The Amish Spaceman

THE PASSENGERS WERE ESCORTED from the plane and into rusty white buses by brusque soldiers in olive green who broke every rule of gun safety. The heat and humidity were unbearable, but even worse were the unkind comments from the driver. Dean had taken Spanish in high school, after a disturbing incident his first day in French class that involved the pretty and vivacious teacher and a dozen éclairs that Dean had honestly not known were well past the expiration date.

  The bus bounced through potholes for what seemed like hours, and Dean was forced to use the pocket of his thankfully waterproof jacket as a urinal.

  The convoy approached a collection of large buildings covered in green-painted tin sheeting and stopped at last. An officer in a high-peaked cap and gold braid stepped inside. He walked slowly through the aisle, scanning the passengers like a housewife in the frozen meat section the day before Thanksgiving. The officer pinned a gold star to the clothing of various young men and women. When he passed through the aisle where Dean and Mike sat, only Mike received a star. Oblivious to the world, Dean had curled up on the floor with his jacket as a blanket.

  “I’m not wearing this,” whispered a nearby blonde woman to her companion. “It’s probably a star of rape or slavery or something.”

  She pulled the gold symbol from her blouse and slapped it on Dean’s shoulder. Only seconds later another group of very cross soldiers came through the bus and roughly pulled all gold-starred passengers outside.

  The soldiers herded the young people through a maze of chain-link fences lined with a horde of cheering, brown Cuban people. Mike put an arm around Dean and helped him stumble through the maze and onto the carefully watered grass of a soccer field. A vast, murmuring crowd filled all four sides of the stands. As the passengers filed onto the field, the hum of voices grew louder and vibrated the air like a transformer about to explode.

  Soldiers with assault rifles lined the perimeter of the field, grim of face and straight of posture. A row of men in white trousers and women in white dresses with red sashes faced Mike and Dean and the other gold-starred passengers.

  “Stand up straight,” said Mike. “You don’t want to look like a hunchback if we’re going to be shot.”

  “I don’t want to be shot,” groaned Dean.

  A man in a gray suit climbed to a podium behind the line of white-clad men and women. He raised his arms, and the soldiers fired their rifles into the blue sky. This silenced the crowd in a matter of nanoseconds.

  “Sons and daughters of Cuba,” he intoned in Spanish. “From the Great Oppressor to the north we receive a gift in the shape of a jet aircraft filled with people and leather purses and bags of tiny pretzels. Those, by the way, are the only things you should eat on an airplane. The pretzels, not the purses.”

  The crowd applauded.

  “Today we have a fantastic set of entertainments and it’s all because of me, your dear leader. First, a wedding, where the healthiest of the northern oppressors are welcomed into our dear family like fuzzy little kittens. The others are not of childbearing age and will be sent home, like old cats that are only good for making glue, casserole, or glue casserole. After the wedding follows the traditional Cuban marriage games. The girl and boy who win these games will be awarded a flat in Havana and jobs at the sparkling jewel of our socialist utopia: Women’s Underwear Factory No. 2. Last but not least on the day’s program is music. Coming to us straight from Branson is the traveling production of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers starring Bruce Campbell and Queen Latifah!”

  The crowd exploded into joyous screams, throwing hats and undergarments onto the field until the soldiers fired off another salvo.

  “In a line before me, you see the most eligible young men and women from Tobacco Farm 643, Swisher Sweets Division. They are the cream of the crop in appearance, intelligence, and scholarship of the works of Karl Marx and Richard Simmons, but are the worst at becoming married in time to avoid this type of public humiliation.”

  “Across from them stand the most eligible passengers from the northern oppressor’s aircraft. Many look spotty and nervous, but with enough contemplation of socialist principles and time in the tobacco fields, they will be identical to any son and daughter of the revolution!”

  Cheers of the crowd were silenced by rifle shots.

  “The marriage games will now commence,” said the speaker. “Young workers of Tobacco Farm 643, you have sixty seconds to choose a partner for the rest of your life.” The speaker looked at his watch. “On my mark ... wait a second ... too late, it’s going around again. Anyone have gum? Not too long now ... and GO!”

  The line of white-clad workers sprinted toward Mike and Dean like cheetahs or puma or some other animal you can imagine that is really hungry and eats meat and thinks you are meat.

  They thundered forward, kicking and pushing each other in eagerness to pick the best-looking and tallest of the passengers. Next to Dean, a stocky brunette tackled Mike and sat on his chest, slapping away the hands of several other girls. Even in the midst of his painful bowel sickness, Dean thought it was like being a human Beanie Baby on Cuban Black Friday. Unfortunately for Dean, he seemed to be the Beanie Baby nobody wanted. He lay on the grass in a fetal position; pale, nauseous, and completely unmolested by the arm-twisting, jaw-punching women who were hell-bent on getting a nice marriage partner.

  A calloused, warm hand touched his arm.

  “I claim this one,” said a girl in Spanish. “He is sickly, but that is almost cute in a dead-chipmunk kind of way.”

  A weight pushed on his legs and Dean looked into the brown eyes of a young woman. The corners of her mouth were turned up in a mischievous smile. Her skin was tanned a light bronze, as if she had spent too much time outside, and her black hair was twisted into a pair of tight braids.

  “Hola,” said Dean. “Qué pasa?”

  “This one speaks,” said the girl in Spanish. “Wow, the other chicks overlooked a real gem! He’s the best of all.”

  “Thank you,” said Dean. “I’m happy to fire your crotch.”

  “What?”

  “I mean ... you’re a powerful woman.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” said the girl.

  A volley of rifles boomed. She helped Dean to his feet and slid her arm behind his waist.

  “Now that your partner for life has been chosen,” said the speaker, “we will begin.”

  An older man in a green suit stepped up to the podium and murmured in the speaker’s ear.

  “What is it, Antonio? Don’t whisper, just tell me. I know there are two boys left over. Of course they have to marry each other, Antonio. This isn’t some backwater island of banana mashing we are living in. They’ll be forced to love each other, despite their differences and previous sexual preference, which was probably forced on them by society in the first place. Don’t look at me like that! Un momento, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Mike nudged Dean with an elbow. “What just happened? I can’t understand anything these people are saying.”

  “We’re getting married to these girls,” whispered Dean.

  “Sweet,” said Mike, a huge grin on his face. “I didn’t even have to buy dinner and a movie.”

  Dean covered his mouth. “Urgh ... Don’t talk about food.”

  “You do not look so well,” said the girl with two braids. “Drink this.”

  She handed Dean a small white bottle.

  “Qué es esto?” asked Dean.

  The girl laughed. “You speak Spanish so funny, like a little pig. It is medicine for stomach. See? We are both alike in this problem.”

  Dean took a few gulps of cherry-flavored liquid from the bottle and immediately felt better.

  Shots cracked the air and the stadium became quiet.

  “Now that the boy problem has been settled,” said the speaker, “we will continue with the marriage ceremony. All twenty couples, hold hands please. You begin a new chapter in your lives, one that I hope will contain more little babies for the socialist utopia of Cuba. Do not shirk your d
uty. Remember that if a woman is not pregnant, it is because she is a bad person, or a man in disguise. In the name of the glorious People’s Republic of Cuba, I declare you husbands and wives. Not collectively husbands and wives––that would be madness––but one husband to one wife only.”

  The crowd cheered, and the girl who’d claimed him kissed Dean on the cheek.

  “And now for the marriage games,” said the speaker. “As I mentioned before and you should not have forgotten, the winners will receive prime underwear factory jobs and a freshly disinfected apartment. The first event will be Salsa Cubana!”

  The speaker clapped his hands. A throng of soldiers slapped paper numbers on the backs of the newlyweds, and a guitar and drum rhythm began to play through the stadium speakers. The couples spread out on the field and began to dance.

  “Party time,” said the tanned girl.

  She faced Dean and held both of his hands while twisting her hips and moving her feet to the music.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” said Dean.

  “It is easy for the man,” said the girl. “Like real life, just stand there and let the woman do all the work.”

  Dean followed as best he could, but the steps were strange and the girl quick with her movements.

  “I don’t even know who you are,” he said. “My name’s Dean.”

  “Marta,” said the girl. “Dance harder!”

  After an exhausting ten minutes, the music came to a stop.

  “Judges, mark your scores,” said the speaker. “By judges, I mean people hand-picked or related to me. Now, for the second event, one meant to reflect the normal progression of romantic life. After the first dance comes ... The First Date!”

  A dozen rusted Chevy vans that looked as if they had been used in a 1977 kidnapping and abandoned since then drove onto the field, one for each couple. Marta pulled Dean toward the nearest one and climbed into the back. Soldiers slammed the rear doors shut.

  Dean spread his hands. “What now?”

  Marta lay on the floor of the van and pushed her feet against the inside wall. “Get down here and do it with me.”

  “I don’t know you that well,” said Dean. “Can’t we just talk?”

  “No, you silly goat––we have to jiggle the van!”

  Dean lay next to her and pressed his shoes against the opposite wall. They alternated kicks and rocked the van back and forth like a tower of Jell–O.

  “We’re going to win,” Marta shouted over the creak of the van’s suspension. “I am the strongest and smartest of all the girls at Tobacco Farm No. 643.”

  After five minutes someone banged on the side of the van. Marta helped Dean climb out of the back, since his legs now had as much strength left as the previously mentioned tower of Jell-O and wobbled just as much.

  “Event number three,” said the speaker. “A tradition in the socialist paradise of Cuba where everything is plentiful––The Eating Contest!”

  Soldiers double-timed across the field with long tables and boxes of food. The couples were separated: men on one side of the tables, women on the other. A soldier slammed down a plate of steaming hot dogs with buns in front of Marta and a bowl of oysters before Dean.

  Dean wiped his sweating forehead. “If you thought I was sick before, wait until those oysters slide down my gullet. I almost threw up, just saying that.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Marta. “I will eat everything. I have only chewed on tobacco stems for three days.”

  A rifle shot echoed through the stadium and the contest began. Marta’s hands and mouth flashed into action. She had stuffed six hot dogs and the bowl of oysters into her mouth in only a few minutes, while the plates of the other couples were still half-full.

  “See? We will definitely be the winning couple,” she said. Unfortunately, her mouth was full of oysters, so what erupted was, “Smesh mog meesh squish klip kloo.”

  Dean covered his eyes. “Please don’t do that.”

  The next two events were baby-related. First, the young women had to lay on their backs, knees spread, and throw a ten-pound infant doll as far as possible to the husband. Next, the couple were given a pair of the heavy dolls and a twenty-pound sack of flour and had to struggle through a maze of gravel, barbed wire, and seven-foot high walls. The announcer claimed this was a simulation of parenting skills, but Dean felt this was inaccurate unless you were a parent trying to escape from Sobibor.

  Mike and his partner seemed to be doing very well in the competition, but Marta repeatedly claimed that she and Dean would be the winners.

  “Only one more event until the Cuban premiere of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,” said the gray-suited speaker, and the crowd erupted in frantic cheers. “Calm yourselves, socialist comrades!”

  After a volley of shots he continued. “As the years of married life go on, many couples become bored and only a stint at a nudist colony or other strange practices will rekindle the fire of that first kiss and feel-up session. For this competition, the husbands and wives will strip and exchange clothing!”

  Marta touched Dean’s shoulder. “You suddenly look very white, my dearest. Do you need medicine again?”

  “I can’t do this,” said Dean. “I just can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Very bad memories. Let’s just say it’s happened before, and leave it at that.”

  Marta grabbed the front of his shirt, tears in her eyes. “If you don’t wear my clothes we’ll lose!”

  “In front of everyone?”

  “You should not be ashamed. You are not the one with entire villages of relatives watching her. If your underwear is not clean, I do not care.”

  “It’s clean, I just––”

  A shot rang out and two dozen newlyweds sprang into action. Marta reached down and with one swift motion pulled her dress over her head, revealing a plain white bra and panties. As Dean fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, she removed her shoes and undergarments. Stark naked, she helped him with his trousers.

  “I don’t think I can even fit in your clothes,” he whispered.

  “It doesn’t matter! Just wear it.”

  Dean turned away from the nearby soldier who had the lens of a video camera literally shoved into Dean’s face. With Marta’s help, he pulled on her constricting and extremely tight underwear. He had barely squeezed his head through the neck of Marta’s dress when a shot went off and the crowd cheered. In the middle of the line of half-dressed newlyweds, Mike and his new bride were jumping up and down, Mike looking ridiculous in the girl’s white outfit and red sash.

  “Ah, well,” said Marta, stepping out of Dean’s trousers, “It is very hard to practice these types of things.”

  After swapping back into their original clothes, the couples lined up again in the middle of the field.

  “Now that the scores have been added together,” said the gray-suited speaker, “I present to you the winner of the marriage games: couple number eight!”

  Mike’s Cuban wife screamed and hugged him. They linked arms and waved madly at the crowd.

  “Now go away you lovebirds, so we can start the show,” said the speaker.

  As the couples walked off the field, Dean found Mike and shook his hand.

  “Congratulations, buddy.”

  Mike shrugged. “Did we win? I guess we did. It’s hard to tell what’s going on, since I don’t speak any Cuban. Yudith seems very happy. At least I think her name is Yudith. It’s probably not ‘Crackie Smackdoodle,’ which is what I thought it was at first. Can you ask her?”

  Dean caught up to Marta. The young woman trudged across the soccer field, her shoulders slumped and eyes on the ground.

  “I’m sorry we lost,” he said. “It was all my fault.”

  “No, it is fine,” said Marta. “As my father always says, if life brings you an airplane full of American husbands, you have to make American-husband lemonade.”

  They were given front-row seats for the musical and Dean enjoyed it immense
ly, clapping madly at the end of every number. This was the first time he’d sat in the front row of any group of humans, apart from every class in school. Queen Latifah’s bored expression and tired, floppy gestures, however, made Dean wish that she cared just a little bit more about the source material. After the performance and a celebratory banquet, the entire group of newlyweds were herded onto a bus for transport back to Tobacco Farm No. 643, Swisher Sweets Division.

  “I guess this is it,” said Mike, at the door of the bus. “We’re not going with you. They’re taking us to that new apartment in Havana.”

  “It’s newly disinfected, not new,” said Dean. “You’ll see the difference.”

  “Don’t spit in my Cheerios, dude. I’ve had more fun today that I can remember, and Yudith Crackie née Smackdoodle is a beautiful girl.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking of staying, are you? The embassy is going to ransom us or whatever they do with hijacked Americans. Although, if those marriage games were televised, it might be better to stay.”

  “I’m definitely staying,” said Mike. “What kind of stupid life did I have back in Ohio, going to college to be a physical therapist? At home I’m just another white guy––here I’m a superhero, the toy every girl wants for Christmas. So many toys, and so many girls. Sorry, friend, but I won’t go back. I can’t go back.”

  A soldier pushed them apart and hustled Dean onto the bus. Marta looked up with a smile as he sat on the cracked vinyl next to her.

  “I half-expected you to run away from me.”

  “Me? I wouldn’t do that,” said Dean. “Unless, of course, I was planning to do that, which I’m not. I’m not really good at anything, especially things involving escape. I couldn’t even get out of taking a shower after gym class.”

  “You’re a funny person, that is what you are good at. I think we will have fun together.”

  Dean nodded. “If you say so. I don’t know if I can work in a tobacco factory the rest of my life.”

  “Rest of life is not so bad,” said Marta. “In Cuba, our lives are very short.”

  Dean laughed and poked her in the shoulder. “Now who’s the funny one?”

  “It’s the truth!”

  The engine of the bus rumbled and the vehicle began to follow the other buses along the broken asphalt. Dean watched the lights flash across the crowds walking beside the road.

  “I’ve been thinking about that guy in the gray suit,” he said.

  “El Presidente.”

  “I think that would be a great thing to do with my life.”

  “Of course it seems amazing,” said Marta. “But there are many stresses and daily challenges when you are the leader of a great country like Cuba. These problems have given our Dear Leader a terrible sleeping disorder of the nerves. It is said he cannot relax at night unless his bed has five women.”

  “I don’t mean becoming the president of Cuba. I mean speaking in front of so many people, with all of them hanging on your every word.”

  Marta nodded. “As El Presidente says, we must hang on his words or hang from the coconut trees.”

  “If I could share all the crazy things that have happened to me, maybe I can help people change their lives,” said Dean. “Avoid mistakes by listening to mine. Avoid tragedy by understanding mine.”

  Marta nodded sleepily and squeezed closer to Dean, her head resting on his shoulder. She dozed off during the long, bouncing drive, while Dean stared out the window, his mind going over the glittering prospect of factory work and nicotine-stained fingers.

  Night had fallen by the time the bus arrived at a two-story apartment building, and Dean followed Marta up the stairs to a sparsely furnished room with attached shower and bath. A bed covered in a blue-patterned quilt stood in the corner.

  As swiftly as before, Marta stripped off every article of clothing and slid under the quilt.

  Dean looked around the room. “I ... um, where should I sleep?”

  “With me, silly goat.”

  “But you’re naked.”

  “I always sleep like that. Should I change just because we are married?”

  Dean removed his shoes and trousers, but kept on his t-shirt and boxer shorts. He slid under the quilt cautiously, as if Marta were a block of plutonium instead of an attractive young woman bereft of clothing.

  “Once again you’re a silly goat,” she said with a pout. “I’ve already seen you naked.”

  “I always sleep like this,” said Dean. “Should I change just because we’re married?”

  Marta pointed her chin at the ceiling and laughed boisterously. She put her arms around Dean’s neck and kissed him hard on the mouth.

  Dean woke in the small hours of the morning. A white square of moonlight from the window framed the pillow and glowed over Marta’s long, undone hair. Dean’s arm lay across the soft skin of her abdomen, and he had no desire to move it. He watched Marta’s peaceful, sleeping face for a long time.

  A girl screamed somewhere in the building and boots stampeded in the corridor. The door splintered apart and lights blinded Dean and the now-awake Marta.

  “Are you American?” asked a gruff voice in English.

  “Yes, of course,” said Dean. “What’s this about?”

  “We’ve got another Baby Bear,” whispered the bright light to someone else. “Let’s go, buddy. Cavalry’s here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Dean.

  “Baby Bear is stubborn, repeat, Baby Bear is stubborn,” whispered the voice. Dean’s eyes had adjusted, and he saw a man in a helmet and goggles, dressed completely in black. He held an assault rifle with flashlight attachment.

  Dean raised his voice. “I said I don’t want to go.”

  “Copy that, giving him porridge,” whispered the black-clad figure.

  He stepped into the room and sprayed a sharp-smelling gas in Dean’s face. Marta screamed, and the world spun into a numb whirlpool of blackness.

  Dean woke hours or minutes later in the red-lit interior of a large aircraft. Engine noise and the roar of air friction vibrated everything including the steel floor, the fuselage, and the fillings in Dean’s teeth. The young Americans who’d been part of the marriage games surrounded Dean. Some slept, covered with blankets, while others slumped against the curved walls of the fuselage, eyes glazed like smackheads after the first of the month.

  His legs tingling and still mostly numb, Dean struggled to his feet. He followed the sound of male voices to the front of the plane, where a dozen soldiers in sleek black uniforms with olive green American flags on the shoulders joked and chatted. One tanned soldier with a shaved head finally noticed Dean, and raised his voice over the drone of the plane’s engines.

  “Sit down, son. You’ve had a rough night.”

  “That wasn’t very nice of you,” shouted Dean. “Breaking into my room on my wedding night!”

  “My apologies. We’ll leave you in Cuba next time. By the way, we’re still searching for a guy called Mike Shafer. Do you have any idea where they took him?”

  Dean ran his tongue over his front teeth. “You can stop looking. Mike was shot dead right in front of me.”

  “Too bad,” said the soldier. “Also, dude, pick up the clue phone, because you’re completely naked.”