The Milksop from the Rio Grande
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Matt Talbot

Clifford Wappinger was a dolt. He had been walking for a few days now, nobody knew exactly how long, least of all Clifford himself. He was following the river, the Rio Grande, and walking along its bank. He had tried to reach in and snatch a fish once or twice, but the fish wriggled and that scared him enough to stop trying. Some tourists had tried to stop him and ask for directions, but Clifford ignored them or just shrugged and kept walking.
One night, as he was making camp, a strange sound caught his attention. He looked around but didn’t see anything. He looked up and saw a real life flying saucer! He watched as it landed not 50 feet from him. Even a dolt like Cliff knew this was unusual. A door opened and a furry man walked out. “That’s funny,” thought Clifford, “I was under the impression that aliens were scaly and lizard-like, or at the very least, not covered in hair!” See? Even dolts can have moments of clarity However clear this thought was, the fact remained that this alien was, in fact, hairy.
“Excuse me!” called the hairy alien, walking to Clifford. The alien was holding a cylinder. Clifford was shocked by the alien’s ability to speak English even more than its complexion. “Excuse me!” the alien repeated. “I know you can’t understand me,” he continued, speaking slowly, “but I was hoping you…” he pointed at Clifford, “could help…me…” he pointed at himself, “get this...” he went on, pointing at the spacecraft behind him, "...to Farley's?" The alien had the look of someone who knew his desperate actions were not going to be successful.
Clifford shook his head, “No, sorry.”
“Oh thank Gawd!” gasped the alien, “You speak Õïïôish! Is this the Pecos River?” he said, pointing.
“N-no, it’s the Rio Grande,” mumbled Clifford.
The alien looked down at his cylinder and rotated it slightly in his hand. “Oh, I got it now. Stupid! Listen, I could really use a navigator down here. What’ll you charge me?” Clifford shrugged and looked at his feet, kicking the dust.
“Fine, whatever. I’m not gonna negotiate. They reimburse me when I get back anyway. Just come with me and then name whatever price you want when we’re done, alright?” The alien said quickly and began walking back to the shaceship. “Come on, let’s Bløln!”
But Clifford just stood there. The alien sensed his rigidity and stopped walking. “What’s the problem?” he asked.
“I just. I just don’t know um, what…bleulin…means,” he said softly. The alien laughed.
“HA! Nice accent, buddy! Sorry, no, you know…bløln? You know, like this?” he gestured with both arms the sweeping motion of going.
Clifford understood. “Oh,” he said, “you mean go!” The alien looked taken aback.
“Go?” the alien repeated, “Listen, I still need you to navigate, but I’ll warn you right now, I’m not into that stuff,” and he turned and continued walking. Clifford decided to follow him.
They boarded the craft and entered a small chamber with no seats and a round panel on the floor. The alien sat down and poked at the panel. Lights lit and sounds sounded. Clifford looked around.
“Do you have a chair…or something?” he asked, not knowing if it was rude to do so.
“A what?” answered the alien, looking up at him.
“A chair. You know…” and he made the universal sign of sitting which I won’t bother to describe here.
“You mean a…” the alien searched for the word. “Toilet?” he guessed.
“No, not that. What do you sit down on?”
“The floor?”
“Oh. Well, on Earth we have these things…like…I guess like toilets, but you sit on them all the time. Like when you eat, you sit on a chair. Most people sit on chairs all the time.”
The alien shrugged. “I guess it’s just one of those things. It would appear that Õïïôish and your language are really close, but there are a few words that just don’t n∂≈’tle.”
Clifford decided to just remain silent. He pointed out the Rio Grande in relation to the alien’s intended destination and they finally touched down in Roswell a few minutes later. Clifford was a native New Mexican, so he knew all about the science fiction nuts who believed that there was a top secret base in Roswell that housed a crashed spacecraft and possibly alien remains as well. He was beginning to question his own beliefs.
“Are we going to Area 51?” he asked.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, dude,” the alien answered, still fiddling with the panel. “I just need to turn the invisibility cloak on here.”
“Wow, you can make your ship invisible?” marveled Clifford. The alien made a sound that Clifford took to be a raucous laugh and pointed at Clifford. “Man, you’re gullible! When we get back home, I’ve got a d’¥ÿ I want to sell you!”
Clifford was beginning to like the alien less and less.
The exited the ship. Clifford saw that they were on a roof, overlooking a bustling street, with people mingling outside restaurants and talking in the parking lot. The alien took out the cylinder and fiddled with it.
“Now, I can’t go down there because I’ll get noticed. And even if I was able to pass myself off as a native, your planet’s Õïïôish is just different enough that I’d give myself away pretty quickly.” Clifford thought the alien’s English was better than most Earthlings’, at least locally, but he didn’t bring it up.
“Which one of these looks right?” the alien said, showing Clifford the cylinder. The cylinder had a small screen that showed a pound note, then a ruble, then a yen note, then a Canadian dollar, then an American dollar.
“That one,” said Clifford and the alien pressed hard on both sides of the cylinder. When he let go of it, it had opened along a seam. Inside were dozens of bills in American currency. He took a handful out and gave it to Clifford.
“I need you to take this and go across the street to that place over there; Farley’s Food and Fun. Go inside, ask the guy at the door to speak with Mark Linner. He’ll let you go to the back of the place. Knock on the door marked Employees Only. Mark will invite you in. Hand him the money and tell him ‘Stop the procedure,’ and walk out. Don’t let him negotiate or ask you anything, got it?”
Clifford’s head was swimming. What the hell was all this? What was he getting himself into? The alien made it sound so simple, but Clifford was not good at lying and he told the alien as much.
“Hey, I’m not asking you to lie. Just don’t let them ask you anything and you won’t have to answer. Just ask for Mark Linner and do what I told you. Can you do that? Or have I come here and let you tag a long for nothing?” The alien was getting testy. Clifford was getting more and more nervous, but he was afraid of what powers the alien might have, so he agreed. He climbed the fire escape down to the street and jogged on over to Farley’s Food and Fun. He passed an Applebee’s and wondered what would happen if he were to just go in there instead and call a cab to take him away. But in the end, he went into Farley’s. The man inside the door was checking IDs and charging a five dollar cover because a local band was playing. Clifford peeled off a five dollar bill and flashed his ID. The bouncer noticed how nervous Clifford was and he checked the ID long and hard before finally letting him in. Clifford’s hands were shaking as he walked past the band and all the way to the back of the bar. He saw the sign and got ready to knock. Just then he realized he forgot to tell the bouncer he was here to see Mark Linner. Shit! He’d gone off script. What would happen? Should he go back and ask or just knock. He lifted his hand to knock, but he just couldn’t muster the chutzpah to do it. He went back to the bouncer and tried to interrupt him talking to another guy. He kept opening his mouth when there was a pause in their conversation, but he was never able to get the bouncer’s attention. He finally gave up and decided to just go knock. He walked back to the Employees Only door and before he could think too much, he knocked.
“Mark Linner?” he called to the door. It was loud; he had to shout a little. He heard a voice inside, but it was hard to tell if it had said to enter or not. He risked it and opened the door.
A small man with slicked back hair sat behind a desk. He was wearing a gold chain and a turtleneck shirt with a sport jacket. The door swung closed behind him. Clifford knew what to say and what to do. It was simple. He took out the money, slapped it on the table and said, “Stop the procedure,” and turned to leave.
“You’re five dollars short,” the man at the desk said evenly. Clifford hesitated and then walked to the door. It made a slight buzzing sound and then a click. He reached for the knob, but it was no use; it was locked. He turned around and faced the man at the desk.
“Look, mister, just take this and stop the procedure or whatever it is, don’t stop, I don’t really care. Just let me out, OK?” pleaded Clifford.
The man stood up and came around to Clifford. He came up to his chest.
“You don’t know what you’re getting into here, do you?” the small man asked.
Clifford looked around the room. He assessed the situation. He was being threatened by a man he didn’t know over a situation he didn’t understand by a goddamn alien from outer space. A strange, new feeling creeped up his spine. He straightened up and looked down at the man. He grabbed the lapels of his sport coat and pulled him up to eye level.
“Listen to me, you little shit,” Clifford spat through clenched teeth. “You are going to stop the motherfucking procedure or I will snap your neck and bury you in the desert. Do. You. Understand. Me.”
The little man’s eyes were wide as saucers. This made Clifford think of the alien and the rage took over. He threw the man against the wall and strode over to the desk. He felt under the desk, found the button and pressed it. The door clicked open and he strode out, past the band, past the bouncer and back into the street. The cool air caressed his face. Clifford walked into Applebee’s and asked the bartender if he could make a toll-free call. The bartender handed him the phone. Clifford called the operator and got the number for the NSA.
He returned to the roof twenty minutes later and found the alien leaning against the ship, chewing on what appeared to be a pigeon.
“How’d it go?” the alien asked with a mouthful of feathers.
Clifford hauled off and punched him in the face. Sirens wailed in the distance. From up here, Clifford could see them coming. He picked up the cylinder and put it in his jacket pocket, calmly climbed down the fire escape and started to walk home.