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The space alien’s guide to childhood paranoia

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At some point after I began Kindergarten, there was a noticeable change in the behavior of my parents.  Along with homework and my own awkwardness in social settings, I lost contact with both my mother or father.   My mother had taken two jobs while my father disappeared into his graveyard schedule, and my childlike mind could only absorb the absence of their company. Thus, it was natural to conclude that I was now part of a sci-fi experiment that placed me in a lazy Susan of one-day-only adoption plan where my new parents were people from outer space disguised as humans.

I spent a great deal of my youth watching “The Outer Limits,” “Twilight Zone,” Godzilla movies, a whole array of 50’s horror films (“I Walked With a Zombie”) and Big Time Wrestling with my father, so those black and white stories with rayguns and martians coupled with the aggression of wrestling and monsters became the basis for a wild, unrestrained imagination.  It was logical and natural to conclude that Martians had infiltrated my home and used me for their diabolical deeds, although there was a good chance that the intensity of instruction from Catholic nuns as to the neglected children in Belfast and my own sense of unworthiness found its way into the mix.

To test my suspicions, I found a giant strip of black electric tape in one of the kitchen drawers.  I cut a small piece of the tape and placed it in the back of the water faucet, making sure that it was out of visual range.  If that tape was in that same place in the morning, I could conclude that while there was no alien conspiracy, there was a good chance that my parents had lost interest in me.  If the tape had gone missing, however, it would be absolute, rock solid proof that I was being shuttled from alien house to alien house during my sleep to spend the next day with these fake programmed parents.

Image(peak of my space alien abduction years)

As I lay in bed that night, I could hear my mother’s light footsteps in the house.  She pushed aside her orange beaded hippie curtain to get some cooking ingredients, pulled different bowls from her cabinet and washed items.  I heard the water from the sink run into the night until I could no longer stay awake, my little head throbbing with a mix of anticipation and fear.  At the very least, I did not want to be conscious when the aliens ran their long, bony fingers along my little body as they lifted me onto the twin sized bed at the next space alien brownstone.

When I awoke the next day, I ran into the kitchen and ran my fingers along the back of the faucet.  The little strip of black electrical tape was gone, proving that I was part of this great alien experiment.   From that way forward, I began to look with a wary eye upon those pods that liked to refer to themselves as my parents.  These were the stand-ins made from Plaster of Paris, camping tarpaulin and Play-doh, replicated in the image of my parents without any emotion or life.  When asked general questions, I gave generic answers.  I learned from that point to close my mouth and keep all information to a minimum.  They never asked for anything more.

A few weeks later, however, my mother asked me if I placed some tape behind the sink.  Before I could answer, she scolded me for wasting tape.

Not long after, I had to accept the fact that my parents had just lost interest in me.

A child’s fantasy?  Perhaps.  However I should include that my mother was called into school to discuss my unique penmanship, where I drew circle upon circle when writing any cursive characters.  Also, while oxford shoes were required as part of my parochial school uniform, a nun finally taught me how to properly tie the knot when I was in 4th grade.  I also wore my underwear backwards until I was 12.   I was never taught how to do these things at home.  No one ever had the time.

Somehow, the space alien theory was more comforting.

(c)2014 Slow Suburban Death.  All rights reserved

Published inChildhoodMoviesSan FranciscoShort StoriesTelevision

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