Pinball
Twenty years ago, I saw my first pinball in the sky. It was not a comet; it was not an asteroid or a meteor; it was a pinball. I call it this only because I have no other name for it… none that I could verify, at least.
It started off as a bright light — I thought it was North Star then — because it was so large. But soon, it moved. I saw it ricochet and bend, bouncing across the sky, touching every star before it rebounded and bent the blackness along with it. I knew it was something else. It went on for minutes — I was spellbound. And suddenly, it grew, almost as if it were coming closer, as if it had seen me. It grew to be nearly as big as the moon, burning the sky with a white-green tint, before it ultimately vanished in between a blinking of my eyes.
I was five years old then. I couldn’t help but assume there was an alien behind it all. A Green manning a spacecraft, doing who knows what. And I — a spectator of something absolutely forbidden — something I should not have seen. I could hardly sleep those days. It went on for almost a year… I was afraid that it might have seen me. I was afraid that it would have no choice but to take me one night as I slept, and clear my memories or do many other forms of torture my young mind could not yet clearly fathom, but could very easily fear. So I made sure to tell no one. Not my mother, or my father, or my older brother, who was closer and dearer to me than anyone. I was afraid they were listening to me — that they were dialed in. I was afraid that if I uttered the story, it would be all the evidence they needed to take me. For some time, I even feared that they could hear my thoughts. So I quickly suppressed any thoughts I had of that night whenever they would come up by yelling “SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP” in my head. It wasn’t always up to me, though. Sometimes I would have no choice but to think of them. Happenstance would force onto me them — seeing a UFO sighting in the news, or learning about stars in science class, or watching sci-fi dramas on light night television. As I grew older and learned to swear, I would curse at the aliens and tell them to mind their business, and that they were nosey.
With time, I came to learn more about the world. I learned that there was likely a more reasonable scientific explanation for what I saw that night. One detached from anything paranormal or special. But I couldn’t accept that — not yet, at least. Because at that moment, it was something so real to me. Because how could something false move me for so long? Cause fear for so long? Curiosity? I eventually lost the fear I once had. Or better yet — it transformed. It became a longing for that feeling — that of mystery and insignificance I felt. Such a personal secret that kept my world from ending, like a dam held together with a seal that I could at any point tear off like a sticker. I began to expect things in random places. I would look at the sky, and hope to see something magnificent again. I would fantasize about the moon growing until it became a flaming ball in the sky smoldering the world. Or I would look at the ocean from the shore, hoping to see a massive creature burst from the depths. Sometimes, my fantasies would be more gruesome, like imagining the ground beneath my ten-story apartment building crumbling away and swallowing all of its tenants into a dark abyss. I could imagine the crumbling concrete so clearly. And it was like this everywhere I went.
Last night, on the last night of the Summer, I was looking out the balcony of my apartment, up at the sky. I was with an acquaintance, Giovanni, who was visiting from out of town. We met by coincidence six months ago. I was at a party and he knew a friend of a friend who introduced us, thinking we would bond over our shared interest in astronomy. The friend of our mutual friend was right, and we mingled for a few minutes before exchanging numbers and going our separate ways. We spoke about the upcoming Perseid meteor showers and how unfortunate it was that we would miss the peak because of cloudy weather. His visit was happenstance, as his original accommodation became unavailable. A lovers’ quarrel, I believe — I can’t remember exactly — and he needed a place to spend the night. I assume he had no other place to stay; I happily obliged.
We were sharing a bottle of wine and discussing all sorts of things. I began to imagine that we would be great friends if only he lived closer, and we could share moments like these regularly. He was a very intelligent person and had no hesitation disagreeing with someone or starting a debate. I admired it at first, but quickly became annoyed when I confessed, for the first time, what I could only describe as the pinball in the sky.
He laughed at me at first. A reaction that initially angered me and quickly turned into embarrassment. I regret having shared it; and he began explaining what I had feared so greatly, that it was nothing but a known phenomenon known as the Breath of Pollux. That it was simply a fluctuation in the atmosphere’s density that reflected the light of a single star, in such a way, that it created the illusion of movement before dissipating in a large flash. “Imagine a miniature aurora borealis.” He said, “It’s very rare, but something completely earthly and uninvolved with satellites or heavenly bodies.” He laughed again, understanding how I could have mistaken it for something greater. “You’re very lucky. It’s one of the rarest weather phenomena in the world.”
His sympathy somehow angered me further, and I felt like smashing the wine bottle over his ridiculous head that held such stupid thoughts. I didn’t kick him out, for I am a decent person, but I was very dry with him from then on, did not refill my glass, and left the apartment early the next morning before he woke, leaving him a curt note that he could exit with no keys, as the door locked on its own.
I lied, of course. The door did not lock, and I was at the mercy of any burglar who would have been hoping to enter my unlocked home. But he didn’t show, and I made it home to a ‘Thank You’ note from Giovanni in place of my own, and all my belongings still intact. I ripped the note and threw it in the garbage before booting up my computer. I looked up ‘The Breath of Pollux’ and found no results. I wondered whether he misspoke, and looked up variations that he might have confused them with. Breath of Ptolemy, perhaps? Sigh of Pollux? Mini Auroras? Nothing. I found nothing but advertisements for cruise ships to Alaska and flights to Iceland. My stomach dropped and my organs felt frozen in place, covered in frost.
Was he joking? I wondered. What a stupid joke. There was no humor in that, or immediate payoff to enjoy. Did he misremember something? But how? And why would he bring it up so confidently if it did not exist? The questions and unease followed me, much like they did when I was a child. I could not sleep. What if they were on to me? What if they sent him, like an emissary from the sky, to verify what I had seen? A long, drawn-out plan to lower my defenses, knowing that I might, with Giovanni above anyone else, a fellow lover of the stars, share such a secret. I remember struggling to remove my blankets as I squirmed out of bed. I drank water from the sink and felt it spread down my dry throat, as if the cold was expanding through my chest. I faced away from my kitchen and towards my balcony when I saw something green glowing in the sky. I drifted as if in a trance, towards my balcony, and stared up in awe. I slid open the glass door, and climbed onto the railing, teetering over the edge of the tenth floor, the concrete streets below me.
I cannot tell you whether or not what happened was real. Perhaps I never awoke and merely dreamed this. But it felt so true, much like my first encounter with the pinball. What happened next was this: I felt myself floating up towards it — the bouncing star in the sky. I continued upward, past the city buildings and the clouds, towards the star. And much like my first encounter, it came towards me, glowing larger and larger until it covered my vision, blinding me in a white-green nothingness.
I woke up in bed with a cold sweat and a massive headache. I removed my clothing and ran to the bathroom, frantically slapping the wall until I hit the light switch. My hands were shaking. I traced every inch of my torso, legs, arms, and head, looking for a scar. For a mark. Or a sign that they had taken something from me — an organ — or much worse, left something in me that no doctor would ever be able to truly understand, find, or explain. But there was nothing; I was fine. My stomach was smooth and scarless. My navel, nothing but a small hole.
I walked to my bedroom and picked up my phone. It was three in the morning. Was it too late? I wondered. I typed up the name Giovanni and pondered for a moment what I would say. He was likely expecting my call; I figured. How could he not? And if he didn’t, wouldn’t he be excited to hear about my second rare sighting? And if it was a joke, wouldn’t he find it hilarious that I believed him? Could he confirm the name, in case I misheard it? Or would he confess he lied and think that I was crazy? Become concerned, perhaps? There was nothing I could do then, but find out the truth. That which was held between us, like a closed door — or much less — a thin curtain; a green call button. So I called him, and it rang, and rang, and rang.
.
To be continued...?
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