The True Meaning of Smekday (Smek 1)
Page 11“I know. Why are you leaving?”
“Not my apartment anymore. Belongs to them now, I suppose. One of them claimed it. One of them just came to my door and told me to get out and claimed it in the name of Captain Whoever-He-Is.”
I tried to understand what she was saying. There was an alien in our building? Right now, right above me?
“I thought they were only settling in towns down the shore,” I said. “It was on the news.”
Ms. Wiley just shrugged her shoulders. She looked near tears.
“Your ma home?”
“No, she’s…no.”
“Tell her I’m sorry. I still had her big casserole dish, and I don’t think she’s getting it back now.”
I told her it was okay, and asked if she needed a place to stay, but she was going to her sister’s. There must have been scenes like this all over—the Boov just showed up on your doorstep, no warning, and kicked you out. Or maybe you’d find one already in your garage, eating things, and eventually he’d just make his way into the kitchen, or the bedrooms. And like a stray cat, he was there to stay.
Speaking of cats, it was around this time that the Great Housecat Betrayal came to pass. That’s my own name for it; you can use it if you want to.
Pig wasn’t an outdoor cat, but she tried everything to get out. She always made a break for it when I left the apartment, but there were two more doors to get through before leaving my building, so she never got farther than the stairwell. When a Boov passed by on the street, Pig gazed out at him forlornly and put a paw up to the window, like some tragic heroine.
I almost just let her go a couple of times—but she was really more Mom’s cat, and not mine to give away.
Anyway.
In a ridiculously short amount of time, the Boov determined that humans were unwilling to mix peacefully into their culture. They pointed out all the people who fled instead of welcoming their new neighbors, even those whose homes had been taken outright.
Captain Smek himself appeared on television for an official speech to humankind. (He didn’t call us humankind, of course. He called us the Noble Savages of Earth. Apparently we were all still living on Earth at this point.)
“Noble Savages of Earth,” he said. “Long time have we tried to live together in peace.” (It had been five months.) “Long time have the Boov suffered under the hostileness and intolerableness of you people. With sad hearts I now concede that Boov and humans will never to exist as one.”
I remember being really excited at this point. Could I possibly be hearing right? Were the Boov about to leave? I was so stupid.
“And so now I generously grant you Human Preserves—gifts of land that will be for humans forever, never to be taken away again, now.”
I stared at the TV, mouth agape. “But we were here first,” I said pathetically.
The ceremony went on for some time. The Boov were signing a treaty with the different nations of the world. It all looked strange, and for more than the obvious reasons. Usually big political events are full of men in suits, but the Boov were joined now by totally ordinary-looking people. The woman who signed on behalf of the Czech Republic was carrying a baby. The man who signed for Morocco wore a Pepsi T-shirt. When it came time to sign with the United States, our country was represented by some white guy I’d never seen before. It certainly wasn’t the president. Or the vice president. It wasn’t the Speaker of the House or anybody else I’d ever noticed on television or elsewhere. It was just some sad, nervous-looking guy in jeans and a denim shirt. He stooped. He had a thick mustache and glasses. He was wearing a tool belt, for God’s sake, pardon my language. We learned later it was just some random plumber. I think his name was Jeff. It didn’t matter to the Boov.
So that’s when we Americans were given Florida. One state for three hundred million people. There were going to be some serious lines for the bathrooms.
After this announcement, Moving Day was scheduled and rocketpods were sent. I decided to drive instead, and got shot at, and later went over an embankment because the highways had been destroyed. Pig and I hung out in a convenience store, and I hid from a Boov named J.Lo, but then I trapped him, and let him go when he promised to fix my car. Which now hovers instead of rolls. And has big hoses and fins.
Everybody on the same page? Great.
We packed up the hovercar, which I was now calling “Slushious,” and settled into our seats. Somehow J.Lo had talked me into giving him a ride to Florida. His scooter, it seemed, was not for long trips, and he’d already gutted it to rebuild the car. He also argued, pretty persuasively, that I was a lot less likely to get shot by any more Boov if I had one of their own for an escort.
I almost balked when J.Lo sat up front, next to me. It was too friendly. But if he sat in the back it would have been like I was his driver, and anyway it was easier to keep an eye on him. Pig lay down on the Boov’s headrest. I imagine she would have preferred his lap, but he kind of didn’t have one.
“So,” said the Boov, wiggling his legs, “what have I to call you?”
I thought a moment. He wasn’t calling me Tip. Only friends called me Tip.
“Gratuity,” I answered.
Whatever, I thought. I turned the key in the ignition, and the car growled to life like a sleepy polar bear. All those new hoses and things began shaking and flapping around. I was about to learn that, after J.Lo’s modifications, the ignition switch was about the only thing that still did what it was supposed to do.
The gas pedal was now the brake pedal. The brake pedal opened the trunk. The steering wheel made the car float up and down. To go left or right you tuned the radio. That was just as well, we weren’t going to be able to pick up any music anyway, but then I made the mistake of popping in a tape and our seats flipped backward.
We lay there for a minute, staring at the roof.
“I could hum,” said J.Lo.
“Shut up,” I suggested.
The parking brake shot the wiper fluid. The wiper knob opened the glove box. Pulling the air freshener honked the horn, and pressing the horn made the hood catch fire.