Close Encounters
Jen Michalski
“Such souls,
Whose sudden visitations daze the world,
Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind
A voice that in the distance far away
Wakens the slumbering ages.”
âHenry Taylor
CONTENTS
COMMENCEMENT SPEECH, WHITNEY HOUSTON, EAST SOUTHERN UNIVERSITY, JUNE 9, 2006
AUTHOR'S NOTE
LIKE ALL OF US, I have always been interested what connects us to the universe, to each other. However, I have always gravitated away from the more-traditional avenues of exploration, namely religion and science. To me, each seems incomplete in its own way. Psychologists like William James sought, in the early 20th century, to forge a connection between the two through the supernatural. Although he and his fellow researchers were dismissed by both scientists and the religious establishment alike, James essentially spearhead what is known today as the parapsychology movement, a movement that can loosely claim UFOs, madness, mysticism, magic, and other alternative areas of study as its own. And, really, this “third way” has always been with us. One can trace Shamanism back to the Stone Age, thereby predating most organized religions. In addition, the bacchanals to the Roman God Bacchus were frenzied orgies, celebrating wine and mystic ecstasy.
But what of our modern rituals, healers? Outside of organized religion, one finds the unlikeliest candidates for spiritual enlightenment, particularly in our pop culture world. Popular psychology gained momentum in the late sixties and seventies, when we made Sybil a celebrity, as did our interest in life beyond Earth. Entwined in those searches for ourselves and for the “other” is our search for truth, for IT. Most of the stories in this collection examine those weird circumstances in which the world bends a little, and we glimpse a little bit of heaven. Or Hell. Or maybe just Whitney Houston. After all, aren't celebrities our modern Greek gods and goddesses, our modern myths?
Anyway, we all have close encounters of some kind, at some point. And they awaken in us truths that light up the universe far more vividly than any religion or scientific theory could ever hope to. At the very least, they inform us, usually in spectacular fashion, that we are not who we thought we were.
Jen Michalski
âI would like to thank Natalie Wysocki for designing the cover and Savannah Guz for her incredible suggestions on the manuscript
.
OUR PLACE IN THE WORLD
I DON'T LIKE RETARDS VERY MUCH. I mean, it's not their fault; they just make me uneasy. You'd think, doing what I do, nothing affects me, but there's a first time for everything, I guess. That said, it's a usual night when I meet Chuckie. There are ten or fifteen guys sitting around the stage, and I'm doing my thing, and it's that part of the song where the singer goes
welcome to the jungle, welcome to the jungle, it's gonna bring you to your knuh knuh knuh knuh knuh knuh knuh knuh, knees, knees
, and I'm down on my knees crawling for tips. I'm bent away from him at first, my ass real close to the other edge of the stage, but when I crawl around to the other side, there he is, with his brothers or coworkers or something, I don't know. He's dressed normal enoughâOxford shirt and some jeans that are hitched up a little too highâbut he definitely stands out. And I'm thinkin': now why would his friends or whatever want to go and bring a guy like that in here. He looks horrified, nervous, even while his friends urge him on, the dollar bill in his hand neatly rolled like a cigarette or something.
“Hello, handsome,” I purr at him while reaching out to guide his hand to my cleavage. “You come all this way just to visit me?”
“My name is Chuckie Fairlane,” he stutters, and his fingers are cold on my skin. He carefully pushes the dollar bill between my breasts. “I live on 557 Jamieson Street.”
“It's Chuckie's 30
th
birthday,” his friend on the right informs me. “And he ain't never seen no pussy before.”
I can't tell whether his friends have brought Chuckie here out of generosity or for their own amusement, but the whole thing bothers me. I mean, yeah, I've been doing this for seven years, since I was twenty, and I don't even see their faces anymore, the men or hear what they say. Sometimes it's just like I'm dancing on my bed alone or maybe for Candice, if she's not bored of it by now. But even when I close my eyes now I can see itâsee Chuckie's face of terror, its flat paleness like a pancake just poured onto the griddle, his rounded, close-set eyes, and small, beaklike lips, and I think about what I'm doing here and the air in here is so cold 'cause they keep the air conditioning on so damn high, I swear it's 'cause they want to keep our nipples hard, and I am relieved when the song is over, and I walk to the bar by the door where the other dancers sit at tables and argue on their cell phone with their boyfriends or fix their fingernails but generally don't talk to one another.
Most of the girls are here to support their habitsâdrugs or nice things or men or kids. Don't get me wrong; there are some girls who come here from Thailand or the Philippines or wherever and that's all they know how to do except dry clean. Others just kind of fell into it when they needed a job and had a good body. I guess I fall into that last category. I never could get the register to balance at my last job, and I'm sure they thought I was skimmin' money, but I really just never got the hang of it. Besides, Candice does all the bills and stuff. We all have our strengths, our place in the world, and I guess this is mine.
I look up to see whether Chuckie is enjoying Rhonda's act, but he's staring at me in kind of a lovesick but terrified way. His friends laugh and nudge him. I light a cigarette and stare into my water glass. I hope this doesn't go further. I've done a lot more with a lot worse. A lot worse guys, that is. Not ugly or retarded or whatever; physically, I don't see that part anyway, especially when I prefer the company of women, you know? No, I mean the guys that you're scared to be alone with âcause you don't know whether you're going to get home alive or in one piece or guys that remind you of your father or guys that are so not right that they don't have any feeling in their hearts whatsoever.
Out of the corner of my eye I see one of Chuckie's friends make his way over. I rub out my cigarette and eye him coolly.
“My friend Chuckie really likes you, you know.” He leans over the bar with his wallet. “So how much for a private dance?”
“Fifty dollars for twenty minutes,” I answer, turning to face him. “Though I don't see why you don't do something nice for his birthday, like take him out to dinner or something.”
“He's a man, lady. He's got needs, and no lady on the street is just gonna go out on a date with him, you know?” He looks back at Chuckie, who now seems more interested in the cocktail umbrella in his drink than us. “Now, you gonna be a real doll and do this or not?”
I'm sitting in the room and I'm real nervous and I don't know, like I said, people like Chuckie make me nervous. As I'm reapplying my lipstick there's a knock at the door. He walks in with his head down, real shy, and sits in the chair. I walk over and drape my scarf around his neck and gyrate in front of him slowly.
“So I hear it's your birthday, baby.”
“Uh-huh.” He nods his head, staring at his hands and shaking. “My name is Chuckie Fairlane.”
“Well, this is my birthday treat to you, Chuckie, so don't be nervous, all right?” I let my knee brush his. “It's not every day you're 30, right?”
“They gave me a party down at the store,” he explains, raising his right forearm and shaking it slowly, rhythmically. “There were cake and balloons and I got a brand-new tie.”
“That's nice. Where do you work, Chuckie?”
“I work at the Valu-Mart. I'm a greeter. When people come into the store I help them. I'm a good helper. If you come down to the Valu-Mart I'll help you. I know where everything isâseasonal items are in aisle twelve, paper products are in five, and shoes are in the back.”
“Sounds like a good job to have, Chuckie.”
“Doreen, my manager, says I'm the best greeter we ever had. I got an award last year. My Mom put it in our living room.” He looks up at me. “What's your name?”
It's weird because, even though I don't think about it for nights on end or nothing, no one has ever asked me my name. Such a simple thing like that is weird. It's not like I ask them their names either, usually, I mean, who cares? I never see them again. And they never see me. And that's my relationships with people mostly.
“My name is Sandra.”
“That's a pretty name. Sandra. Today's my birthday.”
“I know, Chuckie. Happy birthday.” I move closer to him and put his hands around my waist. “So did you get everything you wanted?”
“I got a new tie for my job as a greeter. I also got a gerbil. His name is Peter. Would you like to come over and play with my gerbil?”
“Actually, Chuckie, I'm not a big fan of pets.”
“My mother is making pork roast tomorrow night. She always makes pork roast on Thursdays. I love pork roast.” His hands are barely touching my waist; they're limp, using my curves as support. I take them in my hands and hold them. I've stopped dancing, but I don't think Chuckie notices. Outside the music is very loud but muffled in here. I recognize the song as Theona's and know I will be on again soon, the dancer after the next.
“I'm glad you got such nice things for your birthday, honey.”
“I like you Sandra.” He wipes his hands on his shirt. “You're pretty.”
“Thank you, Chuckie. You're very sweet.”
“Would you go out for an ice cream? I make seven-fifty an hour as a greeter at Valu-Mart. I buy food for Peter for $5.99 at Pet Village and every Sunday I give five dollars at church. I can buy two scoops.”
“Actually, I think the ice cream place will be closed by the time I get off work, Chuckie. But thank you.”
“Do you like me, Sandra? Adam says you like me. That's why I came back here. Because I thought you would kiss me.”
“Well, of course I like you, Chuckie.” I part his short, sandy hair back to the side from where it has fallen, wet, in little bangs on his forehead. “I think you're a real swell guy.”
I lean in and kiss his lips quickly. His breath smells sweet, and I realize he's probably chewing gum. When we return to the main room Chuckie's friends are drinking vodka out of shot glasses wedged into Theona's breasts.
So it wasn't that bad, the night, I mean. Later I wonder aloud to Candice, who sits across from me at the table balancing our checkbook, whether I would not be suited to a career in special education or something.
“Sandra, you gave a lap dance to a retard.” She looks up at me with frowning eyes, and I wonder if it's people like Candice who don't keep me down.
“Yeah, but you don't understand.” I light a cigarette. “I made him happy. And it felt good to make him happy. I was real patient with him, too, Candiceâyou would have been proud of me. I mean, maybe there's something else for me, you know, besides dancing. I could work with people, like a nurse or something.”
“I don't think it takes much to make him happy.” She stands up and gets a glass of juice from the refrigerator. “I mean, you said he got a gerbil for his 30th birthday. A fucking gerbil and a lap dance. Besides, I thought you said you didn't like retards.”
“I never said I hated them or anything.” I turn my cigarette over and over in the ashtray. “I just said they made me uncomfortable sometimes. I think they make me angry, 'cause they don't know that people are laughing at them behind their backs. And I felt bad for Chuckie, you know, because you know his friends did it as a joke, and they knew I wasn't in any position to argue with them. But Chuckie, it didn't matter to him. He didn't understand, really, but he treated me the nicest anyone has. And I appreciated that. And for those twenty minutes, I just wanted to protect him from all the crap out there, just see him happy. And maybe I want to make other people happy too.”