By Warren Firschein
Next up was the Aleuthian. It stood at the front, fidgeting with its hair and clothes with three of its rubbery appendages.
From the seat next to mine, Nimthron yelled, “Hurry it up already. Some of us don’t have three hundred years.”
Nimthron turned to me. “That’s only if it’s female, of course. Males have significantly shorter lives. But it’s nearly impossible to tell.”
“I’m a female, you shwambit,” the Aleuthian yelled. “Can’t you see the dinwabs on my neck?”
Nimthron blushed pale blue, normal for a Phlukian when embarrassed. “Excellent hearing, too…”
“Something to remember with a mouth like yours.” I smiled. We’d first met when I’d made a faux pas to an elderly Hurkanian, which would have escalated into physical violence if Nimthron hadn’t stepped in and diffused the situation. As Hurkanians spit acid from their tear ducts, I was grateful for the assistance.
Since then, each time I came to open mic night, I sought Nimthron’s company. He was a fine companion, jovial and without his race’s usual strong seaweed-like odor. Although covered with a rubbery, semi-translucent skin that took getting used to, he was about the same size as me, making conversation less awkward. As one of the first humans to make it out this far, I considered myself an ambassador for Earth and tried to be on my best behavior, so his advice was both welcome and helpful.
The Aleuthian cleared her throat and, after emitting a steady tone for a few seconds that sounded like an emergency broadcast alert signal, began her poem. Predictably, the subject was Aleuthia’s beautiful landscape, which—I had learned—had recently been devastated during a decades-long interplanetary conflict and was no longer beautiful.
Nimthron rolled most of his eyes. “Every freaking time,” he whispered. “A poem about her home world’s vegetation. So cliché. And the form is all wrong.”
The Aleuthian reached the final line, raising her dolphin-like tail with a dramatic flourish. After a brief, awkward applause, a voice from across the room shouted, “Terrible. If that’s the best your species can do, I’m not surprised your world was destroyed.”
“Harsh,” I said.
The Aleuthian responded with a gesture which was no doubt considered rude, then trundled to her seat.
The host, a short Czerian—redundant, I know, since Czerians rarely grow more than a meter and a half—approached the mic.
“Thank you, Wwahwathh. Great poem. Remember, folks, write any comments on the cards provided and pass them to the performer. As usual, I’d like to thank the ownership and staff of the Burrfrijj Palace for hosting us tonight. Don’t forget to buy drinks so they’ll have us back again.”
A few appendages rose, calling for the waiter. I’d have ordered something, but when I was here the first time, I was given a concoction that made me vomit for four days. Better to stay safe. It wasn’t as if the Burrfrijj Palace was opulent. To be honest, it wasn’t even a Palace. It could, in fact, be better described as a dive, a ratty structure constructed decades earlier when the planet was undergoing a forgettable architectural and design phase. The better, more modern lounges and hotels were on the Strip, a dozen kilometers away. Some things, it turns out, are true anywhere in the universe. One is that open mic nights are always held in run-down taverns in run-down neighborhoods.
The Czerian glanced at his clipboard. “Next up is Ynnn. Come on up. Let’s hear it for Ynnn!”
A greenish, blob-like entity in the second row nodded enthusiastically and hopped off its seat, carrying a small, black case. It placed the case on the podium, opened it, and removed what looked like a dozen spears of asparagus connected together.
“Oh, no.” Nimthron pressed a hand against his forehead. “Amateur night, here we come.”
“I’d like to play a traditional song from my system,” Ynnn said. “It goes back over a thousand of our years.”
“That’s probably like a decade to you and me,” Nimthron whispered.
Ynnn inserted the longest asparagus spear into his—or her—mouth and emitted a series of discordant reed-like tones without any discernible rhythm, somewhat reminiscent of the music of Ornette Coleman. At least it wasn’t “Memory” from Cats. A few seats over, a Rhythonian swayed and pounded its lower limbs against the floor as if overcome by the melody. To each their own.
After about seven minutes, the Czerian returned to the front and interrupted the performance. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to cut you off here because you’ve exceeded the time limit.”
“But this piece is treasured among my people,” Ynnn protested. “You cannot stop me before it’s finished.”
“Sorry.” The Czerian tapped his timepiece, then shooed Ynnn off the stage to the biggest cheer of the night.
He waited until she was seated, then said, “We have a new performer today, all the way from a planet called Earth.”
That was my cue. I slunk to the front of the room, trying to appear cool despite my fluttering stomach. Until now, I’d resisted the temptation to participate, but had finally gained enough self-confidence to share something of my kind.
As I adjusted the height of the mic stand, I swallowed hard, trying not to become overwhelmed by the scope of my responsibility. How best to represent humanity’s centuries of literature, its essence? I knew at least twenty poems, from Longfellow to Dylan Thomas, as well as a handful of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Then there were songs—I didn’t have a spectacular voice, but could belt out some classics. Perhaps I could tell a story of my world, of the beauty of Earth, or possibly a folk tale from any of the hundreds of cultures that had preserved their myths of old.
“Let’s go already,” shouted Nimthron, showing no mercy. “Some of us have short lives.”
I took a deep breath. “A priest, a rabbi, and a minister walk into a bar…”
Can you guess which song inspired this story? (This month it could be any time period, any genre.) Share in the comments!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Great job setting the scene. Enjoyed the surprise ending.
I’ve never gone to a lot of open-mics, but I can feel the vibe here.
That was really fun! I love the multicultural yet seedy glimpse of alien worlds through one open mic night – very clever. And quite “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy!” (here’s hoping we don’t get any Vogon poetry next). I’m afraid that joke won’t go over very well, though… ;)
Ha! That last line was fabulous. 😁 Great job!