Watching and waiting, visitors from the Moon orbit the planet. Their mission: Conquer Earth. Of course, that’s the easy part…
Mister Kern could not take the whining anymore. After weeks of watching TV commercials, the crew was adamant. They wanted an Arby’s fish sandwich. With cheese and pickles. And tartar sauce. Please Lieutenant, they begged. Just this one time.
“No.”
“But it looks so good.”
“Of course it does. It’s a commercial. They make lawnmowers look good. But do we need one in space? No. Eat your beans.”
“We’re tired of beans.”
“Then you’re in trouble, because that’s all there is.”
Malthusians were vegetarians. They ate beans, oranges, avocados, celery, and kale. There was no such thing as a fat Malthusian. They had strong teeth and bones, never complained of constipation, and lived to be a vigorous one hundred. Then they died. Healthy.
But food isn’t a lawnmower, they begged. You can eat food. Pleeese…
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Mr. Kern grabbed keys to the anti-gravity pod. “Give me your order.”
Kelly Northrup wanted a fish sandwich. Megan Bremer a fish sandwich and curly fries. Brian Okumba and Amber Stollwell ordered double-stacked roast beef pitas with extra cheese, onion rings, and large chocolate shakes. Kern was fairly certain they would survive the coming conflict with Earth. He wasn’t so sure they could survive the food.
Jennifer Tate sat thinking.
“Well, Ensign?” Kern asked.
“I’ll have a salad.”
“Ms. Tate, you can get that in the commissary.”
“Okay. A Reuben with provolone. And fries.”
He jumped in the pod, closed the top, and headed for Earth.
No one paid attention to the man standing in line, wearing a shiny silver jumpsuit. Kern had parked the anti-gravity pod outside, on the sidewalk. No one paid attention to that, either. When his order arrived he paid with a hundred dollar bill. This was taken from the spaceship’s vault, where they kept several billion in greenbacks. Malthusians were idealistic, but also practical. If there was trouble on Earth they would use cash. Money could buy a lot on Earth. Actually, it could buy anything.
After pulling back into Spaceship One, Mr. Kern handed out paper bags. The crew dug in, but didn’t react as he thought.
“My sandwich is greasy.”
“The fries are cold.”
“This is too salty.”
“Mine’s dry. Is there any ketchup?”
They made the classic error. Fast food must be eaten immediately. Also, nothing is as good as it looks on TV. Except beer, but no Malthusian had drank alcohol in ten thousand years, and they weren’t about to start.
“You know,” Kern said. “It’s appropriate to tip the driver.”
“What’s a tip?”
“It’s money.”
“What’s money?”
The lieutenant exhaled. No wonder food and cars and insurance looked so good on TV. No one had to pay for anything.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com