Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬
 Harry Bromley Davenport “Brainstorm”
 Frédéric Chopin “Minute Waltz”
 The Dickies “Killer Klowns from Outer Space”
It’s still as clear now as it was all those years ago. If anything the memory hasn’t faded but continued to flourish and I can still smell the fresh country air from the night I learned that all extra-terrestrial aren’t friendly. Some aliens would love nothing more than being chaperoned around town in your bicycle basket. Said creatures will think nothing of being dressed in mom’s clothing and all that they ask in return is for one off-peak reverse-charge phone call to let their folks know they’re safe. Put yourself in their shoes; if you were prone to worry like E.T.’s mom then you too would appreciate the token gesture although you’d possibly wish to be kept in the dark about the whole cross-dressing thing. “Mrs. Terrestrial, your son’s fine; he’s erm…playing baseball in the back yard as we speak”. That kind of honey-coated Intel would be preferable as nobody wishes to incite the fury of our interstellar cousins after all.
My visitation was, alas, far less congenial. I was around ten, a wide-eyed boy out with his father playing fetch with my dog. That is until the gust. Suddenly the skies took on an altogether more aquamarine tint and a fierce wind washed over us, carrying my dear father off into a cone of translucent illumination. It was there for about thirty seconds and, when the light storm passed, daddy had gone. It was a complete mystery to me; my role-model had been snatched iniquitously from right under my sniffer and I was left none the wiser. I tried to fathom the occurrence and every attempt to decipher it left me drawing a blank. Nevertheless I always was a positive little bugger and have always imagined his return. Mom moved on eventually and is now shacked up with a younger guy who is alright, but he’s not dad. I sit at my curtain each night staring wistfully into the stars, knowing that one day I’ll receive the answers I crave.
Then last week, while I was playing with my Action Man and dressing him up in my sister’s last season Barbie rejects, mom came into my room. She sat me down and explained to me that daddy had returned. The Intel had clearly knocked her for six and had thrown a large spanner in the works of her finally moving on. But despite her mixed emotions she knew how much a son needs his father and would never dream of coming between us so she arranged liaison under strict supervision so that I no longer had to miss out. I was riveted by the turn of events and never viewed his disappearance as abandonment. Instead it felt simply like he had been borrowed, maybe The Last Starfighter had finally croaked and they needed another candidate to save the galaxy. Or perhaps A.L.F. had booked into rehab and they needed another flag-bearer to stop Metal Mickey grabbing all the ratings. Whatever had occurred, it was sure to be one hell of an invigorating tale.
Apparently the manner of his entrance was anything but conventional. He birthed you see, more premature than even Starman, and there wasn’t even time for a caesarean. Mom doesn’t believe that part but it makes perfect sense to me. The womb was clearly a cross-dimensional teleporter of sorts and nine months of carriage would never have worked so he shot out while the going was good. The unwitting sperm-donor, or virgin Mary as it were with this divine conception, survived the ordeal or, at least, until she passed the placenta. Suddenly, all the things we planned to do together become a distinct possibility once more. We would go deep-sea fishing, learn how to replace a carburetor and he would enlighten me as to my special purpose. I hear there a lot more to those birds and bees than we are led to believe and that gangly off-shoot fires Xenomorphic bullets so long as you release the safety. There is so much learning to be done, I couldn’t wait to pick his brain.
Then he picked me up from school one day. I guess he was growing impatient at the red tape denying him access and couldn’t wait any longer. Considering he was born in his mid-forties I’d say he was right to grab the opportunity when it presented itself. By next Thursday he’d be eighty-seven and dementia can be a cruel host by that point so it’s better to strike while the iron is hot. I must admit he wasn’t quite as I remembered; sure, he looked like dad, but he had found new ways in which to express his affection which wouldn’t bode well in a lengthy custody battle. He assured me that alien love bites were all the rage on the planet he had paid a visit and they kinda tickled so he just sucked it up while I sat there in silence. Little did I know that things were about to get a whole lot stranger in the coming days and this somewhat shady debacle would appear par-for-the-course once I had got through the preliminary night sweats.
My Facebook friends almost doubled overnight. There was Charlie the Clown, G.I. Jobe, El Pantero, Tank Boy, all strangers to me until that unconditional love bite. Suddenly the circus came into town; each dusk, as the sun set in the hills, the big top put on a virtuoso performance for my eyes only, exclusive insight afforded by the dozen or so mouth-sized embryo pulsating beneath my polar neck. As if that wasn’t treat enough, the old bag from downstairs finally croaked. That’ll teach her to make a salad out of my pet snake. They found her beneath her couch, dentures still chattering in a glass by her night lamp, stabbed to death by a bayonet it would appear and with visible signs of forced entry but not a fingerprint in sight. There was a calling card but, short of suing Mattel, the authorities didn’t have a leg to stand on so the coroner put it down to natural causes. I know different but loose lips sink ships as daddy taught me.
It’s the bathroom which concerns mom the most. She hasn’t dared run me a bath for several days as there appears to be a little damp setting in and the bath water has become a little affected. I flannel wash as she asks just to keep up appearances but I prefer it to emulsifying ointment and it’s working wonders on my eczema. There are a number of oviums bobbing about in the tub and eggs are traditionally full of protein so I consider them bath bombs of sorts. Every now and then another one drops from the augmented tap so, should one burst while I bathe, then I’m never out of replacements. It’s fantastic really, kinda like a life-sized Pez, although I do admittedly prefer the taste of candy. Maybe my palette isn’t refined enough yet; I’m told one day I shall prefer red wine to white so I’m sure I’ll get used to the somewhat pungent aftertaste.
I finally got that moggy I’ve been harping on about since the dog died. I assume it was mom’s idea as a way of making up for the confusion caused by my father’s return. He turned up with no prior warning or instructions for feeding; which isn’t ideal as he doesn’t look like the kind of kitty to be satisfied with a single pouch of Whiskers Supermeat. Last thing I heard he was giving mom’s new boyfriend the run around in the kitchen. Not sure where I’ll find a litter tray sizable enough to sink his battleships. As long as he doesn’t poop in the bathtub I’m not concerned, don’t want anyone messing with my eggs. My science project is due next week and I think they’d raise a few eyeballs. I can see it now, “Young man you deserve this A+ for your papier-mache realization of E.T.’s left spud. Simply marvelous son.” Maybe I’ll take two in just to show off. The full sack of spaceballs so to speak.
Anyhoots my father just turned up for his planned visit and I’m sure we have lots to catch up on. We have planned to watch Cocoon together and then he has a big surprise planned. He has promised to take me down to the Enemy Mine and, time allowing, to meet an old-timer called Yoda who he keeps telling me about it. I’ve packed my autograph book just in case as this dude is supposed to be a big deal in his galaxy. Apparently I am to ignore any of his blathering about the supposed force. I think dementia has started to set in but care home costs in outer space are astronomical and he prefers the creature comforts of his own personal swamp. I’ve also packed my galoshes and I may throw in a couple of my prized eggs as he too suffers from dry skin and one of those babies would make some face mask.
I’m up to date on any social networking; Charlie the Clown posted a picture of his wobbly hammer and it gets funnier the more you look at it. I’ll miss my new friends, judging by the length of daddy’s intergalactic stay I would imagine I’ll be gone some time. He is aware of my nerves but has promised that he shall hold my hand the whole time. He has grown a little tired of Earth you see, Richard Dreyfuss keeps sending him sheet music and it hasn’t got the legs for repeat listens so he’s ready to take the plunge now with his kid in tow. Should be some adventure, I’ve got so many questions for Captain Kirk like “what was Uhura like in the sack?” and “whatever happened to the fourth guy who beamed down?” I’m sure he’ll have enough on his plate searching for that elusive Mr Spock whilst dodging Khan’s wrath. They say that space is the final frontier but I know better. Pops told me about a place called Event Horizon but it is strictly 18+ only as things have been known to get a little freaky there.
I’ll miss Charlie most of all when I’m away but father swears blind that there are plenty of klowns in outer space. I guess they have circuses there too. I can show them my new-found juggling ability; my maximum thus far is three eggs, tried four but that just made a mess on the bath mat. By the way I must tell Orson that Mork is having issues with his transmitter, think his contract has expired. Our limo awaits so I shall bid you adieu. Wish me luck, I’ll bring you back a hunk of Kryptonite and some popping Mars candy which I’m assured will make your eyes bulge. Beam me up.