Martin Seeker Saves the World

Martin Seeker's eyes open on the dust motes floating in the slants of sunlight coming through his louvered blinds. He smacks his lips and rolls his tongue around tasting the sticky residue of cheap whiskey on his teeth from the night before. Easing out of bed, his feet land on a pile of clothes heaped on the floor; actually, there are so many heaps the old wooden floors have completely disappeared under XXL t-shirts and dusty cargo shorts.

A quick rinse of his face, teeth brushed, Martin's bloodshot eyes see a man presentable enough to a world that doesn't get him. He runs a hand over the grizzle of his beard and smiles. A grimace which even he can't bear to look at for long.

After four cups of coffee, six slices of bacon and three scrambled eggs all generously doused in hot sauce and gravy, he grabs his backpack and heads out for the day's long work ahead.

The sidewalk takes Martin to the edge of town and when it ends he keeps walking his well-worn path into the red desert. This is his path, the one he's taken every day for almost a year. Maybe today he'll be able to prove to a disbelieving world that his predictions are correct after all.

Through winding passages among high rocks, over dried stream beds, past caves, Martin trudges for almost an hour. He keeps an eye out for the pesky mountain bikers and day hikers who like to think of themselves as explorers of the wild. They have no idea, Martin thinks, chuckling to himself. Sometimes he runs across the Cave Dweller, a man who has chosen to live so far off the grid he lives in a cave. But the town has claimed him as one of their own so Martin has to make nice when they cross each other's paths. He seems to not be around this day; probably off dumpster diving or stealing Mr. McGregor's cabbages.

After a final bend and rise the path opens up onto a plateau with views out onto the desert in all directions. He has reached his destination. Martin walks over to a grouping of rocks with a large shrub in front and pulls out the lawn chair he keeps hidden there. He sits down, sets his backpack at his feet and begins to unpack.

Radiogramographer, telescopic radio wave microphone, transponder, and off-brand tablet (he would never let one of those grandiose corporations have his money!). Martin clamps all of the items to the arms of his lawn chair so that he can keep his hands free while his equipment searches for their signal.

Because today just might be the day when his theory will finally be legitimized. All the naysayers laughing at him, Martin will show them. When he finally has proof that the aliens are coming and have chosen this spot for their invasion, Martin will be the last one laughing.

"Oh, Martin! How wrong we all were! Thank you for your unwavering efforts to prove your theory. Martin, you've saved us! Martin Seeker saves the world!" This is Martin's favorite daydream: the one in which he saves the world from the alien invasion.

While his equipment works tirelessly, searching for the alien signals which will indicate their imminent arrival, Martin again digs into his pack and pulls out a spiral notebook, pen and a bag of sour gummies. His column is due in a few days and he really needs to get to work on it. The small paycheck from the quarterly Moab Magazine keeps Martin in canned goods and beer.

In order to keep the small publication flush with articles, the editor, owner, publisher, and art director, Hiram Snow, draws from the rather diverse talent pool of his town for a somewhat eclectic offering. Martin proudly offered up his knowledge as an alien abduction specialist to create a column on the how-to's and where-fore's of abduction: how to avoid it, what to do if caught, and the proper etiquette expected during an abduction episode. Hiram, while appreciative, instead asked Martin to draw on his other specialty. Ranked as the 97th best Internet astrologist by Faerie magazine, Martin produced a surprisingly delightful assortment of horoscope readings every three months which gave Moab Magazine an undeserved sophistication.

Martin stuffs sour gummies into his mouth with one hand while with the other he composes predictions for Leo, Libra and Pisces. The gummies help perk him up and fire off synapses in his brain which make composing much easier.

Once his work is complete, Martin dons a pair of headphones, clicks play on his Walkman and closes his eyes while an ancient wobbly recording of the Eagles serenades him into an afternoon snooze.

Perhaps a minute has passed, but more likely an hour. Martin awakens as a shadow passes over his face. He opens his eyes to spot a woman passing by and walking to the edge of the plateau to look out over the valley below. She is dressed the same as all the hikers: brown boots, brown shorts, white tank top and a flannel shirt tied around her waist. Her curly blonde hair is pulled up and piled on top of her head. She turns to look to the west and for a moment Martin mistakes her for his second wife.

Although, a one-night stand and a quickie marriage in Wendover, Nevada, on the border of nowhere Utah, followed immediately with a quickie divorce hardly gave her the right to be called his wife. But, oh what a night they shared.  She disappeared the next morning and a few months later a lawyer found Martin in the desert working on a dig, in his former life. Papers were signed and life moved on as if nothing had happened.

Martin hadn't thought of Amelia in, oh, thirty-six years. Funny how much this woman looks like her. Lost in his past, Martin realizes he's openly staring at the woman, who has just noticed him and is starting to become unnerved. She looks at him anxiously, nods, and quickly walks back past the way she came toward town.

Martin laughs. He's harmless, what could that woman possibly be thinking of him? Another hour passes and Martin checks his tablet. Nothing picked up today. But there's always tomorrow, and the day after that. He'll keep coming back until he's able to prove his theory.

He packs back up, pulls out an MRE to snack on during the return hike home. Back in his one-story, four room, 1960s bungalow, Martin unpacks and readies himself for the next day. Once done, it's time to eat. He peers into his freezer and must decide: Chicken fried steak or fish sticks?

As he stands there the cool of the freezer is deliciously colder than normal. He feels his face and his fingers find blazing warmth. He runs to the small bathroom (toilet and sink, the shower is outdoors) and looks in the tiny mirror to find a lobster with white sunglasses looking back at him. Could he really have forgotten his sunscreen? Perhaps I was more hungover than I thought, Martin recalls the fuzzy details of his rising.

Martin walks out the backdoor through his kitchen to the solar-powered shower in his backyard. It is a small yard with a dilapidated wooden fence held up with overgrown brush and outmoded electrical equipment from his early alien hunting days. The shower he built himself with solar panels that were scavenged from a building site (They can afford more!) and water which draws from a long pipe that runs underneath the yard, the left corner of the back fence and hooks up his unsuspecting neighbor's well (He has plenty!).

Although in the desert, the water never gets very warm and with his sunburn its lukewarmth is cooling. He grabs a bar of soap and starting with his hair, works himself into a lather head to toe. Just as he's rinsing does he hear his name being called.

"Martin? Is that you? Are you home?" It's Cynthia, the middle-aged widow next door. She has an unseemly interest in Martin, as far as he's concerned. She's beautiful, for a woman her age with all that wear and tear. But she's hoity-toity what with her satellite dish and that electric car of hers. His friends say she's too good for him; but he knows that really he's too good for her.

Despite turning off his shower and ducking down into the wooden stall, Cynthia unlocks the gate latch and comes into his backyard. She throws a dry towel over the stall door. "Hi Martin. I was at the laundromat today so I went ahead and grabbed all these towels you had hanging on the fence and washed them for you." Cynthia's crystal blue eyes are barely peering over the top of the door as Martin finally stands up and makes eye contact with her.

"Thank you, Cynthia, but that was really unnecessary. See, when you wash-"

"Yes, Martin, I know, washing clothes to you is a waste of money and water, but for the rest of us, it's a necessity. And since I was already doing it anyway, I didn't mind," Cynthia says with a motherly smile. "You're welcome."

Martin grunts in response. Towel wrapped around his waist, he barges out of the shower stall making a beeline for his backdoor.

"Oh Martin! Your face! Wait there for a second, I've got an aloe plant that will help fix that." Cynthia turns toward her house and once she is through the gate Martin ducks inside, shuts and locks the door and turns off the lights in his house.

A few minutes later Cynthia returns and Martin ducks into his bathroom while she knocks and calls out his name. After a minute she gives up. Once he's certain the coast is clear, Martin sneaks into his bedroom and, rummaging around on the floor, finds his favorite Pink Floyd t-shirt and a not-so-dirty pair of shorts.

In the falling darkness Martin walks through his living room to the kitchen. He opens the fridge door, making certain to put his finger on the light inside so as not to clue in Cynthia to his whereabouts and grabs a few beers. Once he's certain it's dark enough, he goes back outside, opening the door slowly so it doesn't squeak. He stubs his toe and looks down to see a large black hunk on his back stoop. Reaching down he recognizes the smooth contours of an aloe plant. Dammit Cynthia, Martin thinks as he breaks off a branch and spreads the cooling goo on his face.

Unlike all the other bungalows on the block, Martin's is unique. On his flat roof, many years ago, he built a deck accessible from his backyard. On his deck he keeps a high-powered telescope and it is his favorite place in the world.

Every night Martin climbs up to the deck, sits back with a few beers, or perhaps a bottle of rye, and stares at the stars. Sometimes he'll sit with one eye glued to the telescope's lens, certain he saw a flash of light that must be followed. In case he falls asleep up there, which has been known to happen on a few occasions, he keeps an old woven wool blanket he bought at some Native American souvenir stand along an Arizona highway.

He has just settled in for a long night of observation when movement on the street below catches his eye. There is a person walking up the sidewalk. In the dim streetlight he recognizes the hiker from the afternoon. He watches as she walks up the street, peering at numbers on mailboxes, until she stops at his and looks up at his house. She doesn't see Martin on his roof deck so he is able to watch as she makes her way up the walk to his front door and knocks.