06.24.2002
There were the Visitors. There were always the Visitors. They had been coming for as long as anyone could remember, but no one knew whether there had ever been an invitation or if they just started dropping in of their own accord. Sometimes, the Visitors stayed for so long that people began to see them almost as natives before they were packed back into their sleek sliver flying machines and gone once more into the sky.
The Visitors didn't speak English very well, or any Earth language for that matter. They had their own which alternated between fast clicks and howling-mad screams. Whatever it was in their bodies that produced those sounds – no one knew, they whisked their dead away seconds after they had died – it did not seem capable of producing human vocal patterns. Not that they didn't try. The Visitors had managed a few basic phrases like, "How much for a beer?", "Do you have anymore trinkets?", and "When does the tour leave?", but beyond that it was anyone's guess.
Vic had always known this and found himself frustrated by the fact that the Visitors never bothered to notice. Everyday, he struggled with another one that wanted to practice its Earth Tongue with him.
"I'm sorry," he said as he tried to scoot around the lanky blue creature and deposit the towels carried in his arms into the resort's laundry bin. It may have been and extended holiday for the Visitor, but he still had his job to do. It held its long arms out to prevent him from passing and continued to click at him as calmingly as it could. The rhythm sounded like an old song he knew but he couldn't place it. The hand which was held in front of his face had a stinking oregano cigarette between its six and seventh fingers. It was said that oregano had been given to the Visitors the first time as a joke but now they couldn't get enough of it. It one of the only two things the world did anymore. The other was tourism. Vic hated oregano. All day, he weaved in and out of smoking groups of Visitors that constantly tapped him the shoulder and asked for another pitcher of margaritas.
The Visitor began screeching and Vic had a feeling that some language teacher somewhere was going to be fired. "Drink," he tried, but the creature howled in the negative. "Food," he suggested hoping the kitchen hadn't already run out of Lady Bug Soup. It waved its arms no. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know what you want." It turned him around and, with its long blue arms around his shoulders, pointed to another Visitor on the diving board.
Around the swimming pool, the only way to tell the male Visitors from the females was to check out the bathing suits they wore. The men always picked the brightest tropical patterns for the little briefs they liked and the women seemed to choose suits with the least amount of material for what could truly be described as string bikinis. Humans didn't know why they bothered since there wasn't any identifiable genitalia anyway but some sociologists claimed that it was part of their trying to adopt local custom.
Vic looked up at the Visitor that was trying to be his friend. "You like her, huh," he said as friendly as he could, remembering that he worked at a resort after all.
It clicked and hummed a little in the affirmative.
"Well, I'll tell you what, big guy," he said seeing a way out. "I'll go over and talk to her for you, just as soon as I put these away."
It clicked again and slapped his back as though the two of them were the best of pals. Then it dropped some money into his breast pocket, patting it so he knew he was in good graces. Vic walked away, turning once to give a wink and thumbs up to the Visitor before heading into the pool house to drop off the towels.
"How's it going," Paco asked as he made some notes on his clipboard.
"About as well as can be expected," Vic said. "I've been asked to go flirt with one for another."
"Could be worse," Paco said. "When I was your age, one paid me to dance with its wife. Have you ever tried to dance with one of those things?"
Vic looked over his manager and a mental picture came to mind of little Paco trying to lead a seven and a half foot visitor around on the dance floor. Something about it seemed to scream farce.
"Sometimes," Vic said, scratching his chin. "Sometimes I think they're here more to make fun of our culture then to actually see it."
Paco held the clipboard to his stomach as he began to laugh. Vic just watched him with a frown.
"Are you serious," Paco asked gasping for breath. "They're like Germans on French beaches. It's easier to conquer with your credit card than it is with a tank."
Vic's frown deepened. He had never been much for history and every conversation with Paco seemed to be another lesson in it. "So are you telling me that the French used to have their own territory," he asked with skepticism.
Paco laughed some more but there was a degree of pity in it this time. "I'll tell you what kid, I won't bore you with the past if you promise to never talk to me about culture again."
"Whatever," Vic said. He gave a wave to his supervisor that strongly resembled a salute and then began his slow trudge out to the pool to pick up a date for another nameless, faceless Visitor.