Grey Aliens are real

Grey Aliens are Real…

(The sound of softly strummed acoustic guitar and singing.)
" Live from the center of the galaxy, Grayson Spacey..."
It's a surprise visit. As I walk into the cafe somewhere near Frank's Slide, Alberta, I spot him at a table speaking French with a group of five middle-aged people. As I near the table, everyone goes quiet. When I sit he stares at me, his startling blue eyes glistening. He has smooth tanned skin and is wearing well-pressed khaki pants, a blue polar fleece and a button up cotton shirt. His hiking shoes are actually in pretty good shape. Yes I am surprised with all the stories I'd heard. Now, as I sit next to him in the café, his feet jiggle under his seat then his lips quiver in a closed grin, and his eyebrows begin to wriggle up and down. Just as he seems about to burst or fly away, he smiles. His mouthful of large, jagged yellow teeth. I feel as though I'm looking into the pit of his stomach.
"So I left the earth in a rocket, with nothin’ but change in my pocket..."
I am wondering why I was stupid enough to have not foreseen this: fourteen extra packs of smokes, forty dollars for pot, at least fifty for beer, feeding one extra, packing for one extra. Now that he’s in Victoria after the camping trip, he refuses to leave my balcony, my house or my couch, for that matter. The dangerous world. He reminds me that he had to save me at that campground between Nakusp and Vernon from those ritualistic alien freemasons. (While I cooked dinner, he sat in the car refusing to erect his tent. He sensed a dark presence.)

In the backseat of the car there are burn holes from the falling cherries of his joints. I am involuntarily hot-boxed in the rented car all the merry way along the road. At least I escaped the Grey aliens. “You see, I smoke to prevent reptilians from planting a microchip under my skin,” he said. I wonder whether he believes that not showering or brushing his teeth will prevent him from being abducted by aliens again. Well, he did brushed his teeth once (sans toothpaste) when he found his toothbrush on the floor of the backseat of the car.
He’s been staying at my place for a week. One night my freemason blues musician friend calls (and that's quite another story) and says he needs a place to stay. When both guys are finally settled into couch and cot, I decide to get out of the house. I figure my freemason friend could probably smell it if a fire started or hear if my stereo was being carried out of my house and down the street to the pawnshop. “No smoking pot inside or outside the house, my schoolteacher landlord will be able to smell it,” I say.
When I return a pot pipe is sitting outside on the table and the ashtray is full of Nat Sherman cigarettes. My mason friend smokes Nat Shermons but he is still sleeping. He is lying on the couch with his feet on the wall, many footprints surrounding the area. I sit across from him. “Did you smoke his cigarettes?” I ask. “Yeah, I found them and didn't think he'd mind,” he answered. A feeling swept over me, the feeling of teaching the kindergarten class and working at the group home. I speak with measures of patience and firmness, “you shouldn't have done that, they are not yours.” As I say this, I imagine a child throwing stuff around and screaming against being scolded. He doesn't say anything. His lips quiver between a grin and a pout, his blue eyes glisten between smiling and tears. He doesn't break into a yellow tooth grin. He goes into the bathroom and (I think) to hide from me, he finally takes a shower.
Grey aliens are real…