Which left just the third milestone. One very different from the others in that it required him only to sit in a crowded auditorium. But essential nonetheless.
For how could he present himself as a prime member of his species while neglecting his appearance?
Now true, he'd made progress already, having shed no less than thirteen pounds since his first transmission. But still, following the advice in a book was one thing, experiencing its author quite another. And he had a strong feeling that the inspiration he received tonight would carry him past all temptation, whether in the aisles of his local Stop & Shop or wherever else he happened to be.
Nor was such confidence unfounded, as the man pacing the auditorium’s stage—the large man in the deep charcoal suit and bright mango tie—was inspiring indeed.
“What brought you here this evening?” growled Myron Crennick in his trademark tough-guy (yet-on-your-side-guy) manner. “No need to tell me, friends, I will tell you. Those cravings we’ve been talking about?” Stopping abruptly, he jabbed a finger at the second row. “They rule you. It is impossible for you to go through a day without that late afternoon pick-me-up of caffeine and fat and sugar. You wake up every morning determined to go straight, but it isn’t ten o’clock and you’re swallowing down that jumbo muffin—a bran muffin, of course, because it’s healthier, right?
“Am I right? Am I right? Of course I am. You know it. I’m right.”
Several people laughed in recognition, and one of them appeared on a giant screen, his image captured by one of several cameras that were recording the event for an upcoming infomercial.
Crennick continued. “You eat even more ‘healthy’ stuff for lunch—a yogurt, perhaps, a wheat-bread sandwich—then rake yourselves over the coals when you succumb to that brownie at four o’clock, followed of course by the dinner rolls at seven, the pie at eight, the ice cream at ten, not to mention the feast of negative self-talk that goes along with it.
“Oh, what’s the matter with me? Is it emotional eating? Do I need therapy?” he asked in a quavering falsetto.
“Well, friends,” he answered, his voice back to normal. “I am here to tell you there ain’t no such thing as emotional eating, and no, you don’t need therapy.” He paused, long enough for the screen to show a woman leaning forward, spellbound, then announced, “When I’m done with you, you can have the worst day of your life, and you won’t be craving an extra, edible, anything.
“Imagine that—a day, good or bad, with no cravings. Someone offers you a muffin; you don’t consider it. Someone brings on the brownies; you wouldn't dream of putting something so nauseatingly sweet inside your trim, slim, completely reprogrammed Myron Crennick body.”
The screen now displayed a glistening hardcover emblazoned with the stamp, “#1 New York Times bestseller,” and the title, Cured by the Carb-Berater: Losing Weight the Myron Crennick Way.
"So what's the secret?" said the author. “It's in my book, of course. But we can get off to a really solid start right here, on this program. When we come back . . . the three ways you can neutralize those cravings, plus the eight-word secret the food industry will do anything—and I mean anything—to prevent you from finding out.”
On cue, the audience began clapping, as the cameras hunted for even more reaction shots. There: a multi-chinned gentleman looking happy and hopeful. There: a portly couple squeezing each other’s hands. And there: hey, what the . . .
Crennick fought to contain the anger that was now erupting behind his showman’s mask. But boy was his production team going to hear from him later. For there, on the screen, was some character in what looked like a wig, not clapping, not engaged, just off in a daydream, a ridiculous smile plastered on his round, carb-inflated face.
* * *
Yet how could he not daydream, when all his milestones had been reached, and there was nothing left to do but announce it into the old Sony Handycam he kept on a stack of boxes in his one-room basement apartment?
Which he did, describing in detail his self-defense and first aid triumphs.
But then he went further, unbuckling his belt and holding his cargo pants out from his middle so they could observe for themselves his impressively reduced circumference.
“So as you can see,” he said, “I am ready. For whatever role you wish me to play—ready. Do you seek a crewman for daring expeditions? I am ready. Do you wish to dialogue with me about my kind, our occasional lapses, our astounding achievements? I am ready. Or would you prefer simply to examine me? For that I am ready, too.
“And yes . . . ,” he went on, broaching a subject he could no longer avoid, now that he was into his final plea. “Yes, I have heard reports from others of my species who claim to have experienced such examinations. Not that I believe them—I most certainly do not! But if, somehow, they are accurate, and all you want, for some reason—not that I can imagine any—but if all you want is, uh, to insert a rectal probe in me . . . well OK go ahead. So long as I can look out a porthole while you do it. Or maybe we could have a conversation. Yes, that would be acceptable. It would be totally fine to use the probe if all the while we could be discussing, say, the extent of intelligent life in the Galaxy or the meaning of existence.
“In sum, then,” he concluded, “I am supremely ready, and will be at the rendezvous point two days from now, at dusk and for one-quarter of the nighttime period thereafter.”
At which point, brimming with nervous energy, he dashed about his apartment, reviewing with approval everything he had said and how he had said it.
Who else could they possibly choose? he asked himself while pinballing between the Handycam and his front entrance. Who has made an effort like mine? And how could anyone have prepared more?
It’s now or never, he continued, while bouncing off his couch. And I know it’s now. Not only because I’ve accomplished so much but also . . .
He paused by his bookcase—listening, feeling.
Also because I have been talking to someone, haven’t I? Yes, I have. I sense it. And not a person, either. No, a different sort of life form entirely.
And he was correct—at least in part. For, as it happened, he was in the presence of a life form, and did sense it. It presented itself as a slight rustling. He stared about. His stomach sank. But he couldn't deny what he noticed. The papers on his desk . . . were moving.
Grabbing the largest book he could find, he went to the desk and held it above the shifting paper. Carefully he aimed. Swiftly he struck. Though not swiftly enough, unfortunately, to prevent something from getting away.
Something that reached the edge of the desk and then, with terrifying speed, outraced gravity to the floor and struck out across the apartment.
Towards the bed.
No, not the bed! He would never get it out from under there, and would never get to sleep if he knew it was lurking below him, ready at any moment to hoist itself onto his mattress, his pillow, his . . .
The centipede, however, was as full of nervous energy as he was, and consequently too hyper to do the smart thing and remain hidden until it could ascend safely into the inviting moistness of a human nostril. Reappearing, it shot up a wall, then across the ceiling to the corner of the room which was the kitchen, while Marshall, reaching down, pulled off a sandal and raced into combat.
Thwack!
Hurled from below, the sandal ricocheted off the ceiling, leaving a smudge in the gray paint, but a smudge of dirt, unfortunately, not of centipede, which was now above the dish drainer. Again he flung the footwear, and again it left its mark, but this time hit it as well. A deluge of twitching legs rained onto the once clean dishes, along with the sandal, while the rest of the bug stayed put, its long streak of a body smooshed into an unmoving gooey smear.
Clenching his jaw, he braced for what came next.
The wiping.
The washing.
The re-washing.
But even this failed to extinguish his exuberant mood, which flared back with the end of the chore. The milestones had left him so full of hope, ten centipedes couldn’t have quenched it. And at bedtime he didn’t even need Star Trek. Not that he went without it. For to him it was unthinkable to end a day, good or bad, without basking in one of the reruns that a local channel offered up after the eleven o’clock news.
And so, at eleven thirty, he was on the edge of his bed, the TV on its cart in front of him.
Was it a great episode? No. Actually it was too violent, with improbably loutish aliens. But under the surface, nonetheless, ran the Star Trek message: that ignorance, bigotry and superstition would give way; that decency, selflessness and science would prevail; that human beings would roam the Galaxy, experiencing wonders without end.
And it was this message, plus the world built around it, that comforted the basement dweller and inoculated him and, as always, lulled him to sleep.