by Asher Black

The yellow sign lit the distance from the alley, buzzing with reassuring warmth. It was a pretty thing, solid as a superhero’s emblem, inviting as ketchup drizzled fries. I wrapped my arms close, cursing inwardly that I hadn’t brought a jacket this trip. The alien at the register went through the time-honored ritual: How many? Smoking or non? (I waved my pipe), a silverwear roll, a laminated menu, Your waitress is Rhonda. She’ll be right with you. It was the missionary church of 24-hour table service, the saintly soup-kitchen of insomnia, and Communion was served up in a steaming stonewear mug with a pile of little creamers. Offeratory to follow in the form of a solemn thermal-printed ticket, when I intoned “just coffee”.

I sat picking out constellations in the little brown flecks on the mug, a satisfying cloud of smoke curling around my beard, and haloing my head in a funnel formation. The regulars would start oozing in, little by little, over the next hour. The time is different at each diner. A well-guarded secret, though it’s always at night. I checked my watch, looked at the numerals on the inside of the matchbook as I lit another pipe, tore off the cover, and set it flaming in the ash tray. Notes from other people’s conversations are best not left lying around. I looked out the window at the yellow sign. Always the same diner, though, regardless of the city.

Rhonda refilled my coffee. Middle-aged, stout, glasses, still-blonde hair held back with a knit scrunchy. Black apron tucked under the bulge of her belly. Full of straws. Human, this one. There’s no particular way to tell. Once you get used to the idea of them – the aliens, I mean – you just start to know the difference.

The clientelle are the easiest to spot, of course. Six nights out of seven they show up… which six, again, a ‘well-guarded secret’… How hard is that? The secret was how they talk. I was hoping I had a winning night when Benny sat down at the counter. I knew his name because everyone else did. “Hi, Benny.” Rhonda didn’t bother with a menu. Benny had coffee, no cream, a clean ashtray and a cracker caddy. He looked kind of like Popeye would without a recent haircut or shave. Benny dumped out a foil bag of shag tobacco onto the counter and rolled a cigarette from it, licking it sloppily. Definitely not of this Earth.

I watched Benny through the smoke, under the glare of unfiltered lights, over my third refill, careful not to let him catch me looking. If we locked eyes, he would wonder how a Normal (as they call us) knew how to make conversation. The aliens can speak with their eyes, and I tend to blubber in any language. Even if I wanted to talk, I’ve only practiced in the mirrors of bathrooms and the rearview of the Chevy. Still not quite used to the listening part, either. It’s particularly difficult when they’re speaking in both ways at once… words and eyes, always on two different subjects. I need about a pot of coffee in me just to keep up.

Sure enough, over the next hour, the smoking section filled up with ‘them’. Normals would finish their meals, pay their checks, and the booth would be occupied by an entirely different kind of customer. Slams. That’s what they call themselves in eyespeak. Normals and Slams. Life is pretty much divided in two for me these days. I quit school, gave up my shitty job, moved into my ‘54 woodside station wagon, and started visiting these diners, one town after another. Left the car down the street. I don’t want to risk it being recognized, now that I know they travel.

“Yes please.” Rhonda poured me another cup. I reached into my college knapsack, found and propped Chomsky up on the table, covering my observation in the usual way, by pretending to read.

On the surface, they’re a diverse bunch. A scattering of long hair, short hair, wavy hair, some with pimples, some without, anything from  jeans and an Andy Griffith shirt to all black clothing and tattooes to body piercings and neon-dyed hair. But they are all interested in the same things. The Slams like anything with monsters, especially books and games. The more outrageous, the better. Card games with dragons and wizards, role playing games with vampires, serials by RA Salvatore… the otherworldly is their playground.

They are also addicted to coffee. This is what keeps them here. Or so I gather. Some time back, a Western farmer spotted a weather balloon falling from the sky. Or so he was later convinced. A search of the surrounding countryside produced nothing. No one payed any attention to the stranger at the counter of a certain diner in the nearest town. Out of towners always stopped there, at any hour, looking like anything, delirious from the road. He ordered a cup of coffee, picked up a forgotten fantasy novella left by a teenager who’d been rushed into the family motor home and back out onto the interstate, and the skies have been busy ever since.

The smoking section was brim full, smoking like a chimney, and louder than a factory floor.

“I’m telling you, Sabbat rules! If you’re going to be undead, it’s worth it to go Sabbat.”

“Dude, listen, the third book in the Beltherium trilogy totally blows away the Asmodium trilogy.”

“To Hell with your energy attack. You smoke this card, and you eat your energy attack!”

This banter was nothing compared to the eyespeak. I felt like socking the Slam at the booth across from mine. Short red curly hair, a tatoo, big lips, and two cases of cards in front of him. He was being an ass and using the foulest language in a public place, eyespeak or not. He was asking to get bruised. I pretended to read my book.

“What are you doing?” The waitress heard nothing, except for some boisterous chatter about a 13th level mage. She finished pouring my sixth cup of coffee and went off to start another pot. The Slams kept the brewing constant, except for one or two that were experimenting with Dr. Pepper and pretending to like it. Pretentious dilettantes. “I said, what are you doing?”

I tried looking at my ashtray, but the entire booth had turned and were staring at me. I looked up.

“You know I’m talking to you. I saw you reading our eyes. Now answer me, Normal!”

“I… uh…” Then I realized I was eye babbling. I shut up then. Stupid. I’m so stupid.

“Well?” This time it was the girl, not the foul-mouth. Slightly purple hair, pierced lip, black choker. “I think you’d better tell us how you learned to do that.”

I started to speak aloud. “I just sort of picked it up–”

“Eyespeak, moron.” It was Foulmouth, again.

I couldn’t think about socking him, now. I felt like a cornered animal. You know that movie… you’re having a drink in a bar and at midnight everyone turns into a bloodthirsty vampire, and they’re all looking at you as dinner? Like that. I shrugged. “I dunno. Back home I used read a lot at night, for school, and drink a lot of coffee to keep me awake…”

They all kind of “Mm”-ed in understanding. That’s when I realized that despite the ongoing talk of warlocks and demons, all eyes in the vicinity were upon me (except for Rhonda’s), and coffee was being refilled faster than ever.

“Same diner, back home, you know. And… well… I… I guess I was bored, and I started paying attention. I’m a linguistics major. Well, I was. Language development, and all that. I was reading Chomsky… you know, our capacity to recognize syntax, nonverbal communication, and-”

“Blow that!” It was a burly chain-wearing Slam with long black hair and Native American features. He was mouth criticizing the 3rd edition rules of D&D while addressing me with his eyes. It was a strain to pay attention to one and ignore the other. I took another shaky sip of coffee. “Don’t you read real books?” he asked. He was holding up something called “Icewind” and gesturing contempuously at my linguistics text.

“Shut your cornhole, dill weed.” Foulmouth again. Debating the merits of the original Dungeon and Dragons, he eyespoke “I don’t give a rat’s ass what he reads. He’s a Normal.” He was really starting to piss me off, scared as I was. “You. Abnormal. Finish what you were saying.”

My reply was stiff. “I observed. I payed attention. Or didn’t you see what I said the first time?”

His face darkened. “So you learned how to eyespeak. How did you know the time? How did you know the time that we meet here?”

No harm in telling him. “It wasn’t hard. I oversaw one of you talking about visiting friends. He said where and when. I’ve been a little of everywhere. The time’s not important. If you wait long enough, late enough, you guys show up eventually. It’s not rocket science.”

The girl laughed. Foulmouth wasn’t pleased at that remark for some reason of his own. I thought of weather balloons.

There was silence. The mouth speak continued. But the eyes were silent. It seemed to go on interminably. I couldn’t make my hands stop shaking. I tried to load a pipe. I knew that I was either in for serious trouble or else about to be initiated into the deeper, hopefully pleasant mysteries of Slam life on earth. I managed to actually get a bowl badly lit and squeeze out a few puffs. That helped to steady my hands, and I took another sip of coffee. It wouldn’t do to misunderstand anything they might say next.

That’s when I noticed that a few hands were blocking my view of eyes here and there. A few quick words. Brief, careful answers. Some message was spreading quickly from face to face. I couldn’t catch a glimpse. It was too brief to be a debate, an argument. There seemed to be a fast growing consensus. A short, clear signal of what to do next. I saw an unpleasant grin appear on Foulmoth’s giant lips. If they had intended to welcome me as one of their own, or at least as a friend, it wouldn’t be like this. My hands were trembling again, so the mug in my hand was shaking when Rhonda approached to refill my coffee. That’s when I knew what I had to do.

She smiled. “A warm up?”

I nodded. She poured, and that’s when I tipped over the mug.

“Oh! Did it burn you?”

“No, no! I’ll clean it up though!” I was sliding out of the booth.

“That’s all right, honey, I’ll get it-”

“No, really! It’s my spill. Let me get some napkins off the counter!” I made her stagger with the pot as I pushed past her, and she spilled more coffee, right onto Foulmouth. I couldn’t have asked for a better break. Foulmouth was trying to stand and only succeeded in getting burned worse as he knocked the pot from the waitress’ hand, and she tumbled squealing into the aisle. I was already past the counter and throwing open the glass door, leaving Chomsky still propped in my booth with a smouldering pipe, an unpaid bill (I’ve regretted this ever since), and a mess of spilled java.

They chased me for a while, but either they’re congenitally slow of foot or else I’m in better shape than I thought. The wagon was two blocks away, but I didn’t run right for it, thinking that losing them in the car lot and hotel district was best for starters. It was unnecessary. They couldn’t catch me. But I’m glad they don’t know what I drive. When I realized they might come after me in cars, I ran straight for mine and didn’t look back.

That was five and half months ago. And I’ve been everywhere. Knoxville. Little Rock. Shreveport. Vicksburg. OK, well, not everywhere. I’ve used most of the rest of my school money. I keep moving. Word is out now. No more of those diners, that’s for sure. I’m entrenched in a donut shop with today’s paper and a notebook. I’m writing it all down, in case…

They’re here, too. Same ad, different town. The Personals:

Chomsky. You misunderstood. We want

to be friends. Don’t be afraid. Give us

a chance. Guaranteed safe conduct.

We only have eyes for you. Box 11273.

But I have hope. On page six, a report from the Associated Press. The FAA has admitted that widespread sitings by airline pilots of high-flying weather balloons ascending above the atmosphere are under investigation. On the Financial page, a major coffee label, once as much an institution as Christmas, is filing bankruptcy. In the business section, a certain 24-hour diner chain is changing the name of a menu item that has been the favorite for a quarter of a century. A spokesperson for the chain said, “We’re updating our menu with fresh language… among those items is the “Panhandle Slam”.

It may be that I’ve set in motion an extraterrestrial exodus and ruined mankind’s chances for alien contact once and for all. And maybe I won’t ever enjoy a decent cup of coffee again. But at least, some day soon, I won’t have to listen to whose cleric-rogue can beat which paladin. I think, even when it’s safe, I wont’ go back to school. I’ve learned just about all I care to learn about nonverbal communication.

Entire contents copyright  2003-2007 Asher Black.