stopped barking. Even the cicadas stopped their shrill singing. He could feel a drop of water running down his palm, condensation from the can of cold beer he held in his hand. He could hear the catfish he had caught that morning frying in a pan on the stove. Someone was calling his name.
“What?” Hank asked drifting out of sleep.
Slowly he began to recognize his surroundings. He was sitting on a grassy bank of a pond with a fishing pole in his hands. In the clear, blue waters of the pond, he saw the reflection of the nearby mountains. The sky was overcast. As the dream faded, the warmth of Earth’s sun faded with it. He felt chilled. His skin felt clammy like it had when he first cast his line into the water, like it did whenever he woke up, like it always did.
Under his breath Hank cursed the planet, which was known to astronomers as Planet GRD-17-35-2417 or more affectionately to school children as the Garden Planet. He remembered reading about the planet and its distant solar system as a child. He remembered wondering what it would be like to live in a place where Spring turned to Summer, then Summer changed back to Spring again, where there was no intervening Fall or Winter. He remembered dreaming of visiting the Garden Planet, but never did he ever imagine he would one day end up living there. And never did he imagine he would one day hate it so much.
There were no deserts on the Garden Planet, just one giant continent covered by millions of the clearest, bluest ponds and lakes, connected one to the other by countless babbling brooks and splashing waterfalls, all of it fed by icy-cold streams flowing down from snow-covered mountains. The land was inundated with water. And everywhere plants and trees grew. Everywhere you looked you could see green, the colors never changing. And always the people smiled and greeted him. It was a place of deep peace and tranquility. Some compared it to the Garden of Eden, but they usually never stayed long. To Hank it felt like prison, except for the fishing.
“Mr. Hank?” someone called right behind him.
Hank jumped. He turned his head. There was a boy standing not far behind him further up on the bank.
“Elvis,” Hank said, “you scared the…” but he caught himself and didn’t finish the sentence. It was easier not to curse than to face Mata’s wrath, “How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on a guy when he’s fishing?”
“Sorry, Mr. Hank,” the boy said, coming down to the water’s edge.
Hank lifted his line out of the water. There was no bait on the hook.
“Now see what you done,” Hank said, “you’ve gone and scared the bait right off the hook.”
“Sorry, Mr. Hank.”
“Ol’ Whiskers, the biggest fish this side of the mountains, is somewhere out there right now laughing at me.” Hank said pointing out into the pond.
He looked at the kid, wanting to get angry. He couldn’t remember getting good and angry about anything for a long time. It was about time that he did. But he liked the boy too much. And his name was Elvis. How could you get angry with someone named Elvis? Instead, he threw his fishing pole down in the grass.
“Well, what do you want?” he growled, deciding to just be irritated instead.
“You hear rocket, Mr. Hank?” the boy asked.
“Yeah, I hear rocket,” Hank said, but he thought, “Son of ….. It wasn’t a dream.”
Hank got up. “How long ago did it land?”
The boy looked puzzled. Hank remembered that he had no concept of time when it came to anything less than day or night. None of the inhabitants of the planet did.
“For godsakes, Elvis, did you run right out here after the rocket landed? Or did you stop by and talk to Aunt Kichi… or whatever her name is?”
“No,” the boy said, “Me not talk to Aunti Kichi.”
“You didn’t talk to anyone?” Hank asked.
“Mata tell me find you,” the boy said, “Then I come here.”
“Twenty minutes,” Hank thought. And he hurried off with the boy following.
By the time they reached the village, a crowd was gathering around the Old Honcho’s house. Mata came running out to meet them.
“Where were you? You didn’t hear rocket?” she asked scowling.
“Yeah,” Hank said scowling back, “but me and Elvis here were talking.”
“Talking?” the woman asked incredulously, “how can you talk to boy at a time like this? Hurry up! They are waiting!”
She took hold of his arm and yanked him through the crowd into the Old Honcho’s house, the biggest house in the whole village. Hank had been there before. He remembered to kick off his sandals before stepping onto the rug inside the door. He noticed a pair of black, leather business shoes.
But there was no time to ask questions. Mata dragged him into the room where the Old Honcho always met his guests. Hank mispronounced the customary greeting as he always did when he entered. The Head Honcho was already at his place. But seated on a cushion on the floor across from him was a middle-aged man in a business suit. Even though Hank had not seen him for almost 20 years, he immediately recognized him.
“Dave!” he shouted
“Hank!” the man shouted back.
They met midway, shaking hands and smacking each other on the back.
“What happened to you?” Dave asked, “You look like Robinson Caruso. When was the last time you shaved?”
Hank didn’t know what to say. He laughed. The Old Honcho clapped his hands and ordered the servants to bring tea. Then he insisted that everyone sit down. Hank and Dave sat down on cushions opposite the Old Honcho. Mata took a position next to the old man to translate.
“What brings you out to the edge of the galaxy?” Hank asked
“Woke up one day and wanted to see you,” Dave said.
“Right,” Hank said, “so you just hopped on the next rocket out here. What are you now, a trillionaire?”
“Hardly,” Dave said, “but I’ve done alright for myself.”
There was a moment of silence between them.
The Old Honcho interrupted with several questions. He wanted to know how Dave and Hank knew each other. He wanted to know where Dave came from and how many wives he had. Mata translated everything almost simultaneously.
“He gets right to the point, doesn’t he?” Dave asked.
“Smartest guy around here,” Hank said.
Soon Dave was talking about how he and Hank met in the marines on their first tour of duty. He talked about their adventures, mostly time spent on leave- the fights they had gotten into, the things that they had gotten drunk on. Hank grinned, not so much at the memories, but because he guessed what the Old Honcho was doing. He was checking up on stories that Hank himself had told over the years.
“Old coot,” Hank thought, “Mr. Hank doesn’t lie. He might stretch the story a little, but Mr. Hank doesn’t lie.”
After about an hour of this, the Old Honcho suddenly declared that there would be a feast in honor of Dave that evening. He announced that everyone in the village should start preparing food and drink for it. Then he left the room without saying another word.
“Can he do that?” Dave asked.
“They all come running whenever he shouts,” Hank said, “Come on, let’s get you out of that straight jacket.”
Within hours Hank, Dave, Mata, the Old Honcho, several other important people from around the village and neighboring villages, and their families and children were seated around a large table in the village hall toasting each other’s health. There were hundreds of dishes prepared by the villagers on the table in front of them. These would find their way back to the villagers who sat at rows of other tables set up around the main table, but only after the honored guest sampled them.
“I have to try everything?” Dave asked.
“They’ll stay here for two days until you do,” Hank said.
They drank and ate. They ate and drank. As the evening wore on into night, solemn toasts gave way to singing and laughter. Singing and laughter gave way to dancing and shouting and all forms of merrimen
t. Dave found himself first being pulled in one direction, then other, but always somebody handed him a bottle or a wineskin. The next thing he remembered, he was outside. Then at some point, he couldn’t remember anything.
Dave woke up. He was outside. The sun was shining, and he had to squint. He felt something warm and furry behind him. It was moving.
“What the?” he rolled away and scrambled to his feet.
He was in a field. He had been sleeping with his back against a large animal, using it like a pillow. The animal was at least nine feet long. It was lying on the ground sleeping.
“Hank!” Dave called softly at first, taking several steps back as he did, “Hank!”
On the other side of the animal, Hank sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“What? What is it?”
“What is that thing?” Dave asked.
Hank looked through his sleepy eyes.
“This? I call ‘em Shag-a-longs. They’re completely harmless. They live up in the hills. When it gets a little cool at night, they like to sleep next to something warm. If they can’t find another Shag-a-long, they come down into the valleys and curl up against any warm body they can find.”
Hank leaned back into the great, big furry animal.
“Kind of comfortable, don’t you think?” he asked.
Dave shuddered a little. His head and neck were itchy. He wondered what kind of bugs lived in the fur of the sleeping beast. There was a nasty taste in his mouth. He was thirsty and hungry.
“I need a shower,” Dave said, “Where can I get a shower and some breakfast around here?”
Fifteen minutes later they were