“How did I get here?
“Huh, here…”
The train of thought that passed through the station as he regarded the latest pickle he found himself in.
The pickle we’ll get to. But let’s have a look at the Talking Heads lyric: ‘And you may ask yourself; How did I get here?’
This is something he asked himself often. Often accompanied by other questions: ‘How do I work this? ‘Where does that highway go to? ‘Am I right? Am I wrong?’ Perhaps a perfect set of questions to pose, should you be, as he was suspicious of David Byrne being, of another planet.
“Bond, Bond would play it cool, unaffected by the sudden presence of four agitated German Infantrymen. Play it cool.” he thought. “What about a placating ancedote… something to get them onside?” He wondered if the Major Dick Winters approach might help. Normally in a pickle he could count on an ally. An Andrew to wade into the melee. But, nope, he was definitely on his own this time.
See, he was suspicious of David Byrne being not of this place for three reasons:
1. The shoulder pads
2. The bicycling
3. The lyrics.
‘How did I get here; ‘Home is where I want to be; ‘There’s a city in my mind…and it’s very far away.’
“Maybe there were others.” he mulled.
It was the arc of the stick grenade being drawn back by Drei that snapped him out of his who-is-and-who-ain’t-an-alien reverie. “Whoa,” he cooed as he put down his Ultra-Spectrum-Analysers. They could be off-putting, and he needed Vier with the bayonette to stop their advance. “Alright, fellas?” he asked in a jaunty fashion, slowly standing back up, raising his hands. It hand’t worked, he saw Ein slip his fingers inside the trigger guard. “I’m coming across arrogant.” he realised. “Crump was a terrible decision, I don’t even smoke.”
Barry Crump wasn’t. Crump was definitely of this earth. Crump was an archetypal product of those hard, boozy, cloistered places where he was most uncomfortable. Sadly the place he had to ‘grow-up’. Stuck there as a young kid, surrounded by atavistic faces, ancient opinions and anger as a default doled down, then doled out. Anger he was well equipped to deal with. When confronted by something different, people often reacted angrily from fear.
Four angry German Infantrymen. Ein with the rifle, Zwei the MP40, Drei and his arm cocked and a stick grenade, Vier and the bayonette. Him and his Extra Vehicular Exploration Suits. This was the pickle. He’d let the guard slip. He’d shown himself for what he knew himself to be. And the Germans didn’t like it. The pickle that had played out in different ways, in different places, many times, but always the same thing: you’re not of this place.
“Ford Prefect, hand extended in greetings, gurgling nervously a he’s about to be mown down by a… Ford Prefect.” the scene he rewatched in his head.
He’d read the increasingly inaccurate trilogy of five parts, he’d watched the 2005 film. He loved The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It had even found him his wife. “Oh, I know this! 42!” she’d answered when he’d posed her the question. Ford Prefect took Arthur Dent to the far reaches of the universe with a towel. She had made a place for him here, with a Chemex and an acceptance of his naked form.
“Visor up.” he calmly commanded to his suit. “Sprechen sie Engländer?” he queried of the four, with German he’d contrived from Madagascar. The animated film. Realising the absurdity of it, a reluctant silent ‘ha’ created a folded lip smile on his face. The four eased. Maybe it was the smile. Maybe it was pidgin German. "Ich bin ein Berliner?” he tried. Again tickled by the provenance of the sentence and too the ambiguity as to whether he’d used a demonym or a cake, he chuckled, biting his lip goofily. Drei laughed, dropping his arm and grenade to their side.
“He hadn’t even pulled the fuse,” he thought. “Huh.”
He took Drei’s cue. “Unlatch helmet,” he ordered his suit as he lowered his hands to his head, taking off his helmet he put it on the ground and sat on it. Knees high he squatted on his lid, it was a disarming stature. They followed him this time, and relaxed their stances, lowering muzzles, Ein pushed the brim of his helmet up a little, making space for raised eyebrows.
“You are,” drawled Zwei, revealing his english, “a moon man.”
“I am,” he suggested, “a man.”
