Chapter Four:

Archie Makes a Friend

Pockets has locked himself in the huge bathroom to try to write his speech. Dad and I keep telling him through the door that we have to go to the tailor now. Dad’s usually calm voice has taken on an edge of frustration. “Pockets, if we’re late for the very first thing on our agenda, the whole schedule will get out of whack. Just write what’s in your heart.”

Pockets only whimpers in response. Dad leans against the door. “Look, I know you don’t like being the center of attention. You just want to do your job. And you may not feel like you were particularly brave on the dog planet, but no other cat has even gone there. So here we are in this beautiful hotel, with lots of people who came to celebrate you, and you need to try to make the best of it. Or, as my father used to say when faced with something he didn’t want to do: If you can’t get out of it, get into it!”

“Grandpa said that?” I ask.

Dad nods. “Pretty wise, your grandfather.”

The door to the bathroom slowly opens. Pockets squares his shoulders. “You’re right. Let’s do this!” He shoves his notebook deep into a front pocket, grabs a pawful of fruit, and marches out the door. Dad and I hurry after him.

In an effort to keep up his new positive attitude, Pockets greets everyone we pass, holds open doors for the young and old, and picks up two pieces of trash. It is inspiring to watch.

I try not to fall too far behind as we make our way through the hotel lobby, but my attention keeps getting pulled away by places like Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow. All kinds of aliens—some with hair down to their toes—sit in rows facing full-length mirrors and chatting with three-armed robot barbers who snip and spray and blow-dry, all at the same time!

Once we leave the hotel lobby, Dad pulls out the itinerary and studies the map attached to it. He and Pockets both know their way around Akbar’s, but neither of them has visited the tailor before.

“Looks like the tailor is all the way on the other end of the rest stop,” Dad says, frowning. “It’s a few doors down from the roller rink.”

“We can visit Bloppy!” I exclaim.

“Feemus will self-destruct if we make any detours now,” Dad says. “We’ll see Bloppy later.”

Dad tries to hold on to Pockets by the scruff of his neck when we pass Barney’s, but it’s no good. He breaks free easily and runs in. Dad and I reach the counter in time to hear Pockets shout, “What do you mean there’s no tuna?”

“All our tuna is being made into sandwiches for the big luncheon tomorrow,” the clerk tells him. “Some famous ISF officer is being honored. It’s a pretty big deal, I guess.”

“That’s me!” Pockets cries. “I’m the famous ISF officer! And I don’t want to wait until lunch tomorrow for my tuna!”

“You’re the officer?” the clerk says. “I don’t think so.” He stretches his neck so he can see around Pockets. “Next on line?” It’s the blue bumpy guy, asking to buy ice. The clerk shakes his head. “Out of ice. Next!” Boy, people are striking out left and right at Barney’s today.

It takes both Dad and me using all our strength to yank Pockets away from the counter and drag him out. He keeps shouting, “I want to speak to Barney! Get me Barney!”

So much for his new positive attitude.

Feemus throws up his hands when we finally arrive at the tailor’s, a half hour behind schedule. “You’re here, you’re finally here!”

“Let’s get this over with,” Pockets says, barreling his way into the shop.

“Sorry we’re late,” Dad tells Feemus. “Pockets had a few meltdowns. He’s having trouble with his speech, and then he found out Barney’s is out of tuna, and, well, you know how he is.”

Feemus nods knowingly. “I certainly do know how he is,” he says. “It is terribly hard to be as perfect as Pockets all the time. How very lucky you are to always bask in his presence.”

“Sure,” Dad says. “Lucky. That’s us!”

An alien who looks like a cross between a snake and, well, a snake with shoes approaches us. “Come, gentlemen,” he says in a slithery voice. “We have been expecting you.”

We follow him to the middle of the store and find Pockets standing on a round platform while another snake-alien wraps his tail around Pockets’ belly. The snake then whips his tail away and examines it. There’s a tape measure printed on his tail! When he’s done, he uses the tip of his tail to punch the measurements into a computer.

Dad and I each climb up onto our own raised platforms, and between the two snakes, they curl their tails around our legs, arms, necks, hips, and waists. It tickles and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Excuse me for asking,” Dad says hesitantly, “but how do you sew the clothes? I mean, without hands?”

The two snake-aliens laugh. “Very carefully!” one of them replies, sticking a sewing needle between his teeth.

“All done,” the other says with a final flick of his tail. “Come back at two.”

Feemus ushers us out of the tailor’s. “No time to waste,” he says. “We only have five minutes to get to Graff’s Garage.”

I glance longingly at the roller rink, ablaze with lights and music. I know my visit to Bloppy will have to wait. At least I’ll get to see Graff and meet his son. I didn’t even know he had a son!

Feemus tries to talk to Pockets as we walk but eventually gives up when Pockets doesn’t look up from his notebook. Hopefully he’ll feel better when he finishes writing that speech.

“Sal Morningstar, you old dog!” Graff says, greeting us at the entrance to the garage. “Thank you all for coming today.” He pumps my dad’s hand, then mine, and saves a hug for Pockets. We all come away wiping grease off various body parts. It’s funny how when I first met Graff all I could think about was that he looked like a giant ant. Now he just looks like Graff.

“I know what a special occasion it is when your son joins forces with you,” Dad says, winking at me. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

Graff grins and ruffles my hair. Good thing my dark hair hides the grease that just squirted out of Graff’s hand!

“Hello, Feemus,” Graff says with a nod. “Always nice to see you.”

“You know Feemus?” I ask.

“Of course,” Graff says. “Everyone knows the head of Pockets’ fan club. Where Pockets goes, Feemus is never far behind.” Pockets hisses in response to that comment. Graff puts one arm around Pockets’ shoulders and the other around mine. “Come on, boys, let me introduce you to my son, Kurf.”

Graff leads us over to a silver car/spaceship with legs sticking out from underneath. Graff bends down, grabs the ankles, and gently pulls. Out slides a boy who looks identical to Graff, only a few decades younger. “Hi, Pops!” the boy says. “Is this him?” He gestures to me.

“Me?” I ask, surprised.

Graff nods. “I figured you and Kurf are around the same age. You’d probably like a buddy to hang out with while you’re here.”

I glance over to Dad and Pockets. Dad gives me a nod.

“Sure!” I reply. Kurf waves to me, which is definitely better than a handshake if he’s anything like his dad! Judging by the puddle of oil he’s standing in, he’d get me messy pretty quickly. I wave back.

Feemus clears his throat. “I don’t mean to break up the start of a lovely friendship, but we’ve got to move this ceremony along.”

“Here ya go,” Pockets says, tossing a gold-colored wrench at Kurf. Tools to them are apparently like trophies to Earth kids. Kurf catches it inches away from his head.

“Congratulations,” Pockets adds.

“Thanks!” Kurf says, holding it up for everyone to see. Graff cheers loudest.

Feemus groans. “There was supposed to be a whole thing here. Speeches, standing ovations, ribbon cutting.”

“That’s okay,” Kurf says. “Hey, can Archie hang out for a while? I can show him around.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Feemus says, whipping out the itinerary. “Our schedule is totally full. We have lunch next with some very important world leaders.”

“What if Kurf comes along with us?” Dad suggests. He turns to Graff. “Would that be okay? Pockets and I will keep an eye on him.”

Pockets shakes his head.

“I will keep an eye on him,” Dad corrects himself.

“Sure,” Graff says. “Would you like to, son?”

Kurf has already pulled off his mechanic’s overalls and tossed on a baseball cap. “Let’s go!”