ABDUCTION

I was sitting there on the couch, a Saturday afternoon, feet up on the coffee table, watching the Cubs lose another one. It was only the third inning and already they were trailing the Braves 8–1. Do you realize the Cubs haven’t won a pennant since 1945? Do you realize the Cubs haven’t won a World Series since 1908? This is 1980. That’s seventy-two years. And I’ll tell you what, they’re sure as hell not going to win anything this year, not the way everyone keeps swinging for the goddamn fence instead of just trying to get on base, instead of trying to manufacture runs. I don’t know why I bother watching these losers, I really don’t. But anyway, like I was saying, the game was in the third inning, bottom half, Cubs batting, two outs, nobody on, then all of a sudden a bunch of skinny little men with big bald heads and gigantic eyes come marching and mumbling up to the couch and start tickling me, digging their long bony fingers in my ribs until I’m wiggling and giggling so hard I black out. Next thing I know, I’m waking up and it’s the ninth inning, Cubs down 10–3.

I called up Jane.

“What do you want?” she says.

That’s how she speaks to me these days. I deserve it. I fucked up. That’s why I’m here in this little apartment. There was this lady barber, named Laura. I don’t go there anymore, not since four haircuts ago. I go to this guy Lou or his partner Ted, whoever’s there, it doesn’t matter—they don’t press their tits against my arm and whisper in my ear what a beautiful head of hair I’ve got, or finally one day go to the door and flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED and come walking back with a little smile on their face. By the way, I’m forty-one years old and although I still have all my hair I wouldn’t necessarily call it beautiful, I’d call it gray. But who am I to argue with a barber?

Anyway, on the phone with Jane I tell her I’m not a hundred percent sure but I think I may have been abducted by aliens.

“What happened.”

I tell her.

“They were tickling you?”

“Next thing I know, it’s six innings later.”

“And that’s all you remember?”

“That’s it.”

“Sure you didn’t just fall asleep and dream it?”

“It’s possible.”

“I would say probable.”

“Right, you’re the only one who gets abducted, the only one they ever choose.”

“Jesus, Ed, listen to yourself, you sound just like a child.”

Jane went to a hypnotist after she kept having these little “gaps.” She’s always been pretty spacey, but I told her if she was really worried she ought to go see a doctor. She had this theory, though, and went to a hypnotist who put her under and, sure enough, pulled out all these details about her being snatched away on a regular basis by aliens. She’s never shared them with me, these details, but she’s dropped a few hints. Apparently she has herself quite a good time up there. I asked her, was she talking about sex? She told me that’s none of my business, not anymore. This has all happened, you see, in the last year or so, since we’ve been separated. The only definite thing she’s told me concerning her abductors is that they’re all marvelous dancers. So is Jane, as it happens. Or anyway, she thinks she is. We’ve gone dancing quite a lot over the years. I’ve never said anything but it’s a little embarrassing how show-offy she gets on the floor, especially after a couple drinks.

She tells me now to try and describe what my visitors looked like.

“Very small, very skinny, with great big heads,” I tell her.

“Bald?”

“Completely.”

“And huge black eyes?”

“There you go.”

“Hate to say it, Ed, but they sound like aliens out of a dozen different sci-fi movies.”

“Yeah, well, yours sound like they’re straight out of some beach party movie with Annette Funicello.”

She laughed. Which is something I’ve always liked about Jane: she’s not above laughing at herself sometimes.

“And what’s-his-name, Tab Hunter,” I added.

“Frankie Avalon,” she corrected, and told me if I really wanted her to, she would come over and try hypnotizing me, find out what happened, if anything—“which I doubt very much,” she added.

“Since when do you know how to hypnotize people?”

“I’ll just do what he does. It doesn’t involve much. You just have to trust whoever’s doing it. Remember that word, Ed? ‘Trust’?”

After we got off the phone I ran around the apartment picking up stuff, then jumped in the shower and afterwards got into all clean clothes, including underwear.

She knocked, just once.

When I opened the door she walked right past me, wearing this yellow sundress I like a lot. I told her how nice she looked.

“Yeah, yeah.”

She had me sit on the couch while she sat on the coffee table facing me, our knees not quite touching. She held up a finger and moved it slowly left and right, telling me to keep my eyes on it. She said I was beginning to get very sleepy, that my eyelids were getting very heavy, that they were slowly closing, and I closed them slowly. She said I was falling into a sleep, into a deep sleep, into a very . . . deep . . . sleep. She asked me if I was asleep.

I answered in a sleepy voice, “Yes. I am.”

But I wasn’t.

I didn’t want to go under. I was afraid to. On the phone she mentioned trust, right? Well, the truth was, I didn’t trust her. She’s still got quite a lot of anger over what happened, and I wasn’t sure what she might do if given the chance, once she had me in her power. She might try to have some nasty fun with me, make me think I’m a monkey or a dog or a cat or something, have me do things, humiliating things.

But, see, I didn’t want her to know I didn’t trust her. So that’s why I told her I was under, asleep.

“All right,” she said, sounding kind of excited that it actually worked. “Now: I want you to tell me again. What happened? You were watching the ballgame, and then . . . ?”

“It was the third inning,” I said in this slow, hypnotized voice, eyes closed. “The Cubs were losing, eight to one. They’d already made two pitching changes.”

“Then what?”

“They were now batting. But instead of trying to get some runners on base, they were all swinging for the fence, they were all trying to—”

“Enough about the Cubs. You’re sitting there watching the game. Then all of a sudden . . . ?”

“All of a sudden they came marching in, shoulder to shoulder, up to the couch, and started tickling me.”

“And what do you remember next, Ed? What happened after that?”

She meant did I find myself on a flying saucer. Well, by now I was pretty certain I wasn’t really abducted. The little men were just a goofy dream. I fell asleep, that’s all. The Cubs will do that to you.

“Think, Ed.”

Jane seemed to want me to remember being abducted. And I wanted it, too. It would be something exciting we could share, Jane with her aliens, me with mine—although, to be honest, I don’t think Jane’s been abducted any more than I have. But I know she likes to believe it. So this would be something to help us maybe reconnect a little. So I went ahead and made something up. I probably should have thought a little harder and come up with something better, but she was waiting, so I continued with the baseball theme and told her the next thing I knew I was sitting in a dugout.

“A baseball dugout, you’re saying.”

“Yes,” I said. “That is correct.”

“So . . . you were dreaming.”

I told her no, that is not correct. I told her I was sitting there wearing a baseball uniform much too small for me and a cap that was much too large, and as I looked along the bench I saw all these little skinny guys with big heads, these aliens, my teammates.

“So you’re saying you found yourself . . . on an alien baseball team.”

“That is correct.” Then I told her how good these guys played the game, how they played the old-fashioned way: drawing walks, bunting, hitting behind runners, stealing bases, manufacturing runs.

“Ed . . .”

I was into it now. It was the bottom of the ninth, I told her, two outs, we’re down by a run, a guy on base, and they send me in to pinch hit. I go up there with this Little League–sized bat and take a nice easy swing, just trying to make contact, and what would have been a single in a human field turns out to be a home run, the field is so dinky. Game over, we win, and they’re all waiting for me at home plate, jumping all over me, getting me down on the ground, tickling me, digging their fingers in, and the next thing I know . . . I’m back on the couch.

I kept my eyes closed, waiting.

She finally spoke. “That was a dream, Ed. You fell asleep during the game and had a very silly, juvenile, wish-fulfilling dream.”

I tell her, “No. That is not correct.”

“That is correct. You’ve wasted my time.” She was quiet then. “Are you still under?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you still seeing that woman, that . . . barber bitch?”

“No,” I told her. “I am not.”

Then she said, “I want you to tell me something, Ed.”

“I will try.”

“I want you to tell me exactly what it was about this woman that appealed to you. Will you tell me that please?”

“She liked my hair,” I answered.

She was quiet for a second. “She liked your hair?”

“That is correct.”

And it is correct. Right away, my very first time in the chair, Laura whispered in my ear, pressing a breast against my arm, “You have a beautiful head of hair, do you know that? So thick and luxurious,” running her hand through it. She was quite a bit younger than me but seemed very excited by my hair—sexually, I’m saying. I felt like an exciting person, sexually and otherwise, like my hair was just the tip of the iceberg. I never cheated on Jane before, not even close. The whole time with Laura, I felt like I was out of my mind. That was the excuse I kept giving myself: I’m out of my mind. I started going for a trim every other Saturday, same time. Laura had this little room in the back of the shop, with a couch. I would usually sit and she would straddle me, her hands in my hair. We went on like that for six whole months. Then it was my birthday and Jane got me this incredible gift, a baseball signed by my guy, Ron Santo, former Cubs third baseman, a ballplayer with a tremendous heart. I couldn’t stand it. I burst into tears and told her about Laura.

I still had my eyes closed as Jane said to me now, very calmly, very factually, “You are a piece of shit, Ed. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said to her. “That is correct.”

“A complete and utter piece of shit.”

“That is correct.”

“Stop saying that.”

“All right.”

She gave a sigh and said wearily, “Okay, I’m going to count to three and you’ll wake up. One . . . two . . .”

I waited.

She was thinking, I could tell. Then she said, “I’m going to count to three and you will wake up wanting me so bad it hurts. You will be utterly, totally, pathetically desperate for me. You will be like a . . . like a pathetic little dog.”

See? What did I tell you? She wanted me to sit up and beg.

“Do you understand?” she said.

“I understand,” I said.

“All right. One . . . two . . . three.”

I opened my eyes, looked at her in that yellow sundress and began panting rapidly, my tongue hanging out. She stood up and moved away. I got down on all fours, intending to hump her leg.

“One-two-three you’re not a dog, one-two-three you’re not a dog,” Jane kept telling me, backing off. But I was a dog, a miserable little mutt, and went on crawling towards her. And here’s something sick: I had a terrific boner.

She backed up all the way to the door, groped for the knob, and found it. I stopped a few feet away. She was going to leave me now. She was going to go away and leave me here. I cocked my head and made whimpering sounds, begging to be taken home.

She let go of the doorknob.

I cocked my head to the other side, whimpering louder, meaning Please? I’ll be good. I’ll be faithful and affectionate. I promise.

“Oh, Eddie.” She came over.

I wagged my butt.

She got down on the floor and stroked my hair, my luxurious gray fur.