He went to Work Ready to ask if there were job openings. The lady there told him that they were giving priority to people who were mandated to work by a judge so that they could pay their child support.
“We are focused on placing those who have to pay their child support, right now. Others will just have to wait,” she said.
He had asked after the supervisor who had asked that he get in touch as soon as he could drive and was told that the supervisor had resigned. So if he had paid money to go to a driving school as the guy had suggested, it would have been for nothing?
He told the lady he would look in some other time. She said sure thing, that he should keep checking in with them from time to time.
He decided to head to the Memory Store.
He went through the routine. Wiped his hands down. He worked on coming up with a memory. It was easier this time around. He had gone to play soccer with the brand new Wembley soccer ball that his grandmother had bought for him. He had enjoyed the pleasure of picking those who were going to play on his side as the owner of the soccer ball. The game had been fun all the way with both sides scoring two goals each. Then when they were taking a break preparatory to changing sides one of the big boys who had been watching the game from the sides, his name was Monday, asked to join the game. He had said No. Monday seized the soccer ball saying that if they would not let him play then they could not play either and that the ball would not be given back. He had tried to get his ball back but had received a swift kick on the shin from Monday. He had run home crying to his grandma. His grandma had sent him back to get his ball telling him not to come home without it.
R. was tapping him on the shoulder.
“This one is not good. We cannot pay for this one,” R. said.
“Why, what is wrong with it?” he asked.
“Nothing is wrong with it. It is just that we don’t find this type useful. People are not interested in this. It is somewhat generic, if you know what I mean. Someone gets his ball stolen by a bully and he fights to get it back. Think of something else. Go to that room over there, get a cup of coffee or a ginger ale. Try and relax for a few minutes and I am sure something useful will come to you, OK,” he said.
He went into the room and poured himself some ginger ale and added ice. He felt like someone who had failed his exams. What could be so hard about coming up with some good memories? But why did the store not have a list of memory items that they accepted and those that they didn’t?
He sipped the ginger ale and told himself to calm down. He had not liked ginger ale as a kid. He thought it tasted too much like an adult drink. It was not sugary enough, not like the other kinds of soft drinks. As an adult in America it had become his favorite drink. He liked the austere taste.
His mind became clear and he remembered the day before he left for America. Yes, that should be a good memory. He left his half-drunk cup of ginger ale on the table and went to meet R.
“I see you are ready to try again, my friend. Let’s do it,” R. said.
He remembered his last day before he traveled to America. The house was filled with more people than it was accustomed. There was food and lots of it. People were eating and drinking and talking. In the background there was music playing aloud. He was not quite sure who the musician was. For some reason he remembered the title of the song. It was called “Ace.”
His grandmother had refused to eat and was crying. He had told her to stop crying, that today was a happy day. She held on to his hand and repeated the words he had just said to her. She had paused and then resumed with the crying.
“I am not leaving forever. I am going to come back soon and when I come back I will build you a bigger house,” he said to his grandmother.
She had stopped crying to listen to him.
“Not even your grandmother knows the secret of living forever,” she said and continued to cry.
He decided to change tack since this approach was not working.
“I don’t want to remember you like this. I don’t want my last memory of you to be your weeping face,” he said.
This seemed to have touched her and she had wiped her face with her headscarf and asked for some food and drink.
“Perfect, see I told you to take a break that you’d come up with something that we can use. It worked. This is a good one. Here, take your card. You did a good job,” R. said to him.
He bought a fridge with the card. It was a gray fridge with double doors. It had a different compartment for every item. He had always thought that every fridge must come in a white color, but had been thrilled by the fact that they came in all kinds of colors these days. He had told the guys who delivered the new fridge to take away the old one but they refused. They said it was against company regulations. He had told them that it was free and that they could sell it for money since it was still working and in good condition, but they had said no. So the old fridge sat mutely beside the new one like an unwanted guest.
It was the 26th of December. It was the anniversary of the passing of his grandmother. He thought that even in her choice of the day of her death, his grandmother had been her good old considerate self—the day after Christmas was hard to forget.
He sat before his television. He had turned it off. The fridge was humming distinctly but unobtrusively.
He wanted to spend some time thinking of his grandmother and honoring her memory. He sat still and tried to picture her gentle, smiling face.
He drew a blank.
He could not remember his grandmother’s face. Nothing was coming to mind.
He panicked a little. But he recalled what had happened at the Memory Store. He opened the fridge and poured himself some ginger ale into a cup and added ice. He sat down and took a sip.
He thought hard.
His grandmother’s face did not come up.
There was nothing.
How to Raise an Alien Baby
Rules are rules. They exist for a reason. They are meant to be obeyed.
If, for instance, you are going to adopt or foster an earthling child you have to obey certain rules. Yes, certain requirements must be met. Your home must be clean, at least on the day of the inspection. You must be at least 21 years old, because babies can’t look after babies. You must have some source of gainful employment. Why would you think fostering an alien baby is any different? The rules ought to be even more stringent, really. It is good manners to host visitors as you would family, or perhaps even better.
The first thing to know about taking care of alien babies is that you must have a large, well-manicured lawn. What for, you ask? Well, sooner or later an alien baby must return to its mother planet and the mode of transportation to that planet is the mother ship. It is expected of you to know that and keep it in mind. You are the alien baby’s earth mom, it has many other mothers elsewhere. So yes, on the subject of lawns: keep it freshly mown with well-trimmed edges so that when that mother ship arrives—silently in the night, with its deep unearthly glow—you will not be ashamed when your neighbors come out of their houses, wearing robes and shoddy slippers. Even drowsy eyes can pick up a mess. You will not be ashamed by the photographs in the newspapers. Your lawn should be photogenic, prepared for media coverage.
Another rule: your house must not have any satellite dishes. You know those things that look like turned out giant’s ears, eavesdropping into every terrestrial and non-terrestrial conversation? Those are a no-no. Studies have shown that even unused and abandoned dishes retain their pings. This is a well-known phenomenon in Rocket Science: even when satellites die their pings do not. You don’t want your alien baby using your house as a transmission center for sending messages back to his mother