"Excuse me, please," he said to one guy who seemed the right size. "Are you the Alien?"
"Who?"
"You know, the mascot."
"Are you kidding?"
When a man in a suit arrived—he looked important—-Jeff went up to him. "Excuse me, sir, do you know if the Alien has arrived?"
"Who?"
"The mascot. The guy in the green suit."
"Oh, him? Kid, to tell you the truth, I'm the general manager of the Astros. If it were up to me, I wouldn't have him around. Sort of offensive. But the town seems to enjoy him. Least, they pay his salary. So, no, I've got no idea who he is."
Jeff bought a ticket. Because he was so early, he wandered among the empty seats, and made his way down toward the field, where the Jayhawks were taking batting practice. The gate leading onto the field had been left open. After a moment of nervousness, Jeff went on through, half expecting to be shooed off. When no one paid him any mind, he looked around. The Alien was not there.
Moving along the edge of the playing area, Jeff went toward the field house, which was behind home plate. He kept his eye on the open door.
When he reached it, some of the Astros players were wandering out, carrying gloves and bats. They nodded to Jeff in a friendly way.
"Hey, is the Alien in there?" Jeff asked one of them.
"Nope. Least, not that I saw. You can go on in and look."
Excited, Jeff found himself in a corridor with gray concrete walls and three doors. HOME TEAM and VISITORS were lettered on the doors to the left and right. The middle one was marked OFFICIALS.
Jeff opened the HOME TEAM door into a large bare room with glaring lights. One wall was lined with steel lockers. A long bench sat before it. The floor was littered with clothing. At the far end was another room in which Jeff could see toilet stalls and showers. Nobody was there.
Jeff went to the OFFICIALS room and looked in. It was a smaller version of the HOME TEAM room. Two men in umpire uniforms were straddling a bench, playing cards.
"What's up, kid?"
"I'm looking for the Alien. The guy in the green costume."
"Not here, I'm glad to say," said one of the officials as he slapped down a card with gusto and cried, "Gin!"
"How come no one likes him?"Jeff asked.
The other umpire looked around. "'Cause he's always making fun of people. Like he was better or something."
"Do you know who he is?"
"Nope. Good thing, too. If I did I'd punch him in the nose."
Jeff tried the VISITORS locker room. It was exactly like the HOME TEAM room, even to the discarded clothing on the floor—but still no Alien.
Jeff went back to the playing field. To his surprise the mascot was already out there. Jeff tried to approach him a few times. The Alien kept his distance. Then a town policeman told Jeff to get off the field.
"Do you know who that guy is?" Jeff asked the cop, pointing.
"The mascot? Ask someone from the team. He works for them."
"I thought he worked for the town."
"No way."
During the game Jeff stayed on the third-base side of the field, paying almost no attention to baseball. He spent all his time watching the Alien. As the innings wound down, Jeff's tension mounted. At the top of the ninth, an easy fly ball to the Astros' center fielder provided the third out. The game was over. The Alien ran onto the field and gave the relief pitcher high fives. When the players from both teams lined up and shook hands, the Alien took his place at the end of the Astros' line and acted silly. The players seemed annoyed. Once the handshaking was done, and the players had run across the diamond toward the field house, the Alien went to the two umpires and offered to shake their hands, too. The umpires refused and hurried back to the field house.
The Alien was alone on the field. As Jeff studied him, the creature suddenly turned and stared at Jeff with its enormous eyes. This gave Jeff an odd sensation, as if the Alien was studying him. The next moment the mascot turned away and started toward the field house. Jeff ran after him.
"Hey, kid!"
Jeff stopped.
"No spectators down here." It was a groundskeeper.
"But..."Jeff began. He swung back around to make sure the Alien was still in sight. He had vanished.
"Off the field, kid."
Jeff stared at where the mascot had been. "Where'd the Alien go?"
"Back to Mars, I hope," said the groundskeeper. "Now, beat it."
Jeff ran to the park entrance. He asked five different people if they had seen where the mascot had gone. No one knew.
How can he just disappear? Jeff wondered.
Jeff spent the whole next day trying to figure out a way to get to the Alien. By game time he had an idea. It required an assistant.
"I need some camera help," Jeff said to his friend Dave.
"Is it about the Alien?"
"Yeah."
"You are getting stupid about this," said his friend. "You know, nobody likes him but you. People think he's weird. Like you."
"Just help me," said Jeff as he handed over his cheap camera. "I'll pay your way into the game."
"It's your dime."
Jeff bought two tickets, and the boys went into the park. Game time was in half an hour. The mascot was already on the field, teasing the visiting team, the Duluth Diamondbacks, as they did infield warm-ups.
With Dave right behind, Jeff led the way. He waited till the Alien's back was turned. Then he crept quietly up and tapped him on the shoulder, which was soft and bouncy. "Excuse me," said Jeff.
The Alien spun about, his enormous eyes fixed on Jeff. He started to back away.
"Please!" cried Jeff. "Can I get my picture taken with you?" He gestured toward Dave, who held up the camera.
The Alien paused, then drew closer and threw his arms around Jeff, squeezing tightly. Very tightly.
Suddenly fighting for breath, Jeff pushed the arms off him. For a second the Alien squeezed some more, only to abruptly release the boy.
Gasping for breath, Jeff said, "Who ... are you... really?"
Dave clicked the camera. The moment he did, the Alien shoved Jeff away and walked off in his funny fashion.
"Learn anything?" Dave asked.
"No," Jeff admitted. He rubbed his arms. They were sore. He looked at the retreating Alien. Who is that guy?
A week passed before Jeff went back to Rolerton Park because the Astros had gone off on a road trip. It was Labor Day weekend, and the last games of the season. If Jeff didn't find out about the Alien soon, he would have to wait until next year.
So he went to the game very early—but not in his usual way. Instead of taking a seat in the stands, he crept under the bleachers, which was hard to do. It took a while for Jeff's eyes to adjust to the murkiness of the area with its forest of metal stanchions holding up the seats. The place was littered with old paper cups, bottles—some broken—and discarded food. It stank, too. It's like a rubbish dump, Jeff thought. A part of Rolerton one did not see often.
Jeff looked through the bleacher seats onto the field. He was so early he could see a few of the players doing stretches. A groundskeeper was moving around the bases, anchoring bags to their proper places. Jeff read the sign on the low wooden fence that ringed the outfield: ***TO VISIT AMERICA—VISIT ROLERTON! The Alien wasn't in sight.
Because he was sure he could not be seen, Jeff decided his spot was perfect. The Alien would not know he was there, watching. Jeff kept scanning the field in hopes he would see the mascot emerge from his place—wherever it was.
As Jeff stood there, staring out to the bright field, he heard a soft scraping sound. At first he ignored it, but when it persisted, Jeff looked about, puzzled. With a start, he realized the sound was coming from a pile of discarded hot dog boxes. Or rather, from under the boxes.
Jeff watched. The boxes were moving, rising and falling as if something was pushing up from below. Then the top box slid to one side, revealing a dark spot beneath. Jeff—his heart
beating fast—realized the spot was a hole in the ground.
The boxes continued to shift, revealing more of the hole.
In the gloom, Jeff began to see something pink move within the hole. He could not tell what it was, though it reminded him of cotton candy—soft, without any particular shape, a blob.
Jeff, realizing he was holding his breath, sucked in some air and stepped back. He told himself he should get out of there. This is not right. Even as he had the thought, the upper part of the pink blob began to shape itself into a thin tendril.
Jeff watched, transfixed. The tendril elongated and began to creep—still connected to the main blob—snakelike, over the ground, coiling itself around one of the bleacher stanchions. Having established a grip, the tendril began to ripple until the pink shape began to emerge from the hole—as if it were being pulled. It was only moments before an entire pink mass had emerged—looking, Jeff thought, like a compact, throbbing brain.
Too amazed to move, hardly daring to breathe, a mesmerized Jeff stared at the thing, as still another tendril emerged from the mass. That tendril crept down into the hole. Within moments it pulled up a lumpish green mass with red spots. It was, Jeff realized, the Alien costume.
Once the oufit was completely out of the ground, the pink tendril pulled down a zipper on the back. The costume fell open, exposing a dark interior. The next moment the whole pink mass slid inside.
Jeff watched as the zipper closed from within. After a moment's pause, the costume trembled, heaved, shook, stood up, and turned around.
"So you finally found me," the Alien said, looking right at Jeff. The voice was thick, clotted.
"Wh—what are you?"Jeff managed to ask.
"A student."
"A student? From ... where?"
"Very far away. What you people call outer space." The Alien's nose and horns lit up.
"What are you ... doing in that suit?" asked Jeff.
"I use it to study your world."
"Study?"
"To observe humans."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm here to learn about your natural habitat, your way of life. What you consume for food. Your social activities. That sort of thing."
"Why?"
"Curious."
"Are you the only ... student?"
"The only one in Rolerton," said the Alien. "But in other—what do you call them? ... sport parks—there are lots of us."
"You mean," cried Jeff, "all those mascots at all those baseball and football games ... they have ... things ... like you in them?"
"The perfect disguise," said the Alien as his nose lit up. "That way we get to see you at the activity and place that is most important to your lives—your fun and games."
"And you live right here?" asked Jeff. "All the time? Under the stands?"
"I don't think Rolerton would be pleased to know about me," said the Alien. "Too much the outsider. Too curious. So I stay. Everything I need is here."
"Everything? What about food? I mean, do you eat this junk?"
"I only eat once a year. Since I'm here just for the season, I'll be gone in a few days. Next season it'll be another student like me. Not that anyone will know about it—except you."
"But ... what if I tell?" asked Jeff.
"You won't," said the Alien.
"Why?"
"Because," said the Alien, "it's time for my annual meal."
And before Jeff could react, the creature's twenty-fingered hands shot out and grabbed him. Jeff struggled, but the Alien's grip was too tight. The costume zipper opened. Pink tendrils whipped out and wrapped around the boy. In a matter of moments Jeff was pulled into the costume. The zipper slid shut.
The costume bulged here, there, here again, and then ceased to move. Then the Alien went out onto the field for the game.
The Astros won.
Jeff was lost.
Inquiries were made. Rolerton's police chief was puzzled. The town didn't lose too many kids, hardly more than one a year.
Usually it was right around the last day of Rolerton's baseball season. Curious.
The Shoemaker and Old Scratch
THERE ONCE WAS A POOR SHOEMAKER who had little more than the tools of his trade. Not having a place to work, he searched everywhere until he found a very small and dilapidated house. But no sooner did he move in than he discovered the house was overrun with mice. They chewed holes in his leather, drank his glue, and made nests with his thread.
Frustrated, the shoemaker sat upon his front steps to ponder what he could do. After a while a black cat with lemon-colored eyes appeared.
Ah, thought the shoemaker, the very creature to do the work.
The shoemaker introduced himself to the cat, explaining that he was a poor maker of shoes who had recently moved into the house only to find it full of mice. "If you get rid of those mice," he said to the cat, "I'll pay you very well."
"How well?" asked the cat.
"Rid my house of mice," said the shoemaker, "and I'll share all my earnings with you."
"How about fifty-fifty?" asked the cat.
"Fifty-fifty," agreed the shoemaker.
"Forever and ever?"
"Forever and ever."
"Deal," said the cat, and she offered a paw, which the shoemaker shook with great solemnity.
The cat went to work. Within a week there was not one mouse to be found in the house.
"Wonderful!" said the shoemaker. "Now I can set down to do my work."
Not only did the shoemaker do that, he soon became quite successful. Each day, however, he waited until he was sure the black cat was sleeping, counted the money he had made, and hid it under the floorboards. He was quite certain the cat did not notice.
One year to the day from when the shoemaker and the cat had made their bargain, the cat announced it was time for her to receive what the shoemaker had promised—half of his earnings.
"Oh, don't be silly," the shoemaker said to the cat. "A cat has no need for money. Besides, you only worked a week. I've worked a whole year. You should be content with a sunny window and the saucer of milk I leave for you each day."
"What about 'forever and ever'?" said the cat.
"Things change," said the shoemaker.
"But a bargain is a bargain," the cat protested.
"Things change," repeated the shoemaker.
The black cat stared up at the shoemaker with her lemon-colored eyes, put up her tail, and went out for a walk. When she returned she did not speak of the matter. In fact, she never spoke to the shoemaker again—not once.
A few days later—it was evening—the shoemaker returned home after delivering some shoes he had made. All he wished to do was get inside his house, count the money he'd earned, hide it away, and then eat the splendid dinner he'd prepared for himself.
Much to his surprise the front door to his house would not open. He tried the rear door, as well as the windows. Nothing budged. He threw a rock at a window. The rock bounced away. Finally he called inside to the cat to open the door, but the cat did not come.
Frustrated, the shoemaker sat down on the front steps of his house and tried to think of what to do. As he sat there he heard sounds coming from inside. Putting his ear to the door, he listened. The shoemaker was sure someone was inside. He knocked on the door.
"Who's there?" came a voice from within. The shoemaker had never heard such a voice—it rumbled like a barn fire. All the same, he answered, "It's me, the shoemaker."
"What do you want?" the voice demanded.
"What do I want?" the shoemaker said. "Why, this is my house. I want to get in."
"You may do so."
"The door won't open."
"I have opened it," said the voice.
The shoemaker put his hand on the door, and this time he was able to unlatch it. He walked in.
Sitting at his table—the remains of the shoemaker's dinner before him—was the strangest person the shoemaker had ever seen. One moment the man was thin. The
next moment he was fat. Then he became thin again. When first seen, the man seemed very tall, but within the space of an eyeblink he became quite short. One moment his hair was red, then gray, and then the man became bald. He had a beard. He had no beard. He had a stub nose. No, his nose was long! It was as if the man sitting behind the shoemaker's table was not one man but many men, yet in the end he was but one.
"Who are you?" the shoemaker demanded.
The man behind the table studied the shoemaker as if to evaluate him. Even as he looked, he changed into a hundred different shapes. But at last he said, "I am the Devil. But if you prefer, you can call me by my more familiar name, 'Old Scratch.'"
"Why are you called Old Scratch?"
"Oh, it's nothing you need bother yourself about, that," said Old Scratch. "Not now, anyway."
"Then why do you take on such different shapes?"
"Things change."
"Well then, Old Scratch, why have you come here? And, by the way, where is my cat?"
Old Scratch offered thirteen kinds of smiles, and said, "I have just been playing with your black cat. Lovely creature. Beautiful eyes. We shared your supper. But then we are good friends."
The shoemaker looked about. The cat was asleep on the stranger's lap—or was it his knee, perhaps his shoulder?
"You had no right to do so," said the shoemaker. "That's my dinner, and my cat."
"But you see," said Old Scratch, "my occupation is to go from house to house throughout the world and pick and choose as best I may."
"Why choose me?"
"Well now," Old Scratch said, "you're not a very important person. You can barely feed yourself and your cat. At least your cat told me you had no money. Is that true?"
"Absolutely."
"By the by, is this cat a partner of yours?"
"Nothing of the kind," said the shoemaker.
"I see," said Old Scratch, as he changed his shape, size, and look. "Well then, since you have nothing worth taking, I thought I should take your cat. Unless, of course, you want her. You could bargain with me. I'm always willing to bargain."
"I've already told you," said the shoemaker, "I've nothing to give. So if you must, take the cat."