Once again, this explains a lot about our intrepid explorer. – Editor
Ah, Iowa summers. They remind me of New Mexico winters. Terry Traveler here, remembering another tale of questionable origin. But this time, the question of origin is out of this world.
You see, the questions of life, the universe, and everything have always played heavily in my mind and once, when I was young and bright-eyed, I had the notion that I could find those answers out there among the stars.
I was back packing through the southwest along the Extraterrestrial Highway- a span of road so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, let alone the thumb I was sporting in an attempt to get a ride. I had just resolved myself that the search was hopeless when I tripped over a large, squishy lump. I apologized, as I often do with chairs or coffee tables, when I saw a flash of light reflected back to me.
Two large, dishpan eyes stared up at me from the huddled mass. I held my breath and tried to remember that book I had pretended to read about wolves in the third grade. Our eyes were locked as I slowly realized it appeared to be standing, long arms and slender hands on hips, with its gigantic head cocked to one side. I swear I heard it say, “Nice parka you got there.”
A million thoughts raced through my mind as I stood frozen: ALIEN! Why hadn’t I listened to my mother? I knew they were real! AHH! What was in those brownies? Can it read my thoughts? They weren’t MY brownies, I was just holding them for a friend! ALIEN! ALIEN! ALIEN!
And then I passed out.
I awoke in the hospital several days later. The doctors claimed that I had been left outside the emergency room doors with a note pinned to my orange parka, “Idiot has Heat Stroke”.
Apparently wearing a fur lined mountain coat was not the best choice for the dessert terrain. No one believed my story; instead I was told that I had been hallucinating from the heat, probably tripped over a rock, and hit my head.
When I got home I felt relieved to put the affair behind me and return to the truth of my gonzo journalism. That was, until a postcard arrived a few days later, postmarked Roswell, New Mexico. The message? “Nice parka you got there, Terry.”
This is Terry Traveler saying, you don’t have to believe me, but I know you want to.