THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL, Part One

The remainder of Michael’s sleep was surprisingly restful, and would have extended for longer except for his glimpsing someone sitting at the foot of his bed. Gentle rays of sunlight pushed in through his bedroom curtains to illuminate a pretty, dark-haired girl staring at him forlornly.

“Can I watch cartoons on your TV?” she inquired.

He shot a glance over at the bedroom door; the chair was still propped up under the doorknob. “How did you get in here?” he gasped.

She did not respond.

He shoved the covers to his feet, minding not to sound too severe. “What’s your name?”

“Brae.”

“Are you from around here, Brae?”

The girl nodded. (She was not going to be talkative.)

Fetching his slippers, he queried her further. “Can you show me how you came in?”

The child dropped from her perch and stepped into the half-open walk-in closet. She pulled on a dressing mirror at the back of it to uncover a narrow passageway in the wall. Michael fended off his claustrophobia to follow her down to a slit of light at the other end. When she pushed on a second panel, sunshine poured in to highlight a dingy black suitcase blocking the path. The slight child readily maneuvered around it, but on reaching the piece of luggage, the resident picked it up and carried it out into the closet of an adjoining bedroom. Flabbergasted, he set it aside to accompany his accidental guest back out into the hallway, questioning her again at the stairs. “How did you get into my house?”

“I followed you in,” she said, bounding down ahead of him.

The man shuffled down to find her standing in front of his TV. She was glumly flipping the knob.

“I don’t have any electricity,” he informed her. “Not until later, anyway.”

Her pout was impervious to adult reasonableness.

Seeing her disappointment, he persuaded his apparent neighbor to join him the kitchen. She clambered up into a chair and poked her head up over the Formica table in the manner of a Raphael cherub; half a sticky bun was handed her on a plate.

Michael tried to leverage his bribe. “Are there anymore secret doors in the house, Brae?”

The girl nibbled quietly around the edges of the pastry, though she may as well have been an elfin creation out of The Innocents or Village of the Damned for all the bachelor’s ineptitude at reading children.

The gooey treat sufficed to distract Brae for all of ten minutes, and after sending her more merrily on her way Michael returned to his bedroom to dress and to nail shut the hidden panel in the closet.

There was little evidence beyond the testimony of a little girl (of no acquaintance) that he had in fact sleepwalked through not only a narrow corridor (also unknown to him) but down a dark staircase to exit the house. It seemed more probable that the child, accustomed to using the premises, fabricated the story on finding his backdoor unlocked. In haste and fatigue the previous night, he had left it unsecured. It seemed the most likely scenario, especially given the bright, untroubled sunlight beckoning through the window curtains.

With the dilemma somewhat rectified in his mind, the artist was desirous to explore more of his new city. As he was going out a fellow was stepping up the stoop to meet him. The apologetic man introduced himself as Andrew Tommen, the caretaker for Willis Quadrangle. He expressed regret about the power situation, and about not being able to call the prior day, yet was eager to see the new resident comfortably settled. The tenant seized the opportunity to voice concern about the possibility of mice. Mr. Tommen looked surprised, but told him he would set traps to allay his fears. Neither man was inclined to small talk, so the painter picked up his adventure where he left off.

Walking along, Michael felt both liberated and directionless. It was important for him to make a “safe map” of the town. This was done not only to have a familiar and tested route to travel each day but also to guard against appearing “out of place” or “lost” wherever he should go alone. Such considerations, liked his rehearsed replies and inconspicuous manner of dress, were always pressing and paramount for the socially uneasy man. For the time being at least, the beauty of his neighborhood was the one thing upon which he could agreeably resolve his mind.

These houses did not look like the dilapidated, overpriced rental properties he saw driving in the day before. Whereas those flimsy dwellings were slapped together to gull parents to pay whatever to put their off-to-college kids into housing, these more established abodes were sturdy affairs with tiered gardens, slate walkways, and sycamore and ginkgo trees. They were obviously owned by the only people in town with money: professors and administrators of Purcell College. The yards were so tastefully maintained that when the painter saw a yard gnome in one of them, he was immediately drawn to it. He realized on closer inspection it was actually a diminutive man covered in white greasepaint and wearing elfish, winkle-toed shoes and fake whiskers. Another person with a camcorder was across the street and presumably filming the reactions of passersby. Michael did not want to get caught up in it, so continued up the lane to enter the main campus.

Spidery ivy crawled over the gothic architecture of the college, and stone gargoyles peered down from roofs between the branches of oak trees. There was little austerity to the buildings, however, due to the use of a warm native limestone. The brick footpaths that wove through the campus were thick with autumnal foliage, which was falling faster than grounds people could rake it up. Unexpectedly, and quite out of character with the manicured surroundings, a gaunt figure with a metal detector and garbage bag emerged from behind a tree. He neither looked nor smelled like a student.

His raspy question came out of nowhere. “Wudda ye supposed ta tell Gort?”

The pedestrian felt crowded whenever someone cut him on the sidewalk, but it was unthinkable the guilty party should impose upon his thoughts, too. He endeavored to be civil. “Pardon?”

“Wudda ye supposed ta tell Gort?” the old timer repeated.

The man was wearing an eye patch and grubby tailcoat. A stuffed parrot with feathers fused under a heavy coat of fluorescent green spray-paint was perched on his shoulder and held in place with a coat hanger. Michael knew the term “Gort” well. It was from the film, The Day the Earth Stood Still. He gave the rest of the phrase. “Gort, Klaatu barada nikto.”

The fellow’s furrowed face softened, as if to laugh, but the gauge on his metal detector required attention. “Dos be metal grommets in yore shoe, matey?” he inquired in pirate-speak.

Michael stared down at his feet in the unlikely possibility they were.

The treasure hunter was brusque. “Den side aside! Ye be parked on me booty!” He reached down to fetch a soda can and gave the taller man a good looking-over into the bargain. “Ye must be da Remote Man I heer’d tell ‘bout. Dey didn’t think I were listenin’.”

The vagrant reeked of liquor, and the pirate getup could only be in anticipation of Halloween.

“I seen ‘em ‘round town wearin’ black overall,” he continued. “Dey be rather noticeable of late since da city tore down da ol’ fire ‘ouse ta make way fur construction. I seen ‘em shoppin’ out at da low-end stores on da west side, tryin’ ta keep a low profile.”

Michael looked down the sidewalk in an escape.

The man was unfazed by the cool reception. “Dey been livin’ out of a suitcase mostly, I ‘spect.” He set his bulging bag down to drop the can into it and glanced up at the baffled newcomer. “Ya know da suitcase? Da one dey carry da Face of God round in.”

“Like the Shroud of Turin?”

The man turned disagreeable. “I know’d what da Shroud of Turin be, matey. I were dare when dey wrapped Jesus up in like a cheap suit. No. What I be talkin’ ‘bout were da Face of God. Da Big Enchilada—super-sized wid extra packets of fancy ketchup! Dey ‘aul dat sucker out in daylight and it's goodnight nurse and every man fur 'emself!”

Michael pretended to understand.

“Dey needs a body, ‘course,” the pirate stated matter-of-factly. “Ta make da Big Hand-off from da Man Upstairs to us mere mortals, dey needs a Remote Man. Dey ‘ad me in dare sights fur a while, like seagulls circling a baby left too long in a stroller, but I be sleepin’ under a different viaduct ‘er night—sleepin’ under ten feet of concrete. Dey moved on to greener waters.”

“And is being a ‘Remote Man’ a good thing or a bad thing?”

The man whispered, guardedly, “Ever had a frontal lobotomy?”

A young woman just then walked by, prompting the landlocked seafarer to lift his detector and wave it briskly over her purse in an exploratory way. She threw him a cutting stare, but it barely registered.

He turned his attention back to Michael without missing a beat. “I weren’t want ta be in yore shoe—let’s leave it at dat! Dey didn’t just pick ye out of a phonebook, ye know. Best batten down the hatch. Check yore storm winders. Dey be enterprisin’—ambidextrous. Dey’ll find a way ta get in yore ‘ouse, like termites or dos roaches dat eat up yore stereo ‘quipment. Dey may’ve already found ye as be, so don’t write yore social security number down on anythin’. Walk ‘ome a different way each night. Keep yore eye open. Dey can assume any form.”

“What about mice?”

“What ‘bout ’em?”

“I have mice in my house. I’ve heard them.”

There was a squint. “Do dey talk ta ye?”

“Not yet.”

The man bristled. “Den dey just be damn mice. Don’t waste my time wid it.” He quickly reconsidered. “Dat be the way The Exorcist started, ye know?”

“The Exorcist?”

“Da mother heer’d mice in da attic.”

“I thought it was rats?”

The ruffled man grunted.

Michael was clueless for how to extricate himself from the impossible conversation. “I’ll keep in mind what you said.”

The drunk mellowed a little. “Look, matey. I be tryin’ ta put ye in da know. Put ye ‘in da paint’ with five seconds left on da shot clock.” He tarried to fling the bag over his shoulder. “Anudder thing: da name be an anagram.”

“That’s from Rosemary’s Baby, right?”

The old man was now the one looking confused. “Never heer’d of it.”

Michael waited until the fellow was out of sight before continuing his adventure, though with a little less enthusiasm.