16.

DUDE, WHERE’S MY
SPACESHIP?

SAN FRANCISCO: A LAND where the seismograph activity was pretty significant, but gaydar readings made those squiggly lines on the seismograph look puny in comparison. For this reason, it was considered both the holy land and the unholy land, depending on who you asked. Nevertheless, few would disagree it was a fun enigma of a city. It somehow managed to maintain a cost of living high enough to turn movie stars into compulsive couponers whilst simultaneously having a population consisting mostly of unemployed hippies. The only way to tell the difference between the rich ones and the poor ones was to watch and see if they took their LSD inside a luxury apartment or if they dropped a dose after relieving themselves into that same apartment’s flower bed.

Some would erroneously perceive the preceding facts to be shortcomings. However, the place clearly drew a sort of strength from them, since it had survived the dissolution of the United States. Not only did it survive, but it did so without so much as interrupting the pride parade that had been doing laps around the megalopolis nonstop for as long as anybody could remember. What exactly the parade took pride in had long been lost to history. However, few cared, as all were welcome in the cacophonic glitter blizzard that was as much a beloved part of The City as the solid-gold statue of Cher, which had been erected on Market Street after an earthquake.

This parade’s aggressively inclusive outlook was a direct reflection of San Francisco itself. In a city where every single person was weird, nobody could be considered weird, and therefore, any and all seeking acceptance felt obliged to show up on the streets paved with gold and the shattered glass of dropped bongs. It was that sentiment that attracted freshly minted thirty-year-old Pia Dickenson. Seventeen divorces in such a milestone year had left the blonde-haired and rosy-cheeked tricenarian with ample emotional baggage, along with a discontent toward her use of her youthful years spelled out in scarlet letters. Thus, her relocation to the mecca of acceptance seemed only natural. Plus, with not a straight man in sight, there was nothing to distract her from maintaining her lab.

As evidenced in the previous paragraph, Pia simply had something of a problem with self-control when it came to matters of matrimony. Her choice of male participants often did her great disservice as well. Worse still, her fleeting romances constantly impeded her aspirations of dog-show glory, for the lab whose maintenance was in question was a retriever of the chocolate variety. With ears of perfect length and glistening coat, a life of chasing squirrels and eating vomit would do him no justice, so she brought him here in search of greener pastures. More specifically, greener pastures forged from artificial turf and populated by judgmental people carrying laser measurers and digital thermometers.

Right from the get go, money was tight. She had to blow the first of her seventeen alimony checks just to cover the taxi drone from the CA High Speed Rail terminal that languished under the Salesforce Dildo. From there, the rest of her money dwindled away quickly on lodgings, naturally generated hipster food, and just enough data to locate the nearest dog show. Once the latter ran dry, her phone careened frisbee-style out the nearest window and she once more dashed into the streets. With cabs scarce and money scarcer, the only method of transportation left was to grab onto the nearest conga line and hip thrust along with the pupper tucked under one arm. The creature had four very capable legs of its own, but conveying airs of whimsy were far more important.

Her spirits were dashed once more upon arrival. For her beloved Woody, majestic, swarthy creature that he was, still required an entry fee in order to partake in any of these terrestrial contests. As a dog, he unsurprisingly lacked the requisite cash-procuring abilities to pay his own way. Therefore, the onus fell on Pia. While never ill-intentioned, she was no stranger to hubris, and her list of milk-able contacts reflected as such. But she had come so far. It would take great reaching, but with an internet café at her disposal and the motivational sight of Woody allowing himself to be humped by every dog, cat, and addict at the park across the street, she would persevere.

Her shame had officially been cast aside. There was purpose driving her actions; every unfortunate soul who had ever come into contact with her—be they veterinarians, mailmen, former landlords, ministers, or old college classmates—had to know. And if they had a nickel, then they would be petitioned for it!

After sending the most recent email, her attention was diverted by the mounting stir taking place outside. Like other patrons, she got up from her table to ascertain its origins. The buzz of excited chatter and fingers pointing skyward directed her face in a likewise direction while the occasional word like “Guantanamo” or “terrorist” made themselves heard.

Then the dark object appeared in the sky. At first, it was no larger than sprinkle. Then it grew, as objects careening in one’s direction are known to do. As it drew closer, it revealed itself to be a transport shuttle that a sensible spectator would realize likely had no driver, given the way it tumbled like a child with polio falling down a hill.

(Polio, being a long-forgotten disease by this point in time, was perfectly acceptable to laugh at.)

Less than a minute had transpired between the point Pia noticed the commotion and the time the seemingly unmanned transport shuttle vessel crashed into and utterly obliterated the Golden Gate Bridge. The explosion rippled across the cityscape and sent tidal waves in every direction while a comparatively calm smoke cloud gently retraced the steps of that which caused it. A sober silence took hold of the crowd. Then, barely a second later, they all returned to what they were doing, with the exception of two city workers. After placing their tools on the ground, they moved their ladder across the street to a sign that read “Number of Days Without the Golden Gate Bridge Getting Damaged,” which they reset to zero.

Pia would soon come across both of those men again. Later that day, all witnesses to the ship crash found themselves rounded up and confined to an Air Force hangar for questioning and reconditioning. Turned out the Government found prison breakouts resulting in jettisoned spaceships performing domestic kamikaze attacks more interesting than the average resident of San Francisco did. Who’d have thought? The communal disinterest certainly made their job of information containment easier. After only three neuralyzations, the men-in-suits felt confident that there no longer existed any memory of the shuttle or the alleged terrorists who had ejected it.

After release, Pia encountered each of the workers and married one later that day—and then the other a day later, after the second killed the first in a jealous rage. That night he would be bludgeoned to death by Pia herself after he got up at two in the morning for a bathroom break and accidentally stepped on Woody’s tail.

Woody never did go on to win any of those dog-part-measuring contests. It was difficult for Pia to enter him in any of them while fleeing from San Francisco’s fabulous fuzz, since it turned out the city’s tolerance didn’t quite extend to coldblooded killers. But that’s not to say she didn’t try anyway. Unfortunately, the garbage ship she smuggled herself off-world in did not have any wi-fi for her to send off her online registration forms. It was only after finding herself stranded on a remote asteroid colony that she finally accepted the grim prognosis of her dreams of dog-show stardom.

The pup never seemed to mind, anyway. After being abandoned, then taken in by some benevolent travellers, he would go on to irresponsibly sire thirty-eight children and maul four mailcopters. Some would say such a life was preferable to the one originally intended for him. Others would say “Dude, he’s a stupid dog. Who the hell cares?”

Those people have no hearts.