Tuesdays with John

John pretended to read the furniture repair how-to book, slouching down so that the men preparing the table and chairs wouldn't recognize him. He was excited and ready but also nervous, and very glad he decided to skip breakfast.

His eyes idly fell to the book in his hands. Upholstery looks so easy! His landlady had thrown out a chair that looked very much like this one, only a couple of weeks ago. Was it still in the back? It had not rained, he didn't think, and it might still be in good shape.

Concentrate! he told himself. He needed to be ready to argue. Would Gerald hit him? He might. But he was little and out of shape, and John was pretty sure he could take him. But what about the other guy? John had read all his books but had never met this Thomas Woodward, who was so special that John himself, last year's treasurer, was not allowed to attend his talk at the Books-A-Million.

He wished things had not come to this. But everyone was so unfair! Disagreements should be dealt with civilly, not with yelling and name-calling and expulsions. What really galled John was that he had been one of the six founders of the Memphis Extraterrestrial Communion Organization (MECO). Before his arrival last spring, the watcher community had been a bunch of losers on message boards. Now they had a website, a bank account, an organization, a society. Anyone would have been justifiably proud of the work he had done, and protective of the rights of all members.

Well, protective of his own rights.

The problem is that everyone automatically associates themselves with Grays. Even the poster announcing Woodward's talk this afternoon had a little drawing of a Gray (although the proportions were all askew, and John wasn't sure if the little hand-held raygun was more absurd or offensive). Just because they look so thin and elegant and have all that technology, and because so many more of the documented encounters (plus the crazies) were with Grays, and because they were in all those movies.

But you can't choose what happens to you, John told himself. You can only choose how to respond to it.

When the Reptilians had taken him eighteen months ago, the ordeal had been terrifying. The lights, the rough handling, the experiments. But there was more. He had learned so much from them! And the sexual tests -- the orgasms had been fast, furious, constant, the kind you wanted to stop but needed to keep going.

When he awoke after they returned him home, sore and scared and smelling of gin and burning plastic, John had been afraid to reach out. But he gradually began talking to others interested in the extraterrestrial phenomenon. He found what he thought was a helpful and tolerant community. He had discussed the E.T.s, their motives, their goals, and their nature. John changed people's minds and had his own conclusions challenged; for example, he was now convinced that most so-called UFOs were actually based on Earth or nearby planetary objects, and they were not all sent from other systems. John met people, joined groups, started groups, and met what he thought were friends.

But, he reflected bitterly, even these "open minded" people had their own prejudices. When he first began to talk about Reptilians he was shocked at how quickly they were dismissed as ugly or even villainous. Admitting to an interest or preference for Reptilians was met with disbelief or humor; admitting to a sexual relationship was met by stunned silence; admitting to enjoying it had resulted in his expulsion from MECO.

A group he had founded, whose idea had been his!

Well, he was not going take that. The talk had started and, and Woodward was going on about some crap about a new dawn of Earth/Extra-terran (what a silly phrase!) relations. He was nearing the end of the talk, and soon questions would follow. Yes, they were wrapping up. John stood up to his full height and began to stride forward as Gerald said, "Thank you very much, Professor Woodward! I think we've got time for a few questions. Do you-"

"I've got a question!" John bellowed. "Professor Woodward!"

"Oh, Jesus," Gerald muttered into the microphone. The crowd turned and stared as John marched forward.

"Is it not a fact," John began loudly, ignoring the stares and whispers, wildly jabbing his finger into the air to punctuate each clause, "I said, is it not a fact, that the extraterrestrial watcher community has consistently ignored the beliefs and ideas and needs of some of its most important members? For example, I -"

John had never been hit in the kidneys with a baton before, and it hurt more than he imagined anything could. Two small men in blue outfits, one of whom he thought he recognized from the Louisville UFO Meet Up group, grabbed John's arms as a third, unseen assailant hit his lower back one, two, three times. They began to drag him back.

"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen," Gerald whined into the microphone, "We're almost out of time. A round of applause for Professor Thomas Woodward!"

John was being dragged toward the back of the store. He kicked his feet out, flailing, and knocked over a display of the new Harry Potter book.

"I won't be silenced!" he screamed. "I won't!"