We've Been Trying to Reach You

Sarah heaved a deep sigh and slumped in the chair. She unhooked her bra and tossed it across the room. It missed the hamper by an impressively wide margin. She closed the lid on her laptop and trudged the three steps to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. Five hundred applications and not a peep! Sarah should have listened to her mother and majored in something useful like engineering or computer science. But no, writing was her passion. Student loans and the barista life be damned!

She still had a few hours before her roommates got back from work so it was the perfect amount of time to doom scroll and wallow in self-pity. She really needed to block her damn ex that was dating some instagram model now. Sarah was about to pour the dregs of the bottle into her glass when she felt her phone buzz. The number, if that’s what it was, flashed in an alien language she had never seen before.

The caller ID said likely spam, but Sarah held out hope that one, just one, of her job applications got through. She took a deep breath and summoned all of the professionalism that her tispy, braless, and clinically depressed ass could muster on a Friday afternoon, “This is Sarah!” She plastered a smile to her lips as if the caller could see her.

“My name is Jason. We’ve been trying to reach you about your car’s extended warranty.”

Sarah pressed the phone against her hip and tried to breath, but a high-pitched screech involuntarily escaped her lips. After a few moments she finally gained control of her vocal cords. She put the phone next to her ear.

“Ma’am, it’s illegal to strangle ferrets in your state.”

“What?” Sarah asked, equal parts laughter and tears.

“I assumed that was the sound I just heard: an inebriated human female strangling an elongated furry rodent.”

She snorted and wiped her nose. Any other day Sarah would have hung up the phone, guzzled the remaining wine, and split a pizza with her equally broke roommates, but today felt different.

“Your name’s not Jason, is it?” Sarah asked, flopping back on the tattered armchair.

“No, it’s not,” the caller admitted with an un unplaceable accent. “But does it matter?”

“I suppose not,” she shrugged. “Okay, you’ve reached me. Tell me about my car’s extended warranty!”

“Really?” he said, pitch rising.

“Sure, why not?” She slurred.

“Do you give your consent to receive this one-time, limited offer?” not-Jason asked.

“I do,” she responded with faux-solemnity, tilting her head back to finish the glass.

“Stand by for transmission!”

Sarah blinked and her alcohol-induced haze immediately vanished. She was sitting on a couch made from the softest material she’d ever felt. It was like a cloud of puppies for her soul. She reached up to her ears and felt clamshell headphones clamped over her head. But the most jarring thing was the humanoid figure sitting in the lazy boy across from her. It was one of those classic “grey” aliens you see in the movies.

“What the f-”

“Hold on, this is a family show," the humanoid laughed.

Sarah wanted to scramble away but a sense of ease washed over her body and the couch pulled her in deeper.

“You’re not going to probe me, right?” Sarah asked.

“That’s racist!” the alien barked. He pressed a button in front of him and a 90’s sitcom sound effect of booing emanated from around them.

“I’m…sorry. I didn’t mean to...” she stammered.

“I’m just kidding. We used to do that, but the intergalactic liberals said ‘you need to get consent’” he said the last part with a mocking tone. “Welcome to the podcast. I’m your host, Beeglebort Thacteritrix.”

“Are you alien Joe Rogan?” she asked.

“Joe Rogan wishes he was human Beegleborg, honey,” he replied, taking a hit from a bizarre, vape-like device. “Please, I have forty-three quintillion subscribers.”

“Okay…what do you want?” she asked, shifting her weight on the couch.

“Do you know how many people actually ask about their car’s extended warranty?” Beeglebort asked.

“Well…”

“It was a rhetorical question, toots.” Beeglebort cut her off. “The answer is two, you and Keanu Reeves.” He continued despite her raised eyebrow. “God, that guy is cool. Anyway…”

“Crap, you’re alien Andrew Tate, aren't you?”

“Do you want to win the prize or not? How’s that writing career going?” he asked.

“Mmm mmm,” what should have been a string of curses only came out as mumbles from Sarah’s magically pursed lips.

After Sarah visibly calmed, Beeglebort said, “Here’s the game, we ask you one simple question, and if you answer correctly, you win a prize. Do you understand?”

Sarah nodded, smoldering eyes boring into him.

“Let’s begin!” he roared. “On the intergalactically renown show, Honey, I Shrunk the Blorps, what was Zonkley Wiggletubs’ catch phrase? Is it:

• A) Eh, what’s up, doc?
• B) Goddamnit, Donut!
• C) Yumble, bumble, fidge
• D) Ouch, my flaps!

Your thirty seconds begins…now!”

“I know it’s not A. B doesn’t even make sense. I’m leaning towards C, Yumble, bumble, fidge.” Sarah said.

“Is C your final answer?”

“Sure,” Sarah sighed. She just wanted to get away from this creep.

“I’m sorry, the correct answer is D, Ouch my flaps. Thanks for playing!”

Sarah snorted awake and knocked over the empty wine glass on the table. What the actual f–. That couldn’t have been real. She felt her phone vibrate and checked the time. It had only been a few minutes.

“Hey, sweetheart, how was your day? ” her mother asked as Sarah put her on speakerphone. She felt something lumpy on the seat cushion. It was a baseball cap that said Beeglebort’s Losers. “Anyway,” her mother continued, “I keep getting these damn emails from a Nigerian Prince. I’m just going to put them in spam.”

“Wait, I'll be right over!”