Tredecko

I was late for choir practice at Calvary Bible Church.

I was hungry that day. I had spent the week without eating, furiously fixing my interstellar flying discus in time for the full moon. My neighbor Claudia had brought me sandwiches. And though I snacked on the spirit of her generosity, I needed something stronger.

I was feeble in the organs. My moonbeam body faded behind my human disguise, and with it, the last hope for my people.

So when I got going down the road, you can imagine what was on my mind.

It was not the asphalt curving through the pines. It was not the wheel in my fingers. It was not my toes on the pedal. And it certainly was not the angry-man in the mirror riding six inches off my rear.

He honked his horn. The vibration yonked me up and down. Rubber yelling, agitating innards, perking the faux bristles on my imitation arms. This vibration was not of the kind that could sustain me. I felt my allergies flaring. Keep it together, Woz.

I pushed down on the accelerator. My truck, the High Horse neighed on its engine. We swung through the pines, asking more from our rolling thunders.

Still, the angry-man appeared, just as close in my mirror, honking like an exasperated goose.

Where did he have to go that was so important? Had he not eaten a full meal in over a week? Because I had not.

I was desperate for the vibrations that sustain my species. Any vibrations. They did not even have to be good ones.

If I could not satisfy the angry-man’s need for speed, then maybe I would feed on his study of patience. I eased up on my accelerator by a toe or two.

Crunch. An audible, but completely inedible crunch on my back bumper. The High Horse had been hit. Son of a godswallow.

In all the manuals I have read, in the event of a collision, all parties must move to the part of the road called shoulder, and engage in sensible conversations.

I put on my hazard lights and absorbed a few of those little clicking noises to patch the growing leaks in my human form before stepping out to negotiate. My bare feet sizzled nicely on the hot July asphalt. I needed all the energy I could get.

“What the hell were you doing back there?” said the angry-man. I could see lines of anger coming out of his body, barbed-wire strings on a busted guitar.

“Hello, friend,” I said.

“Where the hell did you learn how to drive? Clearly, you’re not from around here. I bet you’re one of those pussies from Frisco, come out to the country. Don’t know a thing about how things work around here.”

If he knew where I had learned how to drive, he would not speak to me in that way. Soon enough though. Soon enough.

“Are you a hungry-man, my friend?” I asked.

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

“It appears hunger makes you drive in anger. Would you like a sandwich? My neighbor Claudia makes a highly palatable tapenade that they say improves the eating experience significantly.”

He shifted from anger to confusion. The barbs on the man’s guitar strings began to unravel. Oh sweet music. The abrupt change in his vibration, the big delta swing, the crunch was there, and this one was edible.

My organs absorbed some sustenance. It was not any more nutritious than what the humans call potato chips, but it was enough to keep my moonbeams from showing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “Why are your eyes are so wide? Where the hell are your shoes?”

The man’s anger swung back. Another crunch.

I stepped towards him. I offered my hand to signal my intention for friendship.

He reached for his waist—right near the belly. Maybe he was hungry. I tried to take another bite, but this time, the swing in his vibration was hard as a rock.

There was panic in the air. I took another step closer to calm him. I reached for my sandwich: a second attempt at friendship.

He grabbed his death hammer from a hidden holster and pointed the holey side at me. Ragdabbins. My people skills still needed work.

“You stay the hell away from me!” His finger quivered on the lever.

It was now that I understood what was going to have to happen. I opened my mouth. And I smiled in the usuaal waay. 

My harmonics wailed into his weapon. Confusion. Chaos. Crunch.

Every component in the death hammer disassembled in the man’s hand. Its parts fell onto the asphalt, on the shoulder, between the pines.

“Butterscotch,” I said to him. “That is what they say the pine bark smells like. And that is exactly what I am tasting right now.”

“What the hell are you?!”

“Let me tell you something, friend. I am very hungry right now. And I am very late for choir practice. But I am willing to overlook the damage to my High Horse. Only one question remains.

“Will you be going on your way—with or without a sandwich?”

He went without a sandwich. Which was surprising to me because humans consider them a key source of nourishment.

This man’s anger must have come from an unfulfilled hunger deep inside of him, for what, I could not tell. There is still a lot I do not understand about humans.

When I arrived at choir practice, I put my neighbor’s sandwiches on the table.

Marsha, our leader, was very happy to see me. Like the man on the road, she could have been angry that I had kept them all waiting, that I had delayed the assemblage of a full ensemble. But instead, she joyfully showed me to my place in the back row.

And a one, and a two, and a—the chorus rose into the gospel. 

Each voice fell into place, throat by throat, harmonic resonance bouncing from chest to chest. Their song welled up inside me, my organs feeding on the delicious praise unto an ancient rockstar with locks like waves.

I took in one long breath of that sweet substance and opened my mouth in the usuaal waay. 

Every time I sang with them, the choir experienced the hint of a new presence in the room. For a moment, my sandwich transfigured into the man they most admired.

Maybe that was why these humans were so patient with me.

And, I was not hungry any more.