When my brother, Andy, went away to college, he left me his fishing pole, a well-read copy of The Wind in the Willows, and a stack of Playboys. I’m convinced that the person Mom and Dad delivered to the university yesterday was an alien replacement. I think the real Andy’s on a UFO headed toward another galaxy to star in some junior-high-age ET’s science fair project. Let me tell you why.
First, my actual brother Andy would never leave his fishing pole behind. He loves his fishing pole. He’d fish in the college president’s personal koi pond if he thought he could get away with it, and he’d clean his catch in the kitchen sink, leaving fish guts all over to gross somebody out like he always did to me. The only way he’d leave the pole behind is if it’s broken. I just checked and, dammit, I’m right, the tip’s broken off and the reel’s a snarl of eight-pound-test line with a broken crank. Typical. “Great gift, Andy. Thanks a heap,” I say to his bare mattress sagging in the corner of our shared room.
The stack of Playboy magazines puzzles me even more. Why would an eighteen-year-old guy leave a pile of girlie magazines for his fifteen-year-old sister? Criticism? Inspiration? Does he think I’m, you know, one of those lesbians? Well, I’m not. I mean, I looked. Of course I looked, but all those women are so much plastic, like molded and painted dolls. And they sound so stupid, “I love puppies and sunsets, fluffy bathrobes and long walks in the rain,” they write in the profiles across from the centerfolds. Puleeeze. Just by looking at them, you can see they love themselves, fame, and money, and not necessarily in that order. Only women who are totally fascinated with themselves would subject their bodies to the kind of surgery it takes to look that perfect. I’ll bet they’ve got their makeup tattooed on and their hair is stiff, like a wig, so when they roll out of bed, they’re ready to go. No mascara-smeared raccoon eyes and bedhead for them. And their boobs? They stick out of their chests like flesh-colored snow cones. Obviously fake, and hard too, I suspect. Not nice and soft and bouncy like mine are. Oh, you don’t think a fifteen-year-old can have a nice rack? Well, drop by Pearson’s Quarry some hot July afternoon and check them out. Mine will be the ones in the turquoise Hawaiian print bikini.
Back to the magazines—now that I’ve paged through them, they’re going right in the recycling bin. Or maybe I’ll pass them on to my friend Robert, who, although he’s a total computer geek, might get a kick out of them. Plus, his mother’s a real tight-ass and would freak if she thought her baby boy was looking at pictures of naked women. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Anyway, my real brother Andy would never leave his jack-off-under-the-covers-when-he-thinks-I’m-asleep girlfriends behind.
The well-thumbed copy of The Wind in the Willows freaks me out the most. The Andy I’m familiar with only reads Field & Stream or Road & Track. Maybe he’ll read the Reader’s Digest in the bathroom when he’s there for a long sit without his fishing or car mags, but that’s it for his reading material. So, I figure there’s no way my dopey brother would ever read an old, thick, very British children’s book. I mean, I loved the story of Mole and Rat and Toad when Mom read it to us when we were little, but Andy always complained that he didn’t understand it. It makes absolutely no sense that he’d have a book he hated in with his prized possessions, now does it?
To my way of thinking, the evidence he left behind is proof that my true brother is never coming back. That green-lights my plan to convert his half of the room into a lounge for me and my buds. Think about it: if he’s not the real Andy, how can he complain I’m in his space (if he ever comes for a visit) when the real Andy’s in outer space? Everyone who watches old movies and other sci-fi shit on late-night TV knows aliens are totally stiff and clueless when it comes to acting like actual humans. He’ll probably just laugh and ruffle my hair like some 1950s sitcom brother and go sleep on the couch.
I bag the mags for Robert and toss the broken fishing pole in the trash. I tuck the copy of The Wind in the Willows into my nightstand; I’ll start reading it tonight. Just as I’m shoving the mattress out the window so it’ll flop in the backyard, the phone rings.
“Hello?” I can hear what sounds like a cattle drive in my ear.
“Hey, little sis, how you doing?”
It’s Andy; he must be between classes. Shields up. “Fine.”
“Listen,” he says, “I’m sorry I left a few things in the room for you to deal with. You can toss that old pole in the trash. It can’t be fixed. The Battle of Hastings was fought in 1066. Bag up the Playboys and either toss them or pass them on to Robert. He can use the distraction from his computers.”
“Okay.” This is creepy.
“I found that copy of The Wind in the Willows in the bookstore here when I came to buy textbooks during orientation. I remember you liked it when Mom read it to us, so I thought I’d surprise you with your own copy. Like it?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“One more thing. L-a-r-v-a-e. Why don’t you turn my half of the room into a place you and your girlfriends can use for your gossip sessions and stuff? Either toss out my mattress or use it as a couch. I’ll crash in the living room when I’m home.”
I look at the mattress, half in and half out of the window. “Sure. I’ll do that.”
“Hey, great talking to you. I’ve gotta run, got a class. See you at Thanksgiving. I miss you, sis.”
I hang up the phone, and goosebumps run up my arms. I flop onto my bed to let my brain stop spinning before pulling Andy’s mattress back in. Only one thought runs through my mind. I’m right. Aliens abducted Andy.
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Great story! I like that we are left with the thought that the brother was abducted.
Really creative and wonderful. I’m glad to have read it! ❤️