The Invasion

“Do you guys see that?” Ralph said to the others. He pointed to the water.

The four of them were huddled around the table, overlooking Lake Douglas from the second floor screened porch, passing around a skunk. Phil Collins’ “In The Air Tonight” was playing in the background.

They turned to look. A single, purple light flashed from the center of the lake.

“Probably just a night fisherman,” Doug said, chugging his Miller Lite.

“At night? I don’t think so, pawtnah,” Ralph said with a draw. He looked again. “What the… look fellas!”

The purple light now had comrades. There was a red light on the left and a yellow one in the middle, all flashing, resembling a broken horizontal traffic light.

“There’s beaucoup lights out there!” Jasper said.

“C’mon, let’s go check it out!” Ralph jumped out of his chair, knocking his head on the ceiling fan. They all laughed.

“Shhh! Keep it down, old man!”

“Sorry!” he whispered, scratching his dome.

Ralph was the old, wise sage of the group. The uncle to Jasper (and super-uncle to Doug and Vern), he had experienced the lust of women from the open road to the painful destruction of the Vietnam war. His sister, Annie, was also killed in a drunk driving accident back in the 60s. Her driver’s license, sitting inside the front of his wallet, was another subtle reminder of how fragile this life thing really was.

He had been around the world twice, and it showed in his appearance. His grey beard hung between his chin and beer belly, holes and paint stains visible from his white pocket shirt. But through it all, he still had a youthful spirit, a jovial folksinger that didn’t dress to impress. That’s why the others admired him so much. He didn’t care what others thought about him. His reverence for life was strong. And he found beauty in everything.

“Let’s go make some memories. What do you say?” He patted Vern on the shoulder.

“Fuck it, I’m down.” Vern passed the roach to Doug. “Kill it, dude.”

“Unsubscribe,” he said, swatting it away. “I only do beer.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot you’re a weenie.”

“Whatever, bro! I tried it before, but it doesn’t do anything for me.”

This brotherly banter was constant.

Doug was an addict of creativity, always sticking his hands in the multiple cookie jars of the arts. He was all over the place, attempting to sluice the gold from the dirt, honing the Razor’s Edge of Knowledge that confidence brings. But underneath his glorious, long golden locks, he was wound tight, with a stick so far up his ass that calling him high-strung would be doing the word a disservice. He always implied that the one thing he believed in was being a walking contradiction, that he wanted it to appear that he was nuts. That’s why Ralph always called him Hollywood: he was destined to be in show business. Whatever it was that Doug was chasing, he had no idea. But he knew he had to get it.

Vern was the younger, rebellious one, sporting full-sleeve tattoos and a Dr. Dre’s “The Chronic” t-shirt. He was loose and nimble. To him, it was the only way to do things. While his brother was hell-bent on upholding an implacable facade, brimming in naivete on accomplishing things with perseverance rather than talent, Vern focused only on what he was naturally good at. He had found what he was looking for; there was no need for the wild goose chase.

Hollywood and The Natural. One complex, one simple.

But they were both artists in their own way, one being a virtuoso and the other a hurricane. The irrational world of creativity not only made sense to them, it had moral purpose. They always fed off each other's idiosyncrasies, embracing the avant-garde lifestyle by soaking in garage talk for hours. But like most siblings, they were different.

However, they would always be bonded by one universal tragedy. Their dad, Donnie, had passed away when they were teenagers. It was their cross to bear, one that lingered for many years. When the memories resurfaced, they gravitated to their uncles for guidance and support. Horrid grief was simply a part of life's cruel routine, but somehow, the way the uncles assuaged this knowledge always cheered their nephews up.

But they could never understand that type of pain. Even though they bickered a lot, they knew that they always had each other. And besides, their mother had said it best: their father never really left; he lived vicariously through the both of them. Whenever they would fight, it was just his dual personalities clashing against each other.

Vern shook his head and gave the weed to his uncle instead.

“Hold it for me, will ya?” Jasper said.

“What?”

“I can’t grasp it!” He tried to pull his fingers together.

Jasper, the younger uncle of Doug and Vern, suffered from Guillain-Barre Syndrome, which hindered the movement of his muscles. Although he had a physical limitation, he was determined mentally, setting lofty goals to regain his mobility. “In two weeks, I’ll be back to mowing yards!” he would say. He tried to speak his words into existence, simmering them in vitality. But he knew it would take time.

Thankfully, he had a supportive family that would help him through it, cooking him meals and helping him up the stairs. And he always loved spending time with his nephews. Not only did they keep him young and motivated, but they also reminded him of his older brother, Paul. Like Annie and Donnie, he was taken away too soon, succumbing to a senseless scuffle outside a bar. Jasper was reminiscing about it, saying that he was supposed to meet his brother on that fateful night.

Paul, a martial arts aficionado, had his nunchucks concealed as a brute approached. But before he could strike, another drunk pushed him from behind. His head smashed to the pavement.

The chilling irony about it? Donnie died the same way: blunt head trauma to the skull.

He also had a friend with him. His name was Paul.

Three family members, all dying in the presence of alcohol. It’s amazing any of these guys drank the sauce at all.

Vern sighed and leaned in, squinting his displeasure. Jasper’s lips curled up toward the dying blunt, trying not to get burned by the orange fuse. After a bout of coughs, followed by laughs from the others, he composed himself and stood up.

“Okay, let’s go.” Jasper led the group down the stairs. In their minds, they were being discrete. But in reality, they were just a bunch of blustering bumblers of the night, carousing in high-energy, adolescent chatter.

“Hey, I got one.” Vern couldn’t control his laughs, trying to say a joke. “What’s worse than having ants in your pants?”

“Aw, don’t give me that stupid shit now,” Ralph said. “And why don’t I have a beer?”

“Roaches?” Jasper asked.

“You almost did if it wasn’t for this bozo holding it for you,” Doug chimed in.

Vern composed himself. “Nope… uncles.” He whacked Jasper and Ralph like Phil Collins on the drums.

Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum, ba dum, boom boom!

A slew of delirious laughter ensued. Fun was hard to come by for this crew. The four of them had been through waves of anguish; it was time for a change in fortune. They were letting the universe know that they were enjoying themselves now.

At first, it rewarded them. Two comets (Doug called them “golden rocks passing the earth”) zipped through the stars. Crickets chirped in harmony, a dog barked solos in between. The moon, a waxing gibbous, lingered in the distance near the house, illuminating these four characters true, repressed forms.

But when they approached the water, both their mouths and feet came to a halt.

The three blinking lights former into a triangle, hovering and dancing over the water. The unidentified vehicle glided with grace, creeping towards them, buzzing near the deck.

"Hey..." Jasper repeated over and over like a bellicose auctioneer, his voice echoing off the lake.

No response.

“Maybe it’s a submarine…” Vern said.

“It’s probably just a pontoon boat,” Doug said. “You know, one with a trolling motor?”

“You would think it’s something lame like that.”

“And you think it’s a submarine? In a lake? How high are you?”

“Excuse me for having an imagination!”

“Will you two knock it off!” Ralph said. “This could be a watershed moment!”

He glanced over at Jasper, who was shaking his head. They were thinking the same thing.

Hollywood and The Natural. Two dumb-ass white boys.

Then the lights vanished, leaving only a shadow behind.

The band froze standing onstage, first blinded by lights, now looking into blackness. It’s as if it made every place look the same.

Steve Martin once said that for every performance, darkness is essential: because if light is thrown on the audience, they don't laugh.

The guys weren’t laughing anymore.

“Fuck this!” Ralph screamed, beelining back up the hill.

“Where are you going?” Vern said. “This was your idea!”

“I have a better one!” Ralph galloped to his white pickup truck, the one he called White Lightning, after his childhood horse, huffing and puffing all the way.

“Is he high-tailing it out of here?” the brothers asked each other. “That’s messed up, Ralph!”

“Just trust me! Hold what you got!” The soothing voice of Ralph had faded, now replaced with a clamorous one.

They thought he was pulling a ruse. He was the oldest of the group. And the slowest. He knew how natural selection works; he wasn’t the fittest, so he got a head start to survive.

But he didn’t leave. After unlocking the door, he flickered his high beams across the water.

“See anything?”

Nothing was there. There was an eery stillness where the lights once twinkled.

“Nope,” Jasper said. The disappointment in his voice suggested that he wanted something there. His curious greeting, a forgotten line hanging in the dead air, searching for someone, anyone, to reply back.

Two royal blue martins, their feathers bright like the lights, now appeared on top of the neighboring boat dock. Did they see anything? Before they could ask, Ralph ran back down the hill to his nephews, startling the birds, sending them flapping into the marsh to the left of the lake.

“Welp, so much for seeing aliens,” Vern said. He launched a rock into the water.

But there was no splash.

Out of the depths, a green light emerged. Two shape-shifting figures appeared, like spirits floating in the abyss. They looked like humans: one had brown hair and a goatee, the other sporting blonde hair.

But they basked in a warm, white light, intertwined amongst the green one. The water was like soap bubbles, steam coming off the grass as they approached closer. It’s as if they were angels.

The four of them stared ahead, at each other, then back to the water, trying to comprehend what they were looking at. But one thing they did know: they were no longer in control. They were now iotas, capitulating to this bizarre, aquatic ambience of higher-beings that floated in front of them.

The universe responded. Playtime was over.