MY SECOND ENCOUNTER WITH ROSWELL

MY SECOND ENCOUNTER WITH ROSWELL

1.

After my enlightening, sometimes amusing and somewhat alarming encounter with Roswell, I decided to take precautions. I still didn’t own a gun or have a dog but I had installed a high quality video surveillance and alarm system. Although I wondered if someone like Roswell would easily find a way to disable it, I still felt more comfortable and safe with the cameras and alarm system.

And I did write a story about our encounter, wording our conversation almost verbatim, and posted it on a popular writer’s internet site. It was well received and liked by the other writers who responded but still hasn’t brought me any closer to making a living from my writing. Not   being the bitter type, I still write because I believe it’s what I was meant to do in life. And I still work to pay my bills. Because I started writing a new story on a Friday night, having the whole weekend off, I was up until past midnight.

The next morning after my shower, and drying myself off. I slipped on my bathrobe and was about to go to my bedroom to dress when I heard a soft knock on the door. In a split-second it seemed like a dozen possible scenarios raised through my head, possibilities I had to sort out quickly. Discarding the least plausible ones, because the alarm hadn’t sounded and the house still had electrically I concluded, actually hoped, it was Roswell again. 

“Is that you stalking me again, Roswell?” I asked through the door.

“Of course it is and I just happened to be in your neighborhood and though I would pay my friend a visit.”

I opened the door and he, she or it was standing in the hall. Only this didn’t look like the Roswell I remembered. He, she or it’s body was fuller and he, she or it’s head was proportional to the body. And he, she or it was wearing actual clothes. The only thing that hadn’t changed was the high pitched voice.

“I’m actually glad to see you, but can you please wait in the kitchen as I go to my bedroom to get dressed?”

“No need to feel shy because I’ve seen enough unclothed human bodies,” Roswell said, hoping to reassure me.

“Be that is it may, all humans aren’t built the same and I’m still not interested in interplanetary sex.”

“Your Earth humor again and this one is almost funny as a sequel,” Roswell replied and then chucked in his, her or it’s high-pitched voice.

I watched until Roswell managed to locate the door to the kitchen, then went to my bedroom to get dressed.

After doing so I entered the kitchen to find Roswell sitting at the small breakfast table drinking water from a glass.

“Are you hungry?” I asked as anyone having a guest should.

“No, thank you, but I ate just three weeks ago and don’t want to feel bloated.”

“I can certainly understand that,” I replied as I sat in the chair facing he, she or it and, to tease him, her or it, I added, “With all the effort you’ve gone through to acquire such a buff body I can certainly understand.”

“On my planet the ladies would say I’m The Cat’s Meow.”

“The Cat’s Meow, huh?” Then I continued because I wanted to trigger a human like response if possible. “That quaint phrase is so last century, dude!”

“I know that, my friend. You can hear it in old Hollywood movies, he, she or it responded, “then added, “But before we continue with our jovial conversation I want to talk about your story you published on that writer’s web site.”

“Of course, unless you’re one of those literary critics who trash just about everything written,” I told him her or it and was mildly amazed when Roswell actually laughed.

“Oh, no! It is an amusing story and you kept it honest, kept it real, “ Roswell reassured me. “It’s just those rather redundant parts where you wrote he, she or it that bother me.”

“I was simply going by what you implied,” was my legitimate excuse.

“To set the record straight I’m entirely male. What I told you was part of my plan to test you to see how well I could trust you. And my current appearance is what I actually look like. What I showed you in the first visit was an illusion, a stereotypical illusion, as part of that test.”

“I wouldn’t have cared what gender you were, but we’re still not going to have inter-planetary sex,” I responded with the wittiest thing I could think of at the moment. “But you actually weren’t in the neighborhood, were you?”

“No, not by Earth time standards. But I felt a strong need to talk to you again. To talk about a few things you personally can do help do to make your planet a little less crazy. So, unless you’re that hungry will you take a walk with me outside? I want us to talk out in nature. Okay?”

“Great choice,” I replied and we both rose up from the breakfast table.

2. 

When we were out in my back yard Roswell seemed to breath in the fresh air, augmented by the scent of the light rain we received last night. 

“You’ve got a lot of land back here and plenty of trees, too.” he mentioned, then added,” On all of the planets my people have visited there is always two factors, as far as we know that are essential to life forms living on those planets. The first requirement is oxygen. The second is sources of water.”

Roswell looked around for a moment, then leaned up against a large tree trunk.

“Before we get started figuring out how to save my planet there are a few more questions I want to ask you.”

“I was wondering why you waited so long to do so.”

“I always try to chose the right moment and the right environment,” I told him. “The first question is about you telling me you had an advanced, ingrained GPS system. How much of that statement is pure bullshit?”

“All of it, of course,” Roswell confessed. “We just monitor selected humans on Earth, And for some reason I haven’t figured out yet I selected you.”

“We’re still not going to have interplanetary sex.” 

“That’s still sort of almost funny in a redundant way,“ Roswell teased me, then continued, “But the truth is, based on you name and our advanced ability to use your internet, I located you on a popular social web site.”

“I figured that out anyway,” I assured him, then continued, “But the second question is more important, more puzzling, to me. It’s all about that whole Bear Trap thing. Why didn’t that Bear Trap, with all the force it has, not snap your boney little leg in two. Or why wasn’t there punctured and bleeding skin?”

“That’s easy enough to explain. Do you happen to have a hunting knife or sharp kitchen knife?”

“Not out here, but I always carry a pocket knife.”

“That should do if the blade is sharp enough.”

Normally, I would have been amazed when I watched him try to stab his arm, if I hadn’t already known Roswell, and the knife couldn’t cut his skin, couldn’t do any damage to his arm. He repeated the same act, for dramatic effect I suppose, and still the knife have no visible effect.

“Our skin, through controlled evolution, is now as tough as one of your bullet-proof vests. Possibly even tougher,” was his explanation.

“Now I understand, but does this tough skin of your people make you less sensitive to touch?”

I asked.

“Just because we’re cautious doesn’t mean we’re foolish,” Roswell assured me. “So, any more questions?”

“One last one. Have you got a family back home?”

“We’re all God’s children. But I’ve got a mate and three Rug Rats, as some of you humans call children. And my mate, which we never call a husband of wife, is far smarter that I. In fact, she’s a research scientist specializing in deciphering difficult languages and encrypted codes. And if you’re wondering if she joins me in my travels, the answer is sometimes she does and she’s the one who approves of them first through her research program.”

“You’re proud of your family and should be,” I sincerely complemented him.

“Thank you, but now I have a question for you.” When I nodded my head Roswell continued, “From what I gather a legit publisher pays to have a written work published. My question is do they usually pay by the page or by how many words are in what they publish?”

“That sometimes depends on the writer, but for an unknown writer or magazine publisher I think it’s by the word,” I informed him.

“That’s good to know because when you publish this second story about us you’ll get paid more.”

“Oh, my intelligent, but sometimes naive friend, the key word is getting paid,” I responded.

“I really can’t help you because we’re not allowed to intervene with whatever is happening on your planet. If we could there would certainly be less wars and hatred. However, there is an exception, call it an allowed loophole, where we can adopt an Earthling as sort of a protégée.”

“Cool, because I’ve always wanted to be somebody’s pet. Just do not call me Rover or Rex.” 

“That’s actually funny,” Roswell said, followed by an actual hearty laugh. “But that’s hardly what I mean. It simply means I can continue you to encourage you. So consider me a sort of Muse, but one with a big head, large eyes and green skin.”

I wanted to hug him but thought he would be embarrassed. But I did pat him on the arm. He smiled in response, then sat down on the still damp ground, motioning for me to do the same.

Not wanting to seem like I worried about grass stains, I did so.

“Actually, you can help me get rich when I sell all those photos of you my security cameras took.”

After telling him this I studied the expression on Roswell’s face and what I thought was a second or two of puzzlement as he stared back at the house. Then he gave me a wide smile and laughed.

“I doubt if you would ever do so, and even if you would all you’ll find when you rewind the DVR hard drive is a continuous loop of 1940s animated cartoons.”

“Touche!”

“Wrong era. That cartoon character didn’t appear until the 1960s,” Roswell teased me, then patted me on the arm. “But let’s go back into the kitchen because I want a drink.”

“Wine? Beer? Fruit juice? What?” I teased him back as we headed towards me house. 

“I doubt if any of your stores or convenience stores stock any Grobbatirint so water will be just fine.”

3.

Sitting back at the kitchen table I watched Roswell chug down three glasses of tap water.

“One last question I want to ask you,” I informed him after the third glass was empty. “It’s about all those supposed reports of Aliens abducting Earthlings and experimenting on them, including some who do autopsies. How much of this is true?”

“I’ve heard all that foolishness but, at least on my planet, we’re not allowed to do inflict any harm, physical or psychological, to any living thing considered to have evolved beyond being considered part of the food chain.”

“And here I was worried about my low I.Q.”

“That’s pretty funny for an ad-lib,” Roswell grinned, then added to his statement, “But we have invited a few select humans over the decades only one of our ships, though it’s not likely you’ll be invited.” 

“Oh?”

“I’ll explain why when we discuss what you can do to help your planet,” he informed me, then tried to belch as loud as he could. Deciding it wasn’t very effective, he continued. “Because you use a pseudonym I assume you do so for a reason. And you don’t seem to favor or have a taste for self-promotion. But I would like to understand your reasoning for this.”

“Let’s just say I want to keep my private life private,” I sincerely admitted.

“Well, my recluse of a writer, we can work around that. Like that wonderful essay you published on that writer’s site called ‘Who Are We’ because it should be read by as many people as possible. Or the stories you’ve written about accepting diversity, embracing honesty and that wonderful poem ‘Skin Is Not The Sin.’ You simply need to keep doing what you’re doing and don’t get discouraged.

“Oh, I intend to keep writing,” I assured him.

“Good, but let’s go back to the exception, the loop hole, and what I, my family of like-minded friends can do to help. We’ll join the writer’s web sites, under assumed names, and like and suggest your writing to others. And, if it’s okay with you, I’ll e-mail possible publishers who may be receptive to your writing.”

“That’s more than I would expect or hope for, and I’m not sure how to thank you.”

“Just keep writing,” Roswell replied, the warmly smiled, “And we’ll do what we can. And, BTW, my daughter thinks you’re cute.”

“Tell her thank you, but no match making on your part, please!”

“Are you kidding,” he laughed. “She’s smart for her age, but way to young to be thinking about boys seriously.”

“That’s a relief on my part,” I teased my friend. “And, BTW, I know you’re just a dream that was implanted in my head.”

“Nice try, but I read your ‘The Earthling Intervention,’ too, and that would make a great TV series. But I have a question for you now. It’s about my voice and I’m wondering if you’re wondering if this is my natural voice or a stereotypical one?”

“Well ... maybe ... but ...”

You didn’t want to embarrass me, right?” he concluded rightly. Then Roswell sang notes in every octave I’m aware of, and explained, “It can be whatever suits me at the moment. So, until our next meeting, I really need to mosey along,” 

Roswell smiled, waved and seemed to vaporize before my eyes.

4.

Sitting at my desk with my computer on, I opened my writing software program and started a new short story, doing so because this is what I believe I should be doing during my spare time. And if any of you who are reading this are wondering if I’ll write anything about Roswell again I really haven’t decided. The problem is, with so much haven been written, and being written now, about Aliens and human contact, I wonder how seriously anyone will take another Alien story, even if it’s based on a true story.