, twelve times a year with their crop circles and cattle mutilation. Sarah has complained to Town Council three times in the past six months but the crop circles don't stop. Stupid aliens. Bob would stand in the mayor's office and scream for seven hours straight if he thought it would make the problem go away, but Bob's gone. Billy, she should have asked Billy to come out with her. Only Billy, sweet Billy lives twelve hours away by bus, in the city, and what's the point of phoning him in the middle of the night because she hears noises outside? The noises aren't strange by her standards, not anymore.

Sarah grips the old lantern and holds it out. She has never once been out at night when the aliens are out and about. They avoid the big nights like Harvest or the county fair. It's the quiet nights when the aliens come and the noises start up. Sarah knows to keep inside and keep her head down. She knows. Only now she's outside, wondering what's changed, what's dragged her out here. Bob always told her to stay inside when they were doing their weird thing. Stay inside and lock the doors so they don't come for us, he'd say, always fearful of what they do to people if they meet them. You hear stories. Tom Barber from over in Cottonwood is never going to be the same.

Crunch, crunch, feet on rough soil and wheat. The lantern handle is warm. "Is there anybody out there?" There's no answer but the sound of electric razors, buzzsaws. Maybe that's the secret, maybe it's just kids from the town, drunk and causing problems. Maybe. Maybe. She doesn't know what an alien's supposed to look like. Buzzsaws. Buzzsaws and a microwave oven, cooking hot dogs down to a sodden, rumpled digit. She doesn't know any of the kids from town that can sound like a microwave. A foghorn, sure, or a cow. Maybe they can do impressions of coyotes as well. Not a microwave. She creeps toward the source of the sounds. Who knows what the crop circle's going to look like in the morning.

Maybe she's out here because, only because, she wants to see what it looks like while they're making it. Supposed to stay inside with the doors locked. Comes a hollering bark from back in the house, from behind the door, poor old Clem. He is not an iron dog.

Her feet don't freeze in place. She expected that. Sarah keeps moving forward, always forward. Even with Clem's howling she doesn't look back. The little bristles on her ankles stand up, her eyelids feel puffy, she takes a long, deep gulp of air.

So cool out here with the big black sky. The cardboard moon painted white and hung overhead. And then she feels the heat on her face and she opens her mouth to say hello...