CHAPTER ONE: THE HITCHHIKER’S GUIDE TO THE UNITED STATES

So you want to know how I ended up in California?

Oh. What you really want to hear about is what planet I come from, how long I’ve been here, and what nefarious goals I have planned to conquer your little liquid-covered marble with the green streak down the middle.

Well, I guess it’s a start. I’m from the planet Zwevoid, located in another galaxy millions of light years away from this solar system. I’ve been here (on Earth) for almost four years. Regarding my motives, sorry to disappoint you Earth-centrics, but the real reason I’m here is: I was on my lunch break.

I’m totally serious. If this seems far-fetched, it’s probably because I haven’t told you very much about the planet Zwevoid. Like Earth, it revolves around a helium-burning sun located at the center of our solar system. However, we orbit at a distance much further away than your planet does. I don’t know if that explains why Zwevoids live much longer existences than Earthlings do. But our days are certainly longer compared to your own; a typical Zwevoidian day is equal to tens of thousands of Earth days added together!

So I had an hour (equal to tens of thousands of Earth hours added together, remember) in which to gather nutrients before going back to work. I had eaten too many times at the place next door or down the street, and felt the urge to try something new. Since I had time, I thought of taking the galaxy-hopper to a planet in the Atreides system, to sample giant sand worm, which I’d read terrific things about in “Gourmet.” Guess I got into the wrong hopper, because the next thing I knew I was descending down from a stealth staircase into Grand Central Station.

And the stupid thing is that I didn’t realize I was going to the wrong place! Granted, it hadn’t been a very long hopping trip, but you’d think I’d have struck up a conversation with the Zwevoid sitting next to me. Not even a long verbal interchange, just long enough to say something like, “Heard good things about that Atreides sand worm, too, eh?” But I didn’t.

The reason for that is pure sap. I had just broken up with a girlfriend of several months (equal to tens of thousands of Earth months put together, remember), and frankly, was feeling antisocial. Not to mention resentful. You’re probably curious why anyone would want to break up with me, the witty, sensitive epicurean with dreamy eyes and prominent dorsal fin (Kidding about that last one). Let’s just say that I have certain… call them what, hobbies? And she couldn’t deal with them in any shape or form. What those predilections are you’ll probably figure out in time. I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself, since I haven’t even explained what led me to the outer boroughs.

After getting off the galaxy hopper with a group of passengers who, in hindsight, were a little too elaborately-dressed for Bedouin Land, I followed the herd up to the surface level, where the scale and sheer activity of Times Square smacked me squarely in the face. I had been expecting fine powdered dunes extending in all directions. This was much different. “Where am I?” I said, my voice registering both shock and awe.

Luckily, I had language-decoding contacts on, and a quick perusal of some free literature stating that Jesus loved me and the end was nigh led me to conclude that I was on Earth. While I felt pretty stupid for having gotten on the wrong transport, I was secretly thrilled to find myself in Manhattan. “Travel” magazine called it the best planet to stop in for a quick bite, given the abundance of street vendors selling starch and cooked animal flesh-products, not to mention used books (Some species have told me that they taste great in a marinade, but they’re not a particular favorite of mine).

Personally, I prefer to avoid the trends, and was more interested in pursuing something that a co-worker said he stumbled across during a long weekend. He called them “pierogi.” “You’ve got to try them,” he said. “Imagine eating a giant jellyfish from Luna-Mar after it’s gorged itself on mashed potatoes or small life forms.”

“That sounds terrible,” I said.

“Well, they’re not that big,” he replied. “But they come 15 in a serving. And you can get them pan-fried.”

“I’m sold,” I said. “Where do you go to get them?”

“Downtown Manhattan where all the touristy bastards wait in line,” he said. “Or you can go to this little out-of-the-way place called Brighton Beach. See, this tribe that’s called the Poles invented them, like, a million years ago. You just go where they live.”

“They’re the ones who built that giant wall you can see from space, right?” I asked.

At this point, I still had almost a whole hour (equal to thousands, maybe tens of thousands of Earth hours added together, remember) left in my lunch break. I thought I would take things easy, so I walked around the district, staring at display windows and watching tourists haggling over knick-knacks and accoutrements. I got lost more than once, something I had thought unlikely given the seemingly straightforward grid pattern of mid-town.

But getting lost can be a blessing. It certainly was for me that afternoon. I was nearly ready to hop a subway to Brighton Beach, which my co-worker had told me was in the borough of Brooklyn, when I turned down from an enormous parking lot, passed several clothing outlets, and spotted the thing which has kept me on your planet for many years (Earth ones) since: It was an “X”; followed by another “X”; then another “X” still. They were written in blue neon and hanging from a large storefront window. I’d heard of these types of establishments through “for shame” reports on the galactic media. Humans refer to the wares they sell as “pornography.” However, on the planet Zwevoid, pornography is simply referred to as “The Brain Poison.”

If “The Brain Poison” sounds like it carries negative connotations, that’s because it does on my world. Zwevoids create very little traditional pornography themselves. There just isn’t a market; we have evolved our minds to the point where dirty sex fantasies lack the appeal of working for the betterment of civilization. I have found the same to be true of every planet throughout the “civilized” universe. It’s funny, but it appears that whenever a people surrender their vices – such as lust, greed, and envy – they quickly eliminate problems such as world hunger, establish everlasting peace, and accomplish interstellar space travel.

This, in turn, may lead to a better universe. But in my opinion, it’s a lot less interesting.

Maybe I am a degenerate Zwevoid, as a female I once thought I loved accused me of being. Or maybe I represent the missing link between my violent, selfish, porn-watching ancestors and the rarified breed currently spreading enlightenment and all sorts of technical wonders at trade shows. All I know is what stirs my passions as a living, breathing, thinking creature. And it’s the porn. I fell in love with the planet Earth within minutes (Earth ones) because of the pornography, a treasure unavailable in any other quadrant explored by Zwevoids.

It’s funny, but when I think back to that lunch break (equal to tens of thousands of Earth lunch breaks added together, remember) I wonder if a part of me had desired to come here all along. I had read the “shame reports.” My ex-female and I had been planning a trip here one day. Maybe it hadn’t been a mistake that brought me to Earth after all, but my Zwevoidian subconscious dragging me across space by my Zwevoidian gonads.

I ate pierogi in Brighton Beach during that very same lunch break (tens of thousands of pierogi diffused across several Earth years, remember), but even with the first bite, I found my mind drifting to that adult video shop, those posters of beautiful, buxom females posed in all sorts of sexual mischievousness. Did I know then what I know now: That I would be staying behind in Brooklyn for the rest of that Zwevoidian hour? Getting back to the office was probably the least of my concerns. By my count, I hadn’t even used up half a minute of my scheduled respite.