Just Sign Here

By Nathaniel Holloway

The sun rose high as it did every day. A quaint house in the middle of the high desert sat right in front of a paved road with no other structures around for miles. A red truck with a "U.S. MAIL RURAL DELIVERY" sticker on the side drove down the road as it did every morning, stopping in front of the house. The postman, dressed in blue head to toe, stepped out of the car with a small package in hand and walked to the front door. His name tag, printed with George Bean, sat cleanly on his pocket. At the edge of the house, he raised the package and shook it, making a small rattle sound. He placed it down and ran back to his car. His hand grasped a small notebook, fingers flipping to a blank page. A pen struck the paper: "Rectangle, Rattle- Toy? Silverware? Sturdy."

The vehicle rolled up to another house, larger than the previous one, but only by a bedroom. George grabbed a new package with "CAREFUL FRAGILE" plastered on top of the unusually square box. He placed it on the front steps and ran back to his vehicle. Upon the notebook he wrote "Square, Fragile- Glass? Heirloom? Secretive."

Bean was a man of patterns, following the routine day after day after day, never deviating, never making anything more of his day. Yet these routines were what made him content. To him, each package was a new exploration, and each one brought a new thought to his mind. He did not like to dwell on them long, writing what he thought and letting his mind trail off. But every so often, his mind became fixated on the most special curios.

George continued his drive along the road until he came into a small town, with a few houses and even fewer buildings that have actual purposes. Some were abandoned, some only seemed so. No paint was fresh, and each surface had a hardy layer of dust. Luckily the wind did not blow this day, for George could enjoy the beauty of the cloudless, blue sky, and not worry to put on his goggles or bandana to block the sandstorms.

He stopped at the only house with a garden, roses and lilac and daisies, though other than that there was no real yard. The home itself was only a box, no architectural marvel, yet sufficient in George’s mind. He walked through the gate of the chain link fence, his eyes fixed upon the single small box held softly in his palms. Though it could have easily fit in a single hand, George always carried each package with two, no matter the size, following policy, but more for his own peace of mind than actual love for the regulations. George's face hid not his confusion, not that anyone was around to see, but he would not have cared otherwise. Unable to wrap his head around the object, his hand placed it on the doorstep and his feet backed away slowly, while his eyes never broke contact with the box. A well dressed fellow trailed up the sidewalk, his hand glued to his phone, his phone glued to his ear, his mouth spouting angrily of this or that, a conversation George cared little to hear for anger was a worthless emotion.

Needlessly angry, the suited man bounced off George, recklessly walking without purpose. George's attention remained squarely on the box, paying no glances nor thoughts of the crasher, as the suited man paused his call, turning his irritation from the voice far away to the man before his eyes.

“Excuse me?” he said, flabbergasted at the situation.

George's attention was torn away. “No worries, friend,” George said with all sincerity. “What do you suppose is in there?” he continued, pointing towards the mysteriously minute delivery, hoping to spark conversation.

“How should I know? Will you please move?” His words were kind, but his tone was far from matching.

The postman looked at the man, at the street behind them, and back at the box. “Must be something important,” he said. “Possibly a past memento...from a long lost lover, or perhaps...something-”

“It's unimportant!” snapped the caller. “Now move!”

“Well, I was standing here first, so no,” Bean responded without breaking his stare.

Disgruntled, the man scoffed in anger, begrudgingly stepping onto the street and on his way. Another figure, bearded, well groomed, in khakis and a sweater appeared next to George, one who had witnessed the previous brief interaction.

“So what do you really think?” the new man wondered, seemingly as curious of George as George was of the box, surprising the lone postman. 

He became confused, not understanding why someone else was actually interested, but glad all the same.

“The name's Michael Kiln,” the man continued, reaching his hand out.

Obliging, George shook Michael’s hand with a queer smile, still unsure of the man who seemed too nice to be of this town, which Bean knew the man was not. There was neither a Michael nor a Kiln on any ledger George has ever handled.

“So…” Michael waited for a response with raised brows and eager eyes.

The answer did not come swiftly, a question becoming a thought, a thought into an epiphany, and finally an epiphany into a digestible answer. “Something...really something.”

George walked back to his vehicle, visibly distraught, as Michael stared intently, his eyes following each step his new acquaintance made, continuing his gaze until the tires could no longer be seen down the road. Michael put two fingers to his throat, as if checking his pulse, ecstatically laughing. “Tig, George is ready,” he said, hardly believing the time was at hand at last. “We do it tonight.”

Tig, his voice echoing around Michael but no further for none else were allowed to hear, responded, “Very well. I'll get the contract ready.”

George’s house was a quaint abode, with one drab bedroom, a small bathroom without a tub, a kitchen without a microwave, and a yard without a plant. George, dressed only in his boxers and a nightshirt, holed from moths and ‘Kickball League’ insignia faded, as was his usual attire when alone. He plopped himself down on a small couch, a plate of meatloaf in one hand and a TV remote in the other. He flipped through channels, unable to decide as he repeatedly stuffed a new fork full of food into his mouth, meandering through his meaningless night. Bang! The front door flew open. A beam of blinding light blasted through, casting two silhouettes. The heavenly glow marked the arrival of something so unexpected, George had no reaction aside from turning his head.

His eyes just stared, mesmerized and unblinking–his hand dropped the remote. He took one last bite of meatloaf, emotionless and unblinking, though he did oh so enjoy that meatloaf. Michael, whom George recognized, and Tig, who George did not recognize, marched forth. Michael appeared just as he did before, while his companion, grey of skin, had the look of a scientist, or at least the ones George had seen on television.

“Hello George!” Michael gayly greeted. “My colleague, Tig, and I have come here to change your life. We are–”

“You're aliens.” George has no reason to delay, able to process the fact swiftly and without alarm.

The aliens themselves were taken aback, slightly stunned by George's fiercely nonchalant nature.

“You've been watching me.”

The grey Tig took a step forward out of equal parts comfortability and curiosity, asking, “Was that a statement or question?”

“Statement. The light...and the grey skin...Michael's weird clothes,” George shrugged, and then nodded, “aliens.” He said the word as though there could have never been another possibility, as if he had always known there were not just aliens in the universe, but these two specific aliens.

Again the two intruders became bewildered, glancing at each other and then back to George, both with tongues that could not speak.

Not wanting to delay, George continued swiftly, “Do you want me to get aboard your spaceship?”

“Yes,” Tig said, relieved. He looked to Michael, “That is what we came for,” he added, as though he needed to reassure his companion.

“You're abducting me,” the human said matter of factly.

“No no no,” Michael leapt forward as though he were to catch a falling babe, “not an abduction, more a business proposal.”

“Ok.” George stood, put on slippers, and began walking towards the light.

“No further questions?” Tig questioned.

George shrugged. “We can talk inside. I want to see the ship.”

Michael’s face bore utmost glee. “He is perfect!” he told Tig, who nodded in cautious agreement.

The three men all walked towards the blinding light until all that could be seen was just white, and then a room. At that, George was impressed. Perhaps a teleporter or miniature wormhole brought him here, though the actual logistics did not matter to him all that much, but rather it was the curious nature of the room he was in. It seemed almost like a classroom.

He was directed to sit in the lap of a giant, pink teddy bear, and so he did. Across from him sat the two aliens on chairs meant for toddlers with small desks stationed right in front. The room, windowless, looked like that of a daycare, with walls painted like a sunny day, foam puzzle pieces laying around, and children's books scattered about.

George's eyes scanned each wall, processing each minute piece of information. Michael, smiling and wide eyed, fidgeted his thumbs. His foot retained an annoying tapping, creating the only sound in the room. In Tig's hand rested a contract that his eyes tracked slowly, reviewing line by line. His head came up, tilted as he observed George, then went back down. George's eyebrows raised in interest, the only change in expression since the aliens came to abduct.

“George,” Michael began his pitch with open arms and a cheerful tone, like any good salesman, “let me just say how wonderful it is to finally just be able to sit here and speak with you, truly speak with you.” He paused, waiting for any response with eager ears.

Petting the giant arm of the bear, George continued scanning the walls of the room, seeing a happy sun, smiling clouds, and dancing trees. “So why are you here for me?” he finally asked.

“To put it simply, we have a job opportunity we think you'd be perfect for,” Michael said with the arrogance of a king.

“Mr. Bean,” Tig interjected, “we represent the leading galactic civilization, with a multitude of systems and species all dedicated to assist each other in creating a unified government and–”

“How many systems,” George interrupted.

“Um,” the scientist had to catch his thoughts, “thirty nine, and counting, but we would like to offer you–”

“Are they like states?” the human’s curiosity forced out of him. “Or more like countries? Or are there countries in each system? Is it a planet by planet basis?”

Slightly frustrated, Tog responded, “Mr. Bean, if we could get back on Topic…”

“Of course,” George agreed, though still clearly distracted.

“We would like to offer you the position of ambassador for your people.” Upon Tig’s completion of the statement, George smacked the desk in excitement, an exclamation that made Tig jump and George laugh out of pity for the salesman.

“Wow,” the lowly postman said in legitimate shock. “Why?” He thought the whole idea moronic. For advanced aliens, they had silly ideas. “I know nothing about being an ambassador.” George moved to the floor and started putting the foam pieces together, a much simpler puzzle than the one already laid before him.

“Well George,” Michael began the next stage of the sale, “it's not a political role, it is more of a study. Our scientists wish to study you to see if the human race is, shall we say, ready.” He finished his thought with elevated brows, a nod, and a sly smile, which only made Bean writhe.

“Ready to join your civilization.” George figured.

“Correct Mr. Bean,” Tig acknowledged. “So we just need your signature to–”

“So if I succeed, what happens?” The puzzle was now a third way complete, George’s hands placing the latest pieces together.

“Trust me George,” Michael raised his palms high, “you are exceptional, and I have no doubt you will succeed. Of course we will make our official first contact within a human appearance similar to my own, try not to scare anyone too much, your basic first contact procedure. The rest of the story is bureaucratic, not too interesting.”

“But highly important,” Tig clarified.

“I would assume so,” George said firmly. “What if I fail?” The puzzle was now half way complete.

“Well,” Michael began nervously, wishing to avoid any awkwardness, “we hold off first contact. I go back to the field. Pretty much life just goes on as normal. Only with some slight changes.”

“Correct,” Tig agreed, but Michael winced as his companion began to speak. “We then begin the process of classifying this planet as a limited hunting ground, gathering proper permits, fitting regulations, ensuring safety to all-

“What do you mean by limiting hunting ground?” George could hardly believe his ears. He placed another puzzle, becoming closer to the clearer picture.

The salesman tried to explain, “So certain species have different…uhm…dietary restrictions...and you are classified as an...at risk group.”

“What?” As usual, Michael's words added little clarity.

“It will mostly all be used for research, Mr. Bean,” Tig assured. “No one will undergo any treatment that is not first approved through your experimentation, whether your people are to be integrated, or hunted.”

George completed his floor puzzle. “Experimentation?”

“Uh,” Michael stumbled his words, “...experimentation is a harsh word...more like participating in a study–just like anyone would normally do.”

“Exactly Mr. Bean,” Tig supported gleefully. “It is all rather simple.”

The scientist stood, wandered over to a green chalkboard, and cleared his throat. George’s eyes followed closely, finding themselves looking upon a human body, suspiciously looking like himself, drawn on the board in peach chalk. The grey alien grabbed a long, red chalk, turning to present excitedly. From his overt expression, clearly this had been the moment he was waiting for since the abduction began.

Circling what he described, Tog began explaining, “We will start with the removal of the limbs, followed by the extraction of spinal fluid and brain stem cells, highly important pieces of understanding any life form. Of course the removal of each organ, seeing how they react to stimulation, starting with the liver, heart, and lungs.

George’s face took on a face of disbelief, while Michael’s took on equal parts disappointment and embarrassment as if caught in a lie, the secrets laying to bare.

Switching to exes, Tig continued, “Also we will remove the appendix, as we are still unsure of its purpose. Dissection of the eyes, just to be fully sure of how much light you are seeing. And of course the genitals so we can fully understand your reproduction. But do not worry, we will leave those for last since you humans covet your genitalia in a holy manner. We still want to be respectful of your culture within our thorough investigation.”

Grabbing the pink teddy bear’s arms and wrapping them around himself, George began to curl into a ball, his mind struggling to process the information.

“George, buddy,” the salesman said softly, trying to soften the impact, “I know that is quite a bit...and I was hoping to give it to you slowly, but–”

“But we are on a tight schedule Mr. Bean,” the scientist interrupted, “so we need a signature on this consent form soon. Again, the full contract can wait, but this cannot.”

The postman's eyes simply stared into the void, unblinking, horrified.

“No to worry Mr. Bean, you shall be awake and alive for all of this, so you will not miss a thing and can ensure we do not make a mistake.”

“George,” Michael knelt by his target, “your well being is extremely important to us.”

“My well being?” George said in disbelief. “I'll be alive through all of it?! Could I at least get some ibuprofen or something? And what will people say when I don't come back to Earth?

Tig and Michael each fell silent, unsure how to respond, their faces unsure how to form. A realization befell them, that George did not know why he was chosen. George saw in their faces the truth. And he saw there was actually one more piece to the puzzle, a rather important one but easy to miss. He let go of the bear, stood up, walked over, and placed the final piece. Finally, the full picture. But he needed to hear it said.

“You know,” he began, “I...like to find the importance in things, even if there is none. When my wife was alive, she used to tell me that is what made me so important. Why am I important to you?”

“George, you can skyrocket Earth's progress!” Michael cheerfully exclaimed. “You could unite your people with the galaxy! You are the first step! You have the ability to be the most important human to have ever lived.

“You know Michael,” the postman responded, frustrated, “you never answered my question. Why me?

“Oh George.” Michael was backed into a corner, caught off guard, no more tricks or sly comments to use. He knew this to be true, but still could not break his habit, for only ever had one strategy. “You are an exceptional person, a brilliant thinker, you're–”

“You are unimportant to your own kind.” Tig finally gave an honest response, something Michael could never do, feeling the pain of being caught once again as George seemed to accept what he had already understood. “It is one of our main classifiers for subjects,” the scientist continued with a clear tone. He cared not to hide, nor did he care to mislead. “It's clearly stated right here in the consent form.” Reading from the document, he began, “If the subject's disappearance will have little to no effect on the world around them then they are suitable for study. The subject–in this case you Mr. Bean–must not be missed. The subject must not have any family. The subject must not have any friends or other close relations. The subject's day to day life must not be important for the greater world around them. The subject must not be missed. The subject must not be remembered.” He waited for only a brief moment, waiting for a response that never came. “Your life on Earth is worthless Mr. Bean.”

“Well it's worth something to me!” George snapped.

“And it is worth even more to us,” Tig said calmly.

Michael stepped forth. “Please, George–

“Stop talking Michael,” George quickly shot. “You are quite literally the worst, and I...I need to think.” George's eyes wandered  about the room until they became caught on a single cover. The title read, Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? by Dr. Seuss. Dizzy and faded, he stepped to the book. His hand reached down, plucking it from a child bookcase. His fingers flipped open the cover, his eyes tracking the words as he read. As George continued with the book, page by page, Michael, face full of fear, and Tig, face full content, stared intently.

George laughed to himself. “The workers of Bunglebung Bridge...the people of Ga-Zayt…the people of Ga-Zair…Herbie Hart...Ali Sard...Mister Bix...the Schlottz...and countless more.” Page after page turned, until George's eyes finally looked up from the book. The book closed, and was then released back to the bookshelf. “What a cheerful read. They really all have terrible lives. But at least they are remembered. At least they matter to someone. At least they can help someone.”

Worried confusion set over Michael as Tig grabbed a pen from his desk. The grey alien stood and strolled on over to the saddened postman. Using the pen, he pointed to the dotted line at the end of the form.

“Just sign here,” said Tig.

The pen and paper were taken by George, his name spelt out, and the form received once more by Tig.

“I will take this to my superiors for final processing. You should relax Mr. Bean. Your life will begin shortly.”

Tig turned, exiting the room through the single door within it with a deep, excited breath. A shocked Michael followed closely behind, trying to think of words to say but to no avail.

George sat back into the lap of the bear. His muscles relaxed and his eyes closed. A deep breath in, and a deep breath out. A slight smile set over his face.

The same houses from the day before still stood, still sitting quietly, but there was no red SUV, no George, no packages. Except for one. The tiny, mysterious box still laid upon the doorstep to the last house. Unopened.