This aspiring journalist is looking for his ultimate scoop, his award-winning front-page story. And when that scoop, that award-winning story finally comes along, well, his subject double-deals him, and the scoop…
Nothing moves you ahead like winning the Golden Keyboard Award. It’s just a small trophy shaped like a keyboard, but winning it means you wrote the best article of the year at the Cumberland Gazette. By tradition, it’s awarded at the December potluck, where you can walk in a nobody and walk out a rock star. Everybody claps and shakes your hand, and whatever happens next in life, you’ll always be a Golden Keyboard winner. Most importantly, Mr. Waltrip, our chief editor, sees you as a top reporter and you never do obituaries again. He only gives you the front-page stuff, and before long, you’re off to a big newspaper in Chicago. I’ve seen it time and time again, where everything falls into place once you win the Golden Keyboard Award. The only thing is, first you have to win it.
I’ve written nothing special in the three years that I’ve been here. Mr. Waltrip mostly gives me routine community events, which the award panel doesn’t care about at all. They certainly don’t care about the Cumberland Appalachian Festival, which was my assignment for today. The Festival takes place every year in Cumberland, Maryland, and there are only so many ways to say that little Johnny won the ring toss and that Mrs. Jones liked the quilting tent. I wanted to wrap it up quickly and move on, and hopefully get the city pool expansion project that was running over budget.
But sometimes, you’re working a job and then, kapow, everything changes. Which is what happened to me after I met the Brixians. Brixians, I found out, are advanced aliens who are in the so-called First Elite. They think elite thoughts and they act in elite ways. They cruise around galaxies living the First Elite lifestyle, which is pure leisure and involves no work at all. They were at the Festival too, and at first, they were really great. They were even going to make me a Space Buddy, which is something they hardly ever do. I was going to make my article all about them, which would have been a huge news story and even rate a double headline. But everything fell apart in the end, basically because brains don’t buy class, that’s for sure. Instead of a great story to get me promoted, all I got was a pile of melted iron, with its wisps of smoke and radiant heat fading away, just like my Golden Keyboard Award.
I got started in the early afternoon, after leaving my apartment and making the short drive down to the Festival. The Festival was taking place in Cumberland’s Loudermilk Park, which is an open space in the city surrounded by buildings. The park has a big open lawn and a nice playground, and today, it was filled with kiosks and white rent-a-tents staked to the ground with ropes. When I arrived, bluegrass bands were already playing on the park’s basketball court, its surface now covered with loudspeakers and crisscrossing wires. Sounds and motions of people were everywhere, and pieces of my upcoming story began jumping out at me. I even thought up a draft headline—“Folks Find Fun Frolic At Festival.” I set myself to work, ready to describe a crowd of people enjoying and celebrating the Appalachian culture.
I happened upon an outdoor griddling station, whose smells of sizzling meats had attracted a line of hungry patrons. Above the griddling station, a sign had been made of stuck-together logs that spelled out “Mountain Man Café.” Knowing this would make for a good snippet of material, I approached a young couple to interview. They were exiting the food pickup counter, each holding a red-and-white checkered meal box.
“Hi folks, I’m Tommy Krupp with the Cumberland Gazette. Can I ask what you’re eating?”
The man answered, “Sure, it’s the scrapple burger served with peanut brittle…very tasty.”
“Very Appalachian traditional,” I said, scribbling his meal down in my notebook. “How are you liking the festival so far?”
“We’re having a great time,” the man said. “The Towpath Boys are playing later. They’re our favorite bluegrass band.”
“Yes, they really keep to the old sound,” I said, scribbling down more notes.
I turned to the woman. “Do you have a favorite Towpath Boy song that—Huh?” I stopped mid-sentence, because above her head, behind her and high in the sky, the air had developed a shimmer. My eye was drawn to the disturbance, a small patch of sky that seemed to ripple in brightness and hue. And it was arcing over us, as if it were under some kind of control. Then, to my shock, for a brief instant, a genuine UFO blinked out from behind the shimmer! Silently, the UFO was there, and then, all of a sudden, it was gone, leaving only the moving shimmer, which soon disappeared also. The spectacle was over in just a few seconds, and I stood there with my jaw wide open and eyes bulging out. I couldn’t believe what I had just seen.
Sensing my confused reaction, the couple turned around to see what I had been looking at.
“Were you looking at something in the sky?” the woman asked.
“Yes, I thought I saw something up there…but it’s gone now,” I said. I looked around the crowd. Of all the people at the Festival, I was apparently the only one who looked up at the right moment and from the right angle. Everyone was just milling around and not going crazy.
“Uh…thank you very much, the Gazette really appreciates your comments, and enjoy the rest of your time at the Festival.”
I cut the interview short because I had to think. On the one hand, I could continue collecting material for the original assignment, which would be the safe thing and what Mr. Waltrip would want me to do. But on the other hand, I could shift to a much bigger story—a story about a UFO flyover of the Cumberland Appalachian Festival.
I brought my hands up to my head, uncertain of what to do. Mr. Waltrip would demote me to high school sports for good if I didn’t submit my assignment on time. As I internally debated, a new headline flashed before me—“Strange Saucer Streaks Across Sky.” I saw myself bursting into Mr. Waltrip’s office, not giving a care with what he was busy with, and me screaming “Stop the presses!” while waving around my UFO headline. And then the whole Cumberland Gazette would go berserk, scooping to the world that we are not alone in the universe. It would be the first time that a real newspaper had confirmed the existence of a flying saucer. I knew I had to go for it. It was not the safe thing, but nobody gets off an island by being safe.
I first tried to find others who saw what I saw. But when I asked festival goers if they had seen anything flashing across the sky, they all said no and looked at me oddly. I crisscrossed the whole park without finding a single eyewitness, which presented a challenge to my UFO article. I knew I needed more evidence for an acceptable story.
I sat down on a park bench. People streamed by me in clumps, laughing and small-talking, unaware that aliens had just flown over them. I recalled as best I could the details of the UFO. It had the traditional saucer shape, and most importantly, it seemed to be arcing downwards. In fact, it occurred to me that it may have been coming down for a landing. Maybe it was experiencing a power problem, limiting its ability to fly and causing a brownout to its cloaking device. I looked up to where it was in the sky and wondered where it may have landed, forced or otherwise. I outstretched my arm and traced my finger along its probable flight path. The resulting sweeping motion stopped with my arm pointing at the horizon, to an area about a mile north of me. And without hesitation, I scrambled back to my car and headed out.
I drove frantically, hardly stopping at any of the stop signs. After I had gone a mile, I slowed down and began looking for signs of aliens. I was in an area of tall apartments, whose penthouses stretched over the street in a continuous skyline. Quick marts and eateries filled the gaps between buildings. A few people were walking about, looking like they were running errands.
I spotted a pedestrian walking a large malamute. I stopped my car and called out to him.
“Excuse me, Sir, did you happen to hear anything loud in the past twenty minutes or so?”
“Well, actually, yes…a few minutes ago I heard a boom noise like a construction crew had dropped something heavy to the ground. It came from behind the elementary school just down the street,” he said, pointing his arm in that direction. “I was walking my dog down there and—”
“Thank you, Sir!” I responded, not letting him finish his sentence. I hit the gas and sped away, finding the school after only two blocks. It was a broad, two-story building nestled between apartments, and on its brick face, it had “Carver Elementary School” spelled out in big metal letters. But what really caught my eye was a narrow alleyway next to it, with a street sign saying “Teacher Parking in Rear.” The dogwalker had said the sound came from the rear of the school, so I decided to go back there and investigate.
The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pass through. On the left was an apartment property, separated from the school by a corrugated metal fence covered in vines. To the right was a cement walkway and a facing wall of the school. I rolled slowly in, knowing this might be my best chance for finding the UFO.
The alleyway opened into a square blacktop, with rows of white stripes for parking. Being a Saturday, it was empty of cars. Two sides of the blacktop faced the school, with apartments facing the other two. I came to a stop, and put both hands on the wheel to look up. High above me was a bright blue sky, one without any clouds. Lower down, the neighboring apartments had flowers in windowsills and plastic patio furniture on balconies. Close to me and off to my right, the school’s inside windows were taped with kids’ assignments. On the ground, everything was neatly landscaped with small bushes and walkways, and a small section to the side had hopscotch markings. But in the center of it all, resting on the blacktop and now towering above me, was a metallic vessel standing on three legs. My senses told me it was impossibly out of place—it may as well have been a giant peacock standing there.
The UFO was round and shiny, and about the size of a school bus. It had no windows or lights. My instinct was to turn and run—I knew full well this thing could destroy me in an instant. Its occupants could experiment on me, put a tracking device in my knee and erase my memory. They could haul me away and put me in a zoo, make me a slave or eat my palm flesh like caviar. But as scary as the whole situation was, I could not possibly run away. A UFO story would not just boost my career, but explode it upwards like a volcano. I would reveal to the world that we have galactic neighbors, and for that, I would be done with mediocre articles at the Cumberland Gazette. This was my big chance to become a made journalist and do only the big, front-page news. I could not retreat. I stared down the dangerous machine, knowing my Golden Keyboard Award moment had arrived.
In my car and looking up at the enigmatic object, I realized I needed a plan. I had taken a few snack items with me for the day, which I snatched up along with my work badge. I stepped out onto the blacktop, legs trembling. I walked up to the base of the UFO.
“Greetings, friendly alien beings!” I shouted, holding up my laminated work ID. “I am the Earth representative for space guests! Please exit and receive your Power Bar and Red Bull!”
It was their move now. I leave to inter-species historians the power in my first words of contact.
There was no response. I held my badge up higher and more in front of me.
“Galactic visitors! I invite you to come out and be recognized!”
Still nothing. I took out my smartphone and snapped a few pictures. I paced out its size and jotted down its attributes in my reporter’s notepad. Things remained quiet, and I wondered if I should call the police, telling them to hurry to the alien hotspot that was now the teacher parking lot behind Carver Elementary School. But then, without any warning at all, there was a loud “Kathump!” as a gangplank literally dropped down from the UFO. It slammed hard onto the blacktop, and I jumped backward, startled. It was not at all like in the movies, where saucer gangplanks open quietly.
I was like a frozen deer as an alien creature came walking down the gangplank. He struck me as male, and he had the traditional features of being short and gray with a long face and large, black eyes. It only threw me off a little bit that he was dressed in silky, bright purple pants and a purple polka-dotted white shirt.
Coming to the bottom of the ramp and looking up at me, he said, “Hello, Mr. Krupp. We thank you for your kind offer — it is indeed most amusing. But now, we must reset your memory and reversibly hibernate you for four hours. And then we will fly away in our saucer, so if you don’t mind, please give me your smartphone and notepad.”
I was so shocked, I had no idea what to say. Least of all something intelligent, something befitting a first contact with an alien. “You speak English!” I blurted out self-evidently. “And you know my name!”
“Naturally I speak English. And as for learning your name, I spectroscopically scanned the volatile emissions from your armpits. From the data, I derived your personally identifiable information faster than you can say quasicrystal. So yes, in fact, I do literally know everything, including that you recorded information on our saucer. Now hand everything over.” He held out his hand and made a back-and-forth cycling motion with his spindly little alien fingers.
“Wow, I can’t believe it,” I said, still wrapped up in the moment and forgetting about his request. “I’m actually meeting a living being from outer space. This is so amazing!”
He let out an agitated sigh. “I can see how you would think so. But Mr. Krupp, you really must cooperate fully. We have no interest in having rapport with you, and we have a tight schedule. So please, give me the requested items or you will be turned into ball lightning.”
“Ball lightning?” I asked.
“Yes, a high-energy radiation beam will be aimed at your torso and superheat you into a semi-stable plasma. So please understand, we have things to do and we don’t need pictures of ourselves ending up in that second-rate tabloid that employs you. Now stop playing around, or I will go back inside and push the button.”
“Please, no need for that, Mr. Spaceman. Here, take my phone and notepad,” I said obligingly, quickly handing them over and with much relief to have averted getting ball-lightninged. My alien contact gave a dismissive smirk and began to turn away, but just then, another little guy came bounding down the ramp. This one was wearing bright yellow pants and had a red shirt with a diagonal yellow stripe.
“TikiToki, I motion we reconsider!” the new alien exclaimed, also speaking English.
Turning around, the first alien said, “KutiKoti, don’t you think you’ve done enough for one day? That because of your actions, we imprudently flew over Cumberland with counter-species protocols set at only Level 3? And after picking this horrible landing spot, you only directed the opto-decoupler upwards towards the apartments? And now, we must sedate Mr. Krupp and whack him with a missing time procedure.”
I gathered now what their names were. Aside from the medical inconvenience I was apparently about to experience, I also fearfully wondered if aliens could read minds. I had decided their clothes were just awful.
“Oh, attenuate yourself, TikiToki. That’s only because we were in a hurry. Besides, we don’t need to think of those little concerns. Instead, we should think of our Space Buddy Program!”
TikiToki looked a little startled himself. “Space Buddy Program?” He actually looked like he might have forgotten about it, so maybe he just knew almost everything and not literally everything, like he said before.
“Yes, you know… The Spaaaaaace Buuuudeeee Proooograaaam,” KutiKoti said, stretching out the words. The new guy also rolled his little fingers in the air, much like we do when we’re trying to jog someone’s memory. He jutted his light-bulb head forward too, for added emphasis.
The reminder seemed to only partially work. “Uh, yes, certainly, the Space Buddy Program. Mr. Krupp, I present to you KutiKoti. Er, KutiKoti, I’m sure you would be best at explaining to Mr. Krupp all about our Space Buddy Program.”
The alien KutiKoti stepped closer to me.
“Gladly, TikiToki. Mr. Krupp, we are Brixians, an advanced civilization now visiting Earth on a cultural excursion. We are here today to partake in your Appalachian Festival, which I must say is wonderfully primitive. And very rarely on such visits, we designate a local inhabitant as a Space Buddy. Space Buddies are special friends and receive a friendship certificate made of compressed space dust. They also get to ride in our spaceship— would you like that?”
“I would love that!” I of course replied. “But you mean your spaceship wasn’t having a power problem?”
TikiToki faced KutiKoti and, in a high voice, said something sounding like “Schplatka Mooka!” as if I had just said something hilarious. KutiKoti had to enlighten me.
“Mr. Krupp, we never have such problems. We are one of the preeminent races in the entire universe. In fact, we are one of the exceptional few in the First Elite.”
“First Elite?” I didn’t know what that was, but it sure sounded impressive.
“Yes, let me explain,” continued KutiKoti. “Denizens of the universe who understand how the universe works are members of the Third Elite. Third Elite membership requires a complete and true understanding of all its laws. Obtaining a still higher level of knowledge, one that understands why the universe works the way it does, elevates a people to the Second Elite.”
I was quite flabbergasted. “Wow! Being in the First Elite means you Brixians must be truly awesome spacemen! But what goes beyond knowing the how and why of the universe?”
“Well, there are certain regimes where the postulates of physics break down. First Eliters can leverage these fuzzy areas to achieve seemingly impossible behaviors.” As he said this, KutiKoti held his arms and hands to form a mock picture frame around their nearby UFO. He grinned broadly, looking like a four-foot-tall alien car show model highlighting the latest Corvette.
I was plum beside myself with excitement. “That is incredible! It is truly a privilege to meet you, TikiToki, and you also, KutiKoti! And it is very gracious of you to come to Earth and spend time amongst those of us in the Second Elite.”
Brixian facial muscles must be somewhat different from ours, as their faces contorted in a weird way.
“You are aware of the phenomenon of light, yes?” asked TikiToki.
“Of course.”
“Why is the speed of light always at the speed of light?”
“I can’t say that I know.”
“You can’t answer the why. You are not in the Second Elite.”
KutiKoti responded, “Quite right, humans being in the Second Elite category is simply out of the question, and now we really must press on. But before Mr. Krupp gets his certificate and rides in our spaceship, we have that one little errand to perform. And luckily, because he’s a Space Buddy, he can help us with it!”
The encounter was looking extremely promising. After meeting members of the First Elite and learning some of their advanced ways, I was now going to join them on some kind of assignment. I wondered if my Golden Keyboard would look best on a shelf or desk.
KutiKoti continued, “Yes, unfortunately, our tour group had to leave the Appalachian Festival early because we are due on Theta Kroton Seven. An eclipse is happening there and we love seeing clueless natives run around like crazy ants. But before we initiated our trans-galactic kinetic trajectory, some in our group regretted not getting any ethnic food while here. So, TikiToki and I offered to return on a quick food run.”
Apparently, the Brixians were on a kind of vacation through space. They came to planet Earth just as our cruise ships voyage around the Caribbean. I felt it was a duty to play the good host, especially since I was now a Space Buddy. “We can go downtown in my car. I know the best way, and we can get back in no time.”
They enthusiastically took me up on my offer, only adding that they first had to put on their human-form exoskeletons. They scampered back up into the ship and returned looking just like regular people.
After reintroducing themselves in their new forms, we all walked to my car. Getting in, TikiToki turned to KutiKoti.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” said KutiKoti.
“The opto-decoupler is only aimed at the apartments. It needs full-on projection.”
“Oh, right.” KutiKoti took what looked like a FOB from his pocket and pointed it at the UFO. The whole thing disappeared in a flash.
“First Elite can’t be beat,” he said smugly.
We rode out of the parking lot and began the short drive back to the Festival. This would be a good time to address a pressing issue that was glossed over before. Readers of the Gazette will want to know.
“Guys, I have to ask you…humans may not be in the Second Elite, but of course we’re in the Third Elite, right?”
KutiKoti shook his head firmly. “How does a magnet move a paper clip without touching it?”
“Well, I’m not so sure. But you know, like, iron likes to be a magnet and move certain things but not paper.”
“Nooooooo…” said KutiKoti somewhat condescendingly. “For starters, iron doesn’t simply ‘like’ to be a magnet. And in the bigger picture, some of your scientists would have us believe magnetic forces have to do with invisible strings shaking about—really, seriously? Please, forget the whole idea.”
This came as a mild disappointment, because after all, we have atom smashers and we know about the Big Bang, and we even have a satellite circling Mars that says the weather. And now, I’ll have to say in my article that we humans aren’t even in the lowest Elite category. Readers will have to deal with it.
The remainder of the trip went really well. They said that since I was now a Space Buddy, they were actually OK with me writing about them, and they would give me my phone and notepad back. We also talked more about what it’s like to be a Brixian and what they do while travelling about the universe. And while the conversation was going on, various aspects of my future award-winning article were taking shape. In particular, I was thinking about the headline, which was very important because people would be referring to it for thousands of years. I was thinking it would be all capitals and be “SIGHTSEEING SUPER ALIENS DESCEND ON CITY.” There’s still time for tweaking, of course.
We soon found ourselves back at Loudermilk Park, and I conveniently found a parking spot next to a line of food trucks. We exited and approached the trucks, my new friends being charmed by their colorful, food-themed motifs.
“What food choice would you recommend, Mr. Krupp?” KutiKoti asked.
“No doubt about it, you really must go with the scrapple burger and peanut brittle side. That is a cultural favorite, and all the cooks are frying it up today.”
They went with my suggestion, and in due course, we had three large bags of meals, enough to satisfy plenty of little alien stomachs back on the mother ship. I put the order on my credit card because, as tourists to Earth, they don’t carry our money.
We got back in the car, its air getting filled with the savory aroma of pork and spices. I was putting on my seat belt when TikiToki came up with a practical suggestion.
“Mr. Krupp, how about you give me your credit card so I can hack the funds back into your account? After all, it’s not fair that you pay the one hundred and twenty-six dollars for us. And while I’m doing that, can you go back and get us some napkins?”
“Sure thing, take my wallet! My credit card is the green plastic one inside it,” I said, tossing him my wallet and running back to our food truck’s counter. But as I grabbed the handful of napkins and turned around, I saw my car pulling away from the curb. It headed back down the street, getting smaller and smaller with no sign of returning.
As I stood there holding a wad of useless napkins, I was hit with the most sinking feeling. I had been ditched. TikiToki and KutiKoti had taken my car and were driving it back to the UFO, leaving me stranded. I was not a Space Buddy at all, but just a clueless human to help advanced aliens get a free lunch. That I paid for. They had taken my phone, my notes for the day, and my wallet. That very instant they were probably grabbing peanut brittle out of a bag while hee-hawing to themselves what a simpleton I was. Brixian AI had probably jump-started my car and was navigating them back to their saucer, while I was left abandoned and with my story in shambles.
Since I couldn’t Uber, I walked the mile back to the school, hoping to find my car. What I found was a mound of melted slag, still smoldering. The Brixians probably ball-lightninged it, to destroy all forensic evidence of themselves. The UFO was gone and so were they, now on their way to Theta Kroton Seven to next laugh at eclipse-startled cavemen.
My afternoon had become a total disaster. Instead of writing the biggest news story ever, beating even “Hitler Dead!”, “Titanic Sunk!”, and for all I know, “Pyramids Finished!”, I now had nothing. I had no friendship certificate made of compressed space dust, not a single witness, and no pictures. Nothing believable had been revealed to me, like the technology inside a spaceship because I never got to ride in one. I had no backing evidence at all, and if I submitted a story on the Brixians, Mr. Waltrip would probably sack me on the spot. Which he might do anyway, once he finds out that I frittered away my Appalachian Festival assignment. The Brixians had all my Festival notes, and I was too far and it was too late to start over.
Tired and broken, I walked over to a shade tree next to the parking lot. I sat against its trunk, ignoring my troubles. I looked up to the afternoon sky and knew the Brixians were up there somewhere, now streaking past the stars. They acted like they were so smart, but probably a million years ago, they were no better than us, not knowing themselves how a magnet really pushes on a paper clip. Then one day, some smart Einstein Brixian figured it out, not just by describing it with a slapdash math formula, but by explaining the pushing part properly. That got them into the Third Elite, and before long, they were travelling across galaxies getting free meals.
Well, if they figured it out, we could too. All we need is the right guy to wake up and think those same smart thoughts. Maybe that guy is in the city of Cumberland right now, just needing a little push. And you know what, I can give him that push. I can give Mr. Waltrip a certain article that gets published in the Gazette, so that the smart guy can read it and start thinking. That will kick off the chain reaction that, in a million years, will get us into the First Elite. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves above me with a pleasing sound. I thought the headline “Clarity Craved For Cavorting Clips!” was pretty good. There is still time for tweaking. Golden Keyboard Award, here I come.
END
