"But, mommmm!"
Mom sighed and shook her head. She gestured at my shiny Radio Flyer wagon, which happened to be piled high with technological goodies.
"No, no more computers. No parts, no keyboards, no mouses, no nothing!"
I stamped my foot.
"First off, it's mice. Second, we have plenty of room! You have so many clothes, you legitimately need to store them in my-"
My mother shoved her hand in my face.
"Talk to the hand because I ain't listening. Pack it up, soldier."
I gave her a hard stare.
"Godda-"
She returned my hard stare with her equally wicked glare.
"Alright, now whatever you spent on this ancient flea market-"
I raised an eyebrow.
"Ten years is the oldest. That isn't ancient."
Smoke exploded from her ears.
"Don't interrupt me young man. Now. Return this old junk, and put whatever you spent on it in the swear jar. You hear me?"
I lowered my head.
"Fine."
I grabbed hold of my Radio Flyer, pushed open the door, and went into the Florida sun. This was a stark contrast to the relatively cool morning air I had felt earlier when making my trek to the flea market. I sensed it on every exposed portion of my body, the sun's rays threatening to cook me alive. I had not a smidge of SPF50 on my body. At that moment, skin cancer became my biggest worry.
As I made my way down the driveway, a peak over my shoulder at the windows proved my mother was looking at me through the curtains to make sure I went in the right direction.
I traveled down the sidewalk, making a hard right. At this point, I was past her line of sight. A few more feet and I’m at the entrance to our backyard. I released the gate's latch. It swung open with a familiar strained creak.
The Radio Flyer jounced, swishing side to side, as I rolled it into our backyard. The transition from smooth pavement to uneven brick was not kind on the Flyer.
I afforded a glance at the windows overlooking the backyard. Fortunately, the shades were still down. Mom wasn’t onto me. Yet. I made my way to the corner of the backyard where our wooden shed stood, a strong gust of humid Florida air threatened to send it straight to high heaven.
This rickety building was home to both my laboratory and acted as my secret storage space. Mom never came in here, her fear of spiders far too great. I had an equally large fear of spiders. Luckily, I had invested in a can of Raid.
I removed a key from my pocket, pushed it into the rusted padlock, and gave it a hard turn to the right. My thin arms were barely enough to force the key to turn. In fact, I believed I heard a pop or two every time I attempted to enter the shed.
The door swung open revealing the shed's innards. A smorgasbord of parts covered every surface, many of them shining in the sunlight.
I pushed the Radio Flyer into a corner, to be dealt with later.
This was my home away from home… that happened to be directly next to my home. As I entered the shed, I took a moment to admire my handiwork. My various creations, cobbled together from no more than flea market e-waste and common household garbage. Call me Avery, Avery Newtron. It was a sight to behold. I took a squirt bottle and turned it to a machine gun with nuts and bolts as ammunition. I took a flashlight and turned it into a high-powered laser. I took a knife and turned it into an even sharper knife.
Truly, there was no question of my brilliance, even at such a young age. As I walked through the shed, I took a moment to acknowledge all of these. But the true masterpiece, the creme de la creme, my raison dêtre lay in the very back of the shed.
Powered by pure American spirit, Americium-241 to be exact (derived from smoke detectors), this walkie talkie could communicate… with moon men. Terrestrial and then some. Aliens.
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While I moonlight as a Jawa scrounging for parts at the A&P Flea Market to make top tier weaponry, my true passion is ethical hacking. I’ve hacked all the lettered agencies, one through four characters. Found some stuff about failed assassinations, mind control, all that. But I only truly hit gold with NASA. Secret documents about alien communications, technology, the whole shebang. Sure, ten thousand dollars may be a lot for computer parts, but who needs college?
How do I know I’m hearing aliens? Audio clips found in the CIA database sound extremely similar to what I’ve heard over the walkie. I have yet to work up the confidence to actually say anything to the little green men but I’m working on it. Learning a language you have no reference point for is tough. The CIA hasn’t even cracked what they're saying yet.
My practice sessions went something like this, but in bad alien:
“Greetings children of the stars. ‘Tis I, Avery Liu of planet Earth. Can you put your leader on the walkie?”
“Please don’t try to destroy us!”
“No, you don’t need to make me your god king, not yet at least.”
I picked up the walkie, I pressed a button, and it started with a whir. The usual chatter started, nonsensical gleep bloops of out of this world origin. I listened carefully, taking notes about possible character meanings to create a full cypher. Then about 30 minutes the popping and clicking started.
I barely noticed at first. Then it got louder, and louder, and louder until it drowned out the aliens entirely. At first, I was startled but then I took care to pay the utmost attention.
“Interference… line.”
The exotic outlanders were speaking English. Or I believed so, the static was awful.
“Who’s…?”
I smashed the talk button before I could think about it. This was, as far as I knew, first contact.
“Hello, do you copy?!”
“What’s your…?”
That was much clearer.
“My name is Avery. What’s yours?!”
“Where are you, Avery Liu?”
“Earth, child of the stars. Where be-?”
“Where on Earth?”
“A mystical land-
A voice in the background interrupted me.
“Boss, we’ve got a line of them. They’re in Kliville, Florida. Last name's Liu. Should I break the connection?”
These weren't aliens.
“Good luck, Avery Liu.”
The connection was cut and I was doomed.
My minutes were numbered. Perhaps I even had only mere seconds left. I had been blinded by the hope, the possibility of first contact and had let my guard down because of it. I’m no Mark Watney.
I had an important decision to make.
Did I turn myself into the feds and beg for leniency or be the badass outlaw I knew I could be? What do you think?
A quick Google search on my cell phone told me the nearest government agency office was about thirty minutes away. The police force around where I lived consisted wholly of a guy named Sleepy Jack, due to his lack of responsiveness, his fondness of Jack Daniels, and his birth name. Did I mention I lived in the middle of nowhere? Only fun thing around there was a flea market? Thirty minutes away means I had some time.
The sound of my mothers SUV rolling out of the driveway indicated I had free reign of the house. I bursted out of our shed, walkie talkie in hand, and made a bull run to the sliding glass door connected to the main house. I threw it open, barreled in, and snatched my backpack off the kitchen floor. I unzipped the backpack and grabbed a box of granola bars, five bottles of water, dumped them in my bag, put the walkie in and darted upstairs. I threw open the cramped storage closet, after deciding to exchange my backpack for a duffel as well as to grab my tent and flashlight from my time in the Boy Scouts. I dumped everything in my duffel, zipped it up, and I was off to the races.
I reached into my pocket for my cell phone and smashed it underfoot in the hallway. No chance of me being tracked. I ran into my room, flopped onto my belly, and grabbed my boots from under my bed. I stood up, unvelcroed my Sketchers (of the light up variety, of course), kicked them off, put on the boots, and laced them up. I turned to the closet, grabbed a rain poncho, various other clothing items and stashed all of them in the duffel. I checked my watch. It’d been about ten minutes. I made my way to the bathroom, quickly opened the vanity, and grabbed as well as put my toothbrush and toothpaste in my duffel. Placing some toilet paper in my duffel with a speedy shove accounted for everything I could think of needing at the time.
After taking a quick breather, I made my way downstairs and sat at my fathers writing desk. I briefly contemplated what to write and decided on something short and sweet. I lifted the goodbye note, grabbed some tape, and secured it to the fridge. I exited the kitchen and closed the sliding door, but paused upon remembering something. I dropped my duffel, dashed upstairs, got what I needed, and continued to the shed. I walked in, rolled my bike onto the brick of the backyard, put down the kickstand, and faced the house. The unsuspecting suburban home I had grown up in
I opened the box of matches, took one out, swiped it, and threw it over my shoulder. Feeling like the outlaw I was, I put the matches in the duffel, and afforded myself a wolfish grin. No need for them to have more evidence to compile, I thought. Also, mom had been trying to knock down the shed for years. I was doing her a favor, setting it ablaze. I checked my watch. I had ten minutes left. Also, I just burned my only copy of my cypher.
"Gosh darn it."
Wiping the grin off my face, I put my duffel in my red Schwinn’s basket and hopped on the seat. I gave the house a wink and utilized my poor knowledge of the French language.
“Au revoir.”
With that, I embarked upon the adventure of a lifetime.