Things get less tense when Robert leaves. Professor Pfeiffer comes over and tells me that they want me to talk to the alien not only tomorrow and the day after tomorrow but regularly, and a lot. The scientists with him say the same thing and nod and smile at me, as if I’m their best friend. “He’s paying attention to you, Marty,” Professor Pfeiffer says. “He’s never done that before. For a year he just kept looking around, no matter what we did, as if he was waiting for something. We don’t know what this means, Marty, but we’re very excited, I can tell you.” “That’s great, Professor Pfeiffer, I mean Bill,” I say. “The only thing is, you know, I do have a job and Susan needs me at the store.” “Don’t worry about that,” he says, his twitch twitching. “We have money. We’ll work something out. Maybe you can work there half-time. I’ll talk to Susan.” I don’t know what to think. My head’s spinning from everything that’s happened. I’m not used to so much stuff going on and so many people talking to me at once and things changing so quickly and dramatically. I mean, think about it, it’s been only two days, and you could write a book about this already. The title of the book might be Marty and the Alien: My Impressions. My whole life seems to be going in a direction I never dreamed of, and fast, like there’s no stopping it, a truck on a hill without a driver. That must be why I’m a little numb. There’s one thing I want to know, it’s on my mind. “Bill?” I say. “Yes, Marty?” “Why does the alien smell that way, like broccoli?” He looks at me, he doesn’t understand. “You think he smells like broccoli?” “Old broccoli,” I say. “When you get it in the refrigerator at the end of the summer, you have to use baking soda and a scrub brush.” “I don’t know,” says Professor Pfeiffer, “but we’ll make a note of it.” And even as he says that, three scientists behind him are making a note of it, all of them, on their clipboards: broccoli.
So my new life begins, and I notice that I’m walking different, as if I’m rich or important, though I’m neither. I’m under an oath of secrecy, Robert insisted on that, so I can’t tell Joe anything but I will someday, just him and me over some ice-cold Michelob, and once a week the Oriental lady does medical tests on me and writes down numbers, as if she’s a doctor. Maybe she is a doctor, even though she seems so young. I think she’s cute, but keep it to myself. That kind of oath of secrecy is second nature to me. Susan is very proud of me, as if I was her son. All kinds of people come to our store to see me, and while I’m working she talks about me to them, tells them that I’m part of the research team even though I never finished high school, stuff like that. We sold twelve puppies, ten kittens, four hamsters, two turtles, and a ferret in one day. I never saw Susan so happy, she’s a different person, with this success. She put an ad in the local paper, which she never did before because it was so expensive, and clipped out the ad when it was printed. We have copies of it all over the store. It says, at the top, WADING RIVER DOGS AND MORE, and, in the lower right corner: “On our staff is Martin Bogaty, Alien Expert.” I must read it fifty times a day before I go home. It’s not true, of course, there’s no staff, just me and Susan, and also I’m no expert, but the newspapers always dress up the truth a little, so why can’t we, for the store? Mrs. Piscopo is scared of me, I think. She takes a step back and blinks every time she sees me. And not once, since the alien thing began, has she asked me to clip the hedge or clean the windows. I eat my supper in peace and quiet.
The alien chatters away when he sees me, and I forget about all the monitors and scientists and chatter back. I tell him about my day, about the animals, about Meatball. I tell him about what I read in the newspapers yesterday or saw on television. Sometimes I make notes, to remember to tell him. He doesn’t have a television set or even a radio. I think that’s wrong of the scientists but don’t say anything. I mean, this is their show and I’m only a guest here. I tell the alien jokes but complicated things, too, for example, why I go fishing with people even though I don’t like to go fishing. I tell him what I think about our world and where the human race is going if they don’t watch out. Sometimes his row of eyes seem to get softer, like he wants to tell me something but doesn’t know how. The problem is more than the difference between our two languages. I’m no good at languages, as I said, but I’ve learned to pick certain words out of his chatter, like twee. I don’t know what twee means, but it seems to be a comment added on about something he just said. Like you might say, “I’m feeling lousy today,” and then step back and say, “I complain a lot, don’t I?” That’s what twee does, it steps back and comments. When I tell Robert and the scientists things like this, my observations, they roll their eyes, and even though they’re being polite, I know what they’re thinking: His IQ. They’re more interested in what the monitors say, in the numbers. I don’t mind, I’m having the time of my life. Dave doesn’t rile me anymore, and you’ll never guess, but perhaps you wilclass="underline" Professor Pfeiffer, Bill, bought Daisy! “Is she driving you up the wall?” I ask. “She is, she is,” he says. “I’ll have to get ear plugs. That squawk goes right through you.” But you can see he’s crazy about her. They say that having a pet lowers your blood pressure and makes you live longer. It does that and more. I know from first-hand experience, I’ve seen lots of cases from working at the store. I had a dog myself once, but she got distemper after only two years and had to be put down. I still get choked up when I think about it. I realized then that I was too sensitive to have a dog. Meatball is my dog, when I’m at work. He doesn’t lift his head in the morning when he sees me, and his face looks sad, but his tail thumps.
Susan takes me aside one day and says, “Marty, you’re making quite a bit of money now from the government.” “Well, I don’t know how much,” I say. “I’m not doing it for the money anyway.” “I bet you’re not even cashing those checks,” she says. She’s right, they’re sitting on my dresser at home, in a row. I have seven checks. It’s amazing how you can’t hide anything from Susan. I think it’s because she’s a mother. I guess if mothers can’t figure things out, they’re lost, because kids won’t tell you anything, particularly when they’re Barry’s age. “We’re going to open an account for you at the bank,” she says. I make a face. “Don’t make a face,” she says. “And not only that, we’re going to buy a CD for you.” “I don’t need a CD,” I say, “I don’t have any of that equipment at home anyway.” I don’t partly because I can’t read the instructions, the print’s so small and the words are too technical. “Not that kind of CD, Marty,” she says, smiling. The smile would insult me if it wasn’t Susan. “I’m talking about a certificate of deposit. If your money just sits in the bank, it doesn’t do anything.” “I’d rather not, Susan,” I say. I can’t think of anything more boring than going into a bank. And people look at you like you’re a piece of garbage or a freak. Thank you but no thanks. “You have to do it, Marty,” Susan says. “You have to think about your old age. What are you going to do when you get old and can’t work anymore?” “I’ll go to a home,” I say, thinking of Larry all shriveled up in his bed at the end of the hall but still cracking jokes and cackling though he has tubes in his throat and nose. “And who’s going to pay for the home?” says Susan, holding me with her stern eyes. “I don’t know,” I say, squirming. Susan’s right, I suppose. I don’t understand these things, but from the steadiness of her voice you can tell it makes sense, what she’s saying. I guess if you don’t have the money when you get old, they throw you in the trash like a homeless person. “What do I have to wear, for the bank?” I say. “Just wear something clean, you’ll be all right,” she says, and gives my hand a squeeze. I’m touched because of this, very touched, in fact I’m so touched that I don’t say much for the rest of the day and not much for the day after that. What Susan has said to me, you understand, with this bank and CD conversation, is that I’m part of her family now and she’s part of mine. We’re no longer just employer and employee. I can’t believe that my life is turning out so good, at this late stage. I guess I owe it to Professor Pfeiffer and the alien. We go to the bank the next Friday and sign all the papers they give us. The manager shakes my hand at the end. “I read about you in the papers, Mr. Bogaty,” he says, pronouncing my name almost right. I notice how respectful he is. “Thank you,” I say, feeling numb. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being a celebrity. The people at the bank let me keep the pen.