One Turk Aliens Avon = Chaos in the Alpha Sector! Part Three

Read Part 1, then read Part 2 first! 

"I don't want to move. I like it here."

9 murmured, his voice as velvet as the antelope wind. I shifted down, fifth gear to fourth. The car shivered, let me guide her into the wind-shadowed plains north of Vaughn. I shifted again, fourth to third. I smiled as an unexpected gust slammed us against an invisible wall. The car shuddered.

"Ulak, the tribe has spoken."

I smiled again, this time in Ulak's direction. He knew my answer, my final decision, the ring I wouldn't accept years ago when we met, when I knew his life was a tiny cup of spiced coffee held in his aging mother's grip. He cleared his throat and opened the map.

"Birdie. Tribe or no tribe. I need to know where we are headed. What are the directions to Roswell?"

"Well it's pretty much one road, Ulak. New Mexico is a whole lotta dusty nothing at the moment."

I let the car tell me what to do, let her run ragged over sun-chipped road. Ulak folded the map. His tequila eyes couldn't take it. He pulled his hat over his face and groaned. A raven dipped low in front of us, her frayed stail feathers spread in excitement.

The raven is a harbinger, the message swoops behind her, I thought. We must be the message. I don't know why. What message do we bring?

"I'm hungry!"

9's demanding voice pierced my ears.

"Me too!"

11 mumbled agreement. I glanced in the rear view mirror. Two boys lay against the windows, each face red and sweaty in the noon sun.

"I'll pull over in Vaughn. Two roads intersect there according to the map. Maybe we'll find a gas station or something where we can get a snack."

I didn't expect to see anything. The population of Vaughn must be a hundred dried souls at most, a tiny outpost of shack and bramble between nothing and Roswell, many mile markers from water, from fresh newspapers, from pink flamingo suburbia. I tilted my mind, as if my shift in perception would tilt the car, bring it faster to Vaughn, closer to nourishment. A shimmering silver structure rose from the horizon, three rounded layers of studded aluminum, threw the New Mexico sun in our road weary laps.

"Hey! Is that the UFO museum?"

9 bounced to attention. He pointed over my shoulder. I leaned toward his hand and kissed his finger.

"No, it's something in Vaughn, not Roswell."

Ulak removed his hat. Salt and pepper curls stuck to his head. He squinted his eyes and tried to make sense of the mirage. Three tiers of metal sat off the road in the shape of a train engine, perhaps, or a gigantic bread box. Ulak squinted again, then shook his head.

"My God. Birdie. It's a diner."

His voice sounded sexier than I've ever heard it, a rumble of tomato juice lust, of mid-morning hunger after a night of drunken Scrabble tile war. I swung off the road and screeched to a stop in front of Penny's Diner, just missing a two foot lizard the color of bile.

"Holy shit. Birdie. Holy shit. I will drive after lunch."

11 unbuckled, straightened his t-shirt and reminded Ulak of the way he chastises me.

"Ulak, don't swear! It's unladylike!"

We piled into the diner, me and my secret Avon cache, 11 on my heels, Ulak and 9 dead last. Ulak walked with a chaotic lurch. He shielded his eyes from the pulsating sun. The wind lifted his hair this way and that, created an Einstein of Turkish tequila angst. 9 stooped toward the ground, watched a parade of black ants climb a granulated mountain. I ran to him, gently grabbed his elbow and man-handled him inside the door, to a formica booth accented with stuffed red benches.

"What kin I getcha?"

Our waitress leaned back, one hand on generous hip. She wore a sardonic grin and her hair in a teased blonde bouffant, though she couldn't have been older than twenty.

"A new driver. A sane woman. A large glass of tomato juice. Tabasco. Scrambled eggs."

Ulak continued, ordered toast, hashbrowns, bacon, sausage, ham, and a chocolate malt. The boys chose milkshakes and burgers and I added a large iced tea and a tuna melt to the feast. 11 opened his mouth the moment the waitress left the table.

"Ulak, do they have UFOs in Turkey?"

My Turkish friend raised his bushy eyebrows in surprised. He picked up a paper napkin and shook it open, spread it on his lap.

"Turkey is a modern country. Everything you have here, we have there."

11 nodded, his eyebrows raised in unknowing imitation. A semi roared past the diner, and our table shook in surrender.

"UFOs? You goin' to Roswell?"

Bouffant Waitress returned with our order. She leaned across the table, plunked plastic mugs at each place, a burger here, a tuna melt there. She smelled like cooking oil, like green chili, like a faded spritz of that Calvin Klein unisex fragrance. She stuck her tray under one arm and tilted her head.

"'Cause if you want UFOs, you need to stay here in Vaughn. We get 'em most nights. Just ask Charlie. He seen 'em, too."

She nodded toward the kitchen. I looked, but could see no Charlie. The boys looked, too. Ulak looked at his tomato juice. He opened a tiny bottle of hot sauce and shook three careful drops into the red liquid.

"I'm serious. We see them all the time out here. You don't need to go to Roswell. We got everything you need in Vaughn."

9 slurped his shake. He opened his mouth, head still dipped toward his drink, straw in mouth.

"No offense, but I personally have high expectations for that Roswell UFO museum. You don't have one of THOSE in Vaughn."

Bouffant Waitress laughed and meandered toward the only other occupied table in the diner. We didn't speak as we ate. Ulak poured a river of red over his food, and 11 whispered sotto voce to 9.

"They must have ketchup in modern Turkey."

Ulak took the wheel after brunch. He didn't see me sneak two Avon My Lip Miracle samples next to Bouffant's tip. He hummed a dated Britney Spears song as he drove, and I shushed 11 before he could point out that modern Turkey must have Britney Spears CDs. I didn't watch the horizon, didn't let rock and tumbleweed, rock and tumbleweed, endless rocks and tumbleweeds capture my attention. The miles churned like butter, made me feel soft, tired, melded with my boys, my pop-song-humming driver. And then I saw it! A whitewashed sign pocked with rancher's bullets welcomed us to the most mysterious location in all of New Mexico. The Roswell UFO Crash site.

To Be Continued...

Birdie also blogs at La Pajaro!