Watching and waiting, visitors from the Moon orbit the planet. Their mission: Conquer Earth. Of course, that’s the easy part…
It so happened Commander Kern’s birthday fell on the same day as Staff Officer Paul Hussenian. Kern was turning thirty-eight; Hussenian ninety-six. It was telling that Kern was the one who felt his age.
Neither man had wanted a party. For this reason alone the crew planned a big one.
“Well, Paul,” Kern said. “Here we are.”
Hussenian looked at the hundreds of yellow, red, and white balloons. “Couldn’t think of a good excuse to get away, could you?”
“No.”
“Me either.”
Someone filled their coffee cups. Malthusians don’t consume alcohol. Even coffee drinking is kept to a minimum. On feast days they loosen up, however. Laughing, even singing, they pour down gallons of hot, weak coffee. Like drunkards.
“Cheers, Kern.” Paul sipped, face wrinkling.
For old Malthusians, birthdays are always murder. Because of splendid diets, heavy on rutabagas and jalapenos, one lived to be a vigorous ninety-five. Then died. You come to this world at nine months. Give or take a week or two. You leave at ninety-five. Give or take a year or two.
Paul could feel their eyes on him. Or rather, saw behind the smiles, the claps on the back, the good wishes. Why aren’t you dead? the eyes said.
The hypocrites!
It would be very un-Malthusian to complain. Instead you sip bad coffee, grimace, and laugh at one more weak joke.
Kern, for his part, anticipated having a better time. There was always the chance to score. Scoring, aboard Spaceship One, meant getting a phone number.
Kern nodded at yet another woman. She kept walking. A raucous group crowded around the coffee urn. “Any suggestions, Paul?” asked Kern.
“For what?”
“The ladies.”
Why did Kern ask him? He’d been divorced twice. He hadn’t spent an evening with a woman in forty years. Now it was hopeless. He knew what they thought. He might die mid-date.
He looked at the commander. Kern had slick black hair, a pronounced widow’s peak, beady brown eyes. He was handsome enough, in a dark vampirish-kind of way. By god, what Paul could have done with Kern’s youth!
“I’ll tell you what, Kern. Why don’t you try smiling more.”
Kern tried it out. “Like this?”
“Or less. And take an interest in girls individually. Compliment their uniforms. Tell a woman you love her eyes. Tell her you love her voice.”
“Can’t they see through that?”
“No. And stop talking shop all the time. What was it you were discussing with that last one?”
“Organic solvents.”
“Organic solvents. Is that what a girl wants to hear?”
Hussenian had a point. Kern excused himself. He had spotted the ship’s librarian, Paula Kowalski, standing by the great urn, filling her coffee cup for the umpteenth time. She was big through the backside and rather homely. Just the way he liked ‘em.
Paul stood alone, eyes resolute. Then he blinked. As he watched Kenneth Kern gesture and Paula Kowalski laugh, something caught inside him. How he missed the touch of a woman! The feel of her skin, her breath warm as you held her close.
How unfair life is for the old! And the older, the more unfair.
“Hello, Paul. Taking a break?” It was Megan Bremer. All twenty-four years of her.
“I suppose.” Paul wiggled his cup. “You want to go easy on this stuff.”
“Yes.” Megan looked to one side. Then the other. “Anyone looking?”
“Looking?”
She stood on her toes and kissed him. On the side of the mouth, a good one. “Happy Birthday, Paul.”
It was a happy birthday. For days he remembered that kiss, letting it warm him at odd moments. He couldn’t compete with Kern, with his youth. But he got one more kiss on his birthday than Kern did. He was sure of that.
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