In his later days, Jeremy wasn’t afraid to look back at sixty-nine years of life on planet Earth. He knew he’d have to die here before he could return to his home planet. And his death had to be a natural human death, with strict rules against suicide and against breaking any rules.
“It makes no sense,” said Captain Kirk in Jeremy’s head. “That’s not what happens.”
“Sense is not to be made from what happens,” added Spock, “only from actions we take.”
Jeremy Alexandro Santos flashed back to a 1-bedroom apartment in 1978… to watching Star Trek on a 19-inch black-and-white TV with his young wife, Susie. This four-year period was the only time in his Earth life that he was happy, though he was broken at the time and didn’t know it. He would never know anyone like Susie.
He discovered a funny thing about human happiness. If you have it, but you don’t know that you have it, it doesn’t fully count. Not until you remember it years later.
“In critical moments,” said Spock with artificial superiority, “men sometimes see exactly what they wish to see.” Sometimes Jeremy wished he could unplug parts of his alien brain.
The rules are explained clearly in the Travel Handbook that is required study before approval for a human lifetime on Earth is granted. It states that you must live your whole life, however long or short it is. But in the process of zooming to Earth, being born and growing up as a human, you tend to forget the basics, and most of the details. And you can lose your instincts, invoke faulty deductions and take a wrong turn into an abyss.
It can take decades to discover that deep spirit that guides your life choices. And by then it may be too late. If only we had the capacity to “restart” and then proceed rapidly to our current position, fixing errors along the way… but they don’t let you do that. Something about following the rhythm of human life.
The Travel Council insists that’s the point. The human tour is designed to resemble a human life experience as closely as possible. Travelers must accept that not all human decisions are wise…or even in their own best interest. Society doesn’t protect you from bad decisions.
The choice of who to marry and of whether to marry is one at which average humans frequently fail. In many countries, when a married person is murdered, the first suspect is the spouse. Consensus being that nobody wants to kill you more than your husband or wife.
Religion and politics are other areas where humans fail miserably to implement ideals that support their best interests. These decisions have hurt mankind for centuries, only growing worse with time. And yet humans follow the herd and later say “oops” as they fall off the precipice of existence or push someone else off.
By the time of 30 Earth years, Jeremy knew he didn’t belong. The world was preparing for the end, and nobody would stop it. Humans were unnecessarily mean and nasty to each other without a hint of Vulcan logic.
The whims of the strong outweighed the needs of the weak.
By his ‘20s and ‘30s Jeremy received a great deal of pleasure from photography. Nude women captured in the act of doing nothing at all, landscapes with no movement, scenes of man-made destructions or creations, the faces of children...
His intense involvement in fine-art photography enabled him to temporarily overlook many of the rules of his life visit. He knew, instinctively, that he was an outsider, and photography made him feel human. It wasn’t just an art, or a business; it was a calling.
He loved the idea that he was a legitimate artist. Art gave humans the opportunity to forget how doomed they all were. And there was lots of sex, yes, but little money. The sex was free, and the joy of creation was intoxicating. The meaning that humans assigned to artworks was almost alcoholic.
After an assortment of minor exhibitions and editorial assignments and portfolio showings with different haircuts and different black t-shirts, it became clear to him that he needed a job. A real EARTH JOB!
On this planet, you tend to learn most about yourself when you’re down...
Paying bills on time improved his sense of security, so he went to work for the San Francisco Department of Public Health (SFDPH) doing computer stuff and going to meetings. And he liked being able to walk to and from work.
His family was happy he had a straight job with a steady paycheck and health insurance. But they were surprised that he kept doing the “art stuff” on the side.
Time shuffled forward like a dancing drunk in a bar. He learned some JavaScript, HTML, and embraced popular page-layout techniques.
Jeremy was happy with the fact that having a straight job, he could now afford to be an artist in whatever time he had left. It was a mean and cruel joke that applied well to the average human’s experience.
It seemed odd to him that a species who could embrace such a culture would claim to come from a God. The thought that a God would create something so flawed as humans seemed remarkably inconsistent with the very idea of...God.
For decades his day job provided amusement and entertainment. But deep down he was an artist. A creator.
Mysteriously, he’d forgotten that he was an alien riding a human body like a bicycle. He knew he was different from the people at work, but he thought it was just the art thing. He perceived that they didn’t like him. They were so simple and limited they had no grasp of his level of awareness. No spirit and no imagination. Yet, somehow, they were good people.
After 30 years of cubicle work, Jeremy retired from the grind. Suddenly, chapters from the Travel Manual began to appear in his head.
One morning Jeremy activated his Cranial Communicator and established contact with his planet. He left a message for his travel agent: “I want to come home. I don’t like it here anymore. Humans are mean and not very reflective.”
Captain Picard appeared uninvited in his head. “It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose,” he said. “That is life.” He told Picard to go fuck himself. His big mistake had been to think that art would fulfill his spiritual needs. In time he would learn the opposite.
Agent Conrad was not happy to hear from Earth traveler Jeremy. “Live your life. Die. Then call me,” said Conrad, “you know the rules.” And, a minute later, “I told you not to go to that planet. They eat animals!”
“That’s not helpful,” said Jeremy.
“The past is written. Only the future is left for us to write,” said Picard.
This time it was Agent Conrad who told Picard to shut up and then he turned to Jeremy.
“Why do you let these morons roam around your head?” he said.
Jeremy didn’t want to admit that they were company. “I just want to go home,” he said.
Conrad closed his eyes and shook his head. “Live your life. Die. Then call me, you know the rules.” And he closed the transmission.
Based on Earth family history, Jeremy realized that he could easily have up to 25 years longer on Earth. Or worse. No way did he want to be an old man alone during this period of human history. America was becoming Trump’s America at an exponential rate. Movies had become even more predictable and formulaic. There were far fewer good restaurants to order deliveries from than even a year ago.
He was 69 years old and alone on a violent planet. And The Late Show with Stephen Colbert had come to an end.
On the positive side, he had a Glock 17 under his pillow. He could just blow his brains out. He could sit on this chair, and it would all be over quickly…though he didn’t like the idea of his human brain exploding. And it was likely that the Council would immediately send him back as a human baby. And it would start all over again.
And it wouldn’t be fair to the next tenant to rent this apartment. Does a tenant have the right to know that some idiot blew his brains out on this very spot by the bedroom windows? What if they only found out after they’d signed the lease and moved in?
As an alternative, he could end his own life on the steps to City Hall…in front of the park, which would give his death a political spin. He could argue before the Council that this is a legitimate death. “But you would lose,” said Conrad, “and would have to start all over again.”
There must be a way to cut the visit short without the popular human bloodshed, and to warn others about the possible dangers of living a whole lifetime like a human on planet Earth.
The cranial portal in his head reactivated.
“Just live it out,” said Agent Conrad. Instinctively, Jeremy responded. “I know…and it’d be nice to see who wins the next World Series…”
“That’s the spirit. Find something to do,” said Conrad, shutting down the call.
Later that night Jeremy tried to think about ways that he could be happy for the rest of this fucking life.
He could travel. Though he hates to travel.
He could go back to school, which would be cool. But that would cost serious money.
Then it popped into his head; he could become a world-class criminal. Take down scores. Wear expensive suits and fancy haircuts, like a movie secret agent. Date beautiful women in their late-20s. Change cars every year. Eat in pricey restaurants. Take down more scores. The human cops would never catch him.
Why didn’t he think of this before? Much better than suicide. It even occurred to him, for a second or two, that he could have done this all along, instead of the civil service bullshit.
Later that evening he received another call from Conrad.
“Good news,” he said. “I just learned of a new form you can submit. The Early Release form has been in effect since the end of the first Trump Administration.”
“How does it work?” he asked.
“It’s just what you’d expect from any form. Some checkboxes, some yes/no questions. And you must include a 1,500-word essay on why you want to leave early…no songs, no poems. Then you submit it to The Council and wait…”
“How long do they take to respond?”
“I don’t know, but they’re known to be quick. And they’re not Earth Lovers. Once approved, you’ll get a Quick Exit Kit from amazon.com. Just follow the instructions. It doesn’t hurt.”
Finally, something to look forward to. Jeremy began to work on his essay immediately. He was happy he didn’t have to become a world-class criminal... Take down scores... how stupid was that!?
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