Delighted whoops and a few challenges rose from the woman as well as those seated nearby. Shaking his head at the ease with which they could be entertained, Ross moved to mix the next batch of orders. One of these days he’d have to devote some hard thinking to just how he was able to come up with so many facile, quick responses. As usual, he was too busy to do so while on the job.
A party of young soldiers was seated at one of the near tables, their attention more or less fixed on the overhead television. “Hey, alien man!” a corporal called out as he indicated the TV. “Who’s gonna win the game?”
“Who’s playing?” Ross Ed asked via Jed.
“Colorado State and Nebraska.”
“No contest,” insisted one of the corporal’s buddies. “CSU shouldn’t even be playing the Big Red!”
As usual, Ross replied without half thinking. “Colorado State will come within one field goal but fall short,” Jed seemed to say.
“No way!” another soldier insisted disparagingly. “Nebraska’s a three-touchdown favorite.”
“Analysis of the game as played thus far,” Ross Ed heard his own distant voice saying, “suggests that two of Nebraska’s three principal backfield performers are playing hurt. Or perhaps they stayed out late last night. Regardless of the explanation, it is clear they are not playing to capability. As a consequence I would expect fumbles to ensue, certainly by the last quarter.”
“Yeah, right.” The corporal made a good-natured rude gesture which Ross Ed tactfully ignored. With Nebraska up thirty-five to seven, no one minded when the other bartender switched to the much more competitive Oklahoma—Texas A&M game. By tomorrow morning the preceding exchange would be forgotten by all concerned, including Ross. None would remark on Nebraska’s remarkably close victory, pulling out the win in the final minutes by throwing Colorado State’s quarterback for a safety following a tremendous CSU fourth-quarter rally. It was only another football game.
“All right, I got one for you!” One of several businessmen seated at the bar winked knowingly at his assniates. “Even a dumb alien should be able to answer this one.” Addressing himself not to Ross Ed but to the motionless figure seated on the back counter, he inquired with forced seriousness, “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
“An existential query.” As always. Ross Ed didn’t wonder at his reply. He just let the words come, it was all that half-forgotten school work, he told himself. As he spoke he added soda to the three drinks lined up neatly before him.
“One would have to begin by assuming that a chicken brain exists that is capable of contemplating such a question. Failing that, it must be inferred that if confronted with such a choice, reaction would be wholly instinctive. Therefore, any actual deeper meanings would be utterly irrelevant from a chicken standpoint. A fowl proposition all around.”
The traveler who’d posed the question sat open mouthed on his stool, gawking at the alien corpse as if it had suddenly turned into one of the finalists in the Miss Hawaiian Tropic competition. Then his mouth closed slightly and laughter bubbled forth. His friends chided him good-naturedly and a fine time was had by
The night wore on, its path smoothed for those in the bar and restaurant by good food and drink. Ross Ed took his break, returned to resume his duties. Another couple of days and he’d be out of there, back on the road again, heading Pacific-ward. He was anxious to get going.
Three seats at the bar were vacated by vacationers, to be snatched up by a trio of men in their thirties. From their haircuts and attitude Ross suspected that they were officers from Fort Bliss, probably middle and junior grade. He was adept at recognizing all ranks of soldiers as well as civilians, certain tribal features readily manifesting themselves to those with experience in such matters.
“Evening, gentlemen.” He offered the usual expectant smile along with the familiar greeting. “What’ll it be?”
They placed their orders and he hustled to fill them, seeing that Mark, the other bartender, was momentarily swamped at his end of the counter. Like everyone else who worked in the bar, Mark didn’t begrudge Ross Ed his raise. The increased business the act brought in meant more tips for everyone while requiring little additional exertion on their part.
After watching and listening for a while, one of the men nodded in Jed’s direction. “Mighty interesting dummy you’ve got there, mister. Where’d you get it?”
Ross replied while drawing a beer. “I don’t think I’ve seen you fellas in here before.”
“We’re usually at the Marshal’s Club,” the man explained. “Or over at the Four corners. Thought we’d try someplace different tonight. How’s the action?”
“Pretty typical for a Friday night.” Ross sent the beer on its way.
“Seems mighty busy to me,” insisted another of the trio. Ice cubes clinked in his glass as he raised his drink. “Even for a Friday.”
“It’s a nice hotel,” argued the first. “Maybe we should’ve come in here sooner.”
“Been watching you.” The third member of the group had a soft yet penetrating voice, with more than a hint of a Midwestern accent. Indiana, Ross Ed thought, or maybe Ohio. “You’re
Ross shrugged. “It’s just something I fool around with. Keeps the work from getting boring.”
“No, really.” The man sipped his drink. “Like Matt said, your dummy is interesting. That suit … what’s it made of?”
Before Ross had to invent a reply, the first man interrupted. “Maybe it’s a uniform. Yeah, that’s it.” He pushed slightly forward, leaning over the bar in Jed’s direction. “What’s your rank, soldier?”
“I’ll only be rank if you open this suit,” Ross responded via Jed. “You’d think I stink. Of course, that’s what being dead does for you. Nobody makes a deodorant guaranteed for fifty years.”
The soldiers guffawed. The middle one finally regained control of his voice long enough to observe, “So you’re dead?”
“That’s it,” Jed explained via Ross Ed.
“You look pretty good to me.” Resuming his seat, the first soldier turned back to the bartender. “Come on, where’d you get it? You buy it, or put it together yourself?”
“Bought it. At Geppettos ‘R’ Us.”
More laughter, proving that the soldiers were literate as well as lit. “Does that mean that nose gets longer if it tells a lie?” the second officer wondered.
“That’s a third arm, not a nose,” Ross Ed explained as a roar erupted from the crowd. On the suspended TVs, Texas had just scored. Any Oklahoma fans in the bar had the good sense to keep silent.
“Hey, I got one for you!” The man who interrupted was almost too drunk to stand, but the seated soldiers agreeably made room for him at the bar. “My kids are always asking me this and no matter what answer I give ’em it never seems to satisfy ’em.” When he slugged back beer his head wobbled like a cheap doll in the rear window of an old sedan. “Why is the sky blue?”
“Because it’s sad,” Ross Ed heard himself replying.
Lowering his head slightly, the man goggled at the figure of Jed while his brain struggled to digest this reply. Around him, the three officers struggled to repress their laughter. Then a smile broke out on the questioner’s face and he nodded appreciatively.
“I gotta remember that! The kids’ll love that. ’Because it’s sad.’ That’s great, man!” More than satisfied, he staggered back into the milling crowd.
The third officer had placed his beer on the counter. Now he nudged it with a finger. ‘fat’s a very interesting answer. Why, pray tell, is the sky sad?” He was speaking to Jed but watching Ross Ed.
“Pollution-ache,” came the reply. The soldier pondered this as his two companions turned suddenly to the nearest hanging TV.
