Friendship -- Scott Miller

Griffin Jackson sat in a metal chair, at a metal table, in a metal room. That was the limit of his knowledge on the subject of location.

A metal door opened and a short man in a dark suit entered. “Good morning, Mr. Jackson. I’m Smith, with the UN agency for Cygnoid affairs. How are you today?”

“I’m apparently incarcerated today, Mr. Smith. How are you?”

“Funny. They told me you were funny.”

“Who told you?”

“The Cygnoids. We’re in one of their ships, in orbit.”

“Really? Is there a window?”

“This is a serious situation, Mr. Jackson, there are diplomatic issues.” 

“Call me Griff, everyone calls me Griff. Now, how about getting me out of here.”

“That is not going to happen right now, Griff. I’m here to take your statement.”

“Regarding?”

“Regarding the events that led to your detention.”

“You’re going to have to help me out, Mr. Smith. I don’t know why I’m here.”

“I’ll start then,” said Smith. “You are the manager of the Pennock Farmers Market?”

“Yes, for the past eight years.”

“Tell me about this summer at your market. I’m interested in your friend, the Cygnoid you call En-Ja.

#

The escape pod made landfall about fifty kilometers west of Anchorage, at the edge of a small lake. En-Ja extracted himself from the cramped space and, reaching in, set the controls for one short burn. He stepped back, used his remote to ignite the engine, and watched it lurch into the water. The lake flowed in through the open hatch, and as the craft sank, he threw the remote in after it. By the time the authorities noticed he was gone, they’d have no idea where on Earth he was.

The tall, blue humanoid took a deep breath and a good look at his surroundings. Huge yellow eyes took in the tall trees and the vastly taller mountains, carrying their loads of snow not far to the east and west. An unbearably blue sky pierced his hearts, and the sun rested for a moment on the eastern peaks. En-Ja smiled as he tied back his straight black hair, shouldered his pack, and began the long walk to Anchorage.

#

The new vendor application stood out because of the name, En-Ja. That was odd, but not overwhelmingly so. It stated that En-Ja was farming locally, had a variety of produce, and wanted to attend the Saturday markets. His paperwork was all in order and automatically qualified him for a booth space. The application was approved.

An hour before the opening of the season’s first market, an old red pickup truck parked at the entrance. An insect-thin figure unfolded himself from the cab and walked to the information booth, where Griff was setting up. At over seven feet tall, he towered over Griff. A Cygnoid, less polite humans called them smurfs.

The alien introduced himself as En-Ja. “Where should I set up?”

Griff was surprised but managed to contain it--a market manager deals with all kinds of strange things. “Nice to meet you, En-Ja. I’ll show you to your booth.” They walked the short distance in uneasy silence, then Griff said, “Here you go. You’ll set up here every week. Back your truck in and unload. You need to be ready by…”

En-Ja interrupted, “I am familiar with the rules Mr. Jackson.”

“Call me Griff. That’s great En-Ja, it puts you ahead of most of our vendors. Good Luck today.”

Griff walked a short distance, then turned to look back at En-Ja. He certainly dressed like a farmer. Overalls, flannel shirt, rubber boots; only the straw hat was missing. He must have consulted a Norman Rockwell painting. And where the heck did he get that stuff in his size?

As Griff continued his rounds, he noticed many vendors staring at the new guy. That was understandable. Everyone had seen the Cygnoids on television when they’d arrived three years ago. Almost no one had seen one in person. 

As he passed Fred’s booth, he heard the old man say, too loudly, “What’s that damned smurf doing here?”

Griff stopped. “Fred, you keep that crap to yourself. En-Ja is a new vendor with as much right to be here as anyone. More so than you if I hear any more of that kind of talk.”

Fred mumbled something about “human” rights and freedom of speech. He was a crusty old bigot but a long-time vendor with a good customer base. And he was likely not alone in his sentiments.

Many vendors spent the day giving En-Ja the side-eye. A few, through kindness or curiosity, made it a point to say hello. Customers were also divided in their reactions to the Cygnoid. Some walked quickly past. A Fred-like few took the time to complain at the information booth where they were met with contemptuous dismissal by Griff. Some attempted conversation and received a polite nod in return. En-Ja did not seem unfriendly, just laconic in the extreme.

His sales were not good. Maybe people were afraid of becoming infected with an alien spore. Maybe they’d seen too many movies. En-Ja had rhubarb, greens, cucumbers, onions, beets, radishes, the usual array of normal, early season, Alaska produce. His booth was full of beautiful food, obviously, he had some skill as a farmer. At the end of that first day, En-Ja took his unsold produce, there was a lot, and left it in the food bank pick-up area. The other vendors noticed that.

This day did not go well, En-Ja thought as he drove away. The hostility was palpable, but what had he expected? He’d already found humans to be suspicious of strangers; xenophobic, even. A few fellow vendors and customers had made a point of greeting him but that had seemed more curiosity than an overture to friendship. The beauty of his surroundings did not compensate for his loneliness. He’d made his decision, though, and taken his actions. There was no backing out now; he had nowhere to go and no way to get there.

#

Almost a year before, when he’d first arrived, he’d walked into the Anchorage suburbs and found an old pickup truck for sale in the front yard of a modest house. The owner had been startled to see a Cygnoid at his door but was eager to make a sale. En-Ja obliged him by paying the full asking price from the stash of American currency he’d accumulated while living on the big ship in orbit. He knew he was paying too much, he’d done his homework, but he was in a hurry.

The drive south down the Kenai Peninsula was startling in its beauty; mountains close on his left, and more across the whitecapped waters of Cook Inlet. He stopped only to refuel, and a few hours driving brought him to the small town of Pennock on a pretty bay. He immediately began visiting the properties he’d located on the online real estate listings.

Again, he startled people, but Alaska is an odd place with many odd residents and a culture of minding your own business. He found exactly what he was looking for after a few days searching and a few nights sleeping in the back of his truck. He paid cash in a simple deal with the owner, and that evening found him sitting on the front porch of his one-room cabin, complete with a wood stove and a nearby spring for water. A depth of peace filled him, as the stars filled the sky over his ten acres of cultivated fields and greenhouses.

This was the stuff of his contrary dreams. En-Ja’s people had long been an urban race, Cygnus itself was engulfed by one huge city, but he had always yearned for a simpler life on a world where nature still held its own. “Chop wood and carry water,” was how the humans put it. Here that would be his literal existence. Now, if he could only find some friends.

#

At the season’s second market, Griff made a point of spending time with the Cygnoid. “Morning, En-Ja, it’s good to see you back. I hope you’re not discouraged by last week’s sales. Sometimes it takes a while for new vendors to catch on with the customers.”

“Especially when they’re aliens, I imagine.”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s not something that’s come up before. Humans can be a disagreeable lot, we don’t even get on well with each other.”

“But you are different?”

“I’m more open to new experiences than most. I thrive on novelty, require it even. That’s why I like this job. Anyway, I’ll let you finish setting up. Maybe we can talk again later.”

En-Ja watched Griff walk away. Maybe a friendship was in the offing? If so, that was the only one. His sales were little better than the previous week’s and he left another huge load of produce at the food bank. This wasn’t about the money, he had sufficient, it was about becoming a member of the community. He was beginning to wonder if that was possible.

As the season continued, En-Ja’s sales slowly picked up. Customers were attracted to his booth by the quality of his produce and its abundance. Some enjoyed the novelty of dealing with an alien. Some just wanted his tomatoes.

 Griff often thought about the Cygnoid, he seemed lonely. Maybe that was just him projecting his own feelings. His longtime girlfriend had left him a few weeks before, and he still felt the ache of it. He’d thought their relationship was solid, but she’d wanted to start a family, and Griff was congenitally opposed to having children. He liked kids well enough, as long as they were someone else’s. Outside of his job, he had a lot of empty time to fill.

He began hanging out with En-Ja after the markets closed. At first, they chatted casually while En-Ja broke down his booth. Soon, they were discussing everything from human politics to human religions. En-Ja was reticent about his own people but had an unending curiosity about Earth culture.

One rainy afternoon, sitting under En-Ja’s tent after the market closed, Griff broke out a couple of beers. “Have you tried this?”

“I have not, Griff. The human attraction to intoxication is strange. Why disable your minds so?”

“It doesn’t exactly disable our minds, just alters them. It’s fun, give it a try.”

En-Ja accepted the can of beer and cautiously sipped, then tilted it back and emptied it. “Wonderful, the popularity of this beverage is well deserved. May I have another?”

“Sure, here ya go but take it easy. You’re not used to alcohol.”

En-Ja savored the second beer as they continued their conversation.

“So, is there a Mrs. En-Ja back home?”

“No, Griff. There is no Mr. or Mrs. among my people. You have been calling me ‘he’ but that is inaccurate. We are not a gendered race.”

“Sorry,” Griff replied. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“There was no offense. It is an understandable mistake given your race’s obsession with gender, and I believe my choice of clothing may present me as male. Human social rules around gender seem quite arbitrary. It is a very confusing, but fascinating subject. Is there a Mrs. Griff?”

“No, I’m currently unattached.”

“Unattached?”

“Not in a romantic relationship.”

“And a romantic relationship is necessary for your species to reproduce?”

“No, not for reproduction itself, although it’s often the basis for the choice of reproductive partner.”

“Among my people, a simple friendship suffices.”

“That must make things a lot simpler,” said Griff.

“I believe that it does,” replied En-Ja.

After the next market, Griff invited En-Ja to the post-market-meeting, as the gathering of vendors at a nearby tavern was called. Griff had been missing the weekly socialization to have his conversations with En-Ja. The alien happily accepted, he was eager to make more friends.

The tavern went silent as they entered; heads snapped around and tourists gaped. When they emerged into the beer garden out back, Griff was relieved by the warm greeting from the vendors. A special camaraderie exists among Alaskan farmers; farming here is not an entirely rational career choice. They recognized En-Ja’s skill and hard work, being a fellow farmer had finally trumped his alienness.  Griff left En-Ja to work out the geometry of fitting himself into a chair at the big table, while he went back inside. He returned shortly, with two mugs and a couple of pitchers.

En-Ja didn’t say much at first, but he sure could put down the beer. He drank two pitchers himself that afternoon. The initial awkward silence dissolved into friendly banter as the drink did its work. They drank and shared samples of each other’s produce. They drank and talked about crops, soil, pests, and politics. They drank and asked En-Ja about his farm. He joined the conversation with increasing enthusiasm until the gathering broke up a few hours later.

En-Ja arrived early at the following week’s market and strolled around before the opening bell, greeting his new friends. He visited some craft booths and bought leather bracelets and a ceramic beer mug. Later in the morning, old Fred walked up to his booth and complemented his carrots. Griff stood in the midst of it all, smiling; he loved it when everyone was getting along. They were all neighbors in a tiny temporary village.

After that first time, En-Ja never missed a post-market-meeting. He brought snacks to share and bought beer for the table. As different crops came into season, the farmers brought new samples. One afternoon, En-Ja brought an odd little blue fruit he called an Asian plumb. Everyone agreed it went well with beer, and En-Ja seemed pleased with its acceptance.

Near the end of one September market, a black SUV with dark tinted windows parked at the entrance, blocking it. When En-Ja saw the two Cygnoids emerge, he took off running towards the woods. The newcomers attempted pursuit but were stopped by a group of En-Ja’s friends. A scuffle ensued. Fists and rocks were thrown. Someone called the police. It wasn’t Griff; he was in the thick of it, trying to protect his friend.

#

“That’s the last thing I remember before being brought in here by a couple of Cygnoids.”

“Thank you, Griff. That answers most of our questions.”

“I have a few myself, Mr. Smith. What the hell am I doing here?”

“The Cygnoids charged you and your friends with abetting a felon. They were quite insistent.”

“A felon? En-Ja? What…”

“He is charged with being a serial procreator, outside of his species. The Cygnoids apparently have strict rules around their reproduction.”

“I don’t understand. He’s a rapist?”

“No, not exactly,” Smith replied.

“What exactly, then?”

“How much do you know about Cygnoid reproduction, Griff?”

“I know they’re not gendered. Of course, that makes me curious but it’s really none of my business.”

“You are wrong about that. Let me enlighten you. When they want to reproduce, one individual produces a seed. A second individual ingests it and caries the young one to term.”

“The Asian plumb,” Griff whispered to himself.

“What?”

“He shared a small blue fruit he called an Asian plumb with some of us.”

“That would be the seed, Griff. Congratulations. You and your friends are pregnant.”

“But…”

“The Cygnoids have agreed to drop the ‘abetting a felon’ charge. It was clearly a misunderstanding. However, all of you will be required to travel to Cygnus to give birth. Good luck, Griff.” 

END

 

 

BIO:

Scott is a writer and artist who lives in a yurt, in a fen, in end-of-the-road Alaska. When not working, he's likely roaming the woods with his dog, Alice.