Return from Mars

I have not literally returned from Mars. I haven't been to Mars. Nobody has. Things have, cameras, other electric do-dads, but no, not humans and certainly not me. I have remained here.

But what I've experienced is the passing of time. Nobody's immune. It just happens. I have, however, been away. The start of my time away was one morning on the packing floor at the pickle factory. I had gotten up, showered, eaten breakfast, like any other day. I drove to the pickle plant and began my shift. All seemed routine and ordinary.

But as I worked, something ticked at the core of my brain. Not loudly, not regularly like a clock, but often enough, growing more rapidly. It was subtle at first, but right around the time of my morning break, it was noticeable. Tick. Tick. Tick. I tried not to listen, to ignore it. I closed my eyes, shook my head, but it persisted. It grew louder.

I headed for the break room when my time came, dropped into a chair and tried to read a newspaper while I sipped on a Coke. But the ticking got louder. The tempo increased, but still, not regular enough to create a beat that one could nod one's head to. I looked around the break room but nobody seemed to notice that I was behaving oddly. I'm not even sure I was behaving oddly, but surely I must have been.

Because after I blinked, I realized I was strapped down to a gurney, in the back of an ambulance, a siren blaring outside, bouncing down an uneven road. Penlights shone in my eyes, and serious-looking men spoke to one another in words I could not understand.

It would be tempting to say I next woke in a white room, with white furniture, dominated by a black obelisk, my face old and creased. But that didn't happen. Instead, when I woke I was in a sloppy looking living room. I was seated on a sofa. I was wearing gray sweatpants and an Atlanta Braves t-shirt. There was pornography on the television, and in a chair near the sofa, a sweaty fat man was eating chicken.

When I said, "what," which was all that came to mind, I startled him, and he choked a little. His eyes wide, he just stared at me for the longest time, not moving, trying to comprehend that I was staring back at him. On screen, a man inseminated a woman's artificially ample breasts.

This was last week.

The pickle factory, sad to say, is shuttered. The day I disappeared there was a chemical leak of some kind, and I was among those who survived. I have no idea what sort of chemicals a pickle factory would use that would do this, although someone tried to explain it to me. My family had gotten some sort of settlement for my ongoing care, and some of it wasn't spent on cars, beer and fancy underpants, so they had no choice but to fork over the meager remainder when I unexpectedly came back. They were kind of mad. I'm trying not to take that personally.

I've gotten out since my return from Mars, looked around town and I still recognize most things. I'm pretty sure I'm capable of holding down a job, so I'll be looking pretty soon. I was so comfortable at the pickle factory, but it's just not coming back. But there is a beet factory here and I understand they're looking for people from time to time, so we'll see.