by Milo James Fowler
Mo was a big Grey.
He wore denim overalls, stained across the front with oil and gasoline, close to threads at the knees. The shoulder straps had long since frayed and broke, and he’d replaced them with old leather belts. He’d done the stitching himself and it was good and strong. Underneath the brown straps, he wore a white undershirt, always clean and fresh, every day. It seemed to glow on him like the moon emerging from a twilight sky. His black leather boots were scuffed and scarred, but they still did the job – though they seemed to move a little slower these days.
Mo worked the Route 40 filling station, near the southbound 85 junction. He kept the pumps in order, minded the small convenience store, and cleaned the washrooms for travelers passing through. Filling tanks, washing windows, changing oil, and replacing the occasional flat tire were some of his other duties. He also gave directions to folks who sometimes got themselves lost.
He didn’t own the station, but he sure did run the place. He’d been doing so for years now; he couldn’t remember how long exactly. Regular folks who passed through called the place Mo’s. He liked that.
Today a midsize, cross-town coach had stopped for a fill up. Atlanta Bus Lines read the bright crimson lettering on its side. The engine ran on biodiesel, a fuel developed over in Roswell, New Mexico, a while back. Mo guided the driver – a fellow who was more interested in chatting up his passengers than watching where he was going – to the right pump on the far side of the lot. It took only moments for Mo’s practiced hands to couple the heavy hose to the tank, but it would be some time before the bus had its fill. He waited nearby and watched the scrolling numbers on the pump gauge.
He kept an eye on the store. If somebody wanted a snack or anything, he was the one to see to it. The sodas were cold and the peanuts were fresh enough, if anyone was hungry.
Most of the thirty or so passengers weren’t interested in food, though. As soon as the bus had pulled to a stop, they’d piled out and headed straight for the washrooms. Unlike the bus, their tanks were full to bursting. Mo was sure they’d find the facilities here to be cleanest on their trip.
Mo liked to watch Humans. Over the long years, he’d become an expert in the art of watching a person without the person knowing he was being watched. It took some skill, but Mo had it down. He kept his eyes to himself most of the time, but when nobody was looking, that’s when Mo took a chance. Seldom did his gaze meet that of his subject; but when it accidentally happened once in a great while, Mo would nod and grin a casual, friendly grin and turn away, chiding himself for being so careless.
The travelers came and went as if on cue, making their much-needed pit stops. Half of them looked to be retired, in their fifties or sixties; their gray and white hair was either slicked over the balding heads of the men or piled up high on the heads of the women. They all talked to each other like they were in some kind of club. Mo wondered if they might be going to a high school reunion or a Senator Kennedy rally.
The other half of the coach passengers were younger. Some traveled together in pairs, but most were going it alone. The youngest of them all was a teenage boy with hair enough to spare. Mo caught a few of the balding older fellows eyeing the youth’s head wistfully. Mo smiled to himself and scratched at his own bald dome. It had been bare for as long as he could remember.
The biodiesel was still chugging through the hose as the passenger traffic started to die down outside the bus. Most of the travelers were returning to their seats and would be anxious to get on their way. Mo glanced at the pump gauge. They’d have to wait just a few more minutes.
The door at the back of the bus slid open with a sudden creak. Mo turned just as a young female Grey stepped out. She waited for two little females to follow her; then she took each of them by the hand and led them toward the store. They kept their eyes to themselves. The youngsters didn’t smile.
All three wore simple dresses made of the same fabric, a dull green cotton with small sunflowers scattered in a repeating pattern. Their legs were bare. Their shoes weren’t new. Mo wondered if the female was their mother or their sister. She carried herself like a mother – back straight, chin high, pace set for the short legs that flanked her on each side. Mo found he couldn’t take his eyes from them.
They went straight to the door of the convenience store, but they didn’t go in. The mother hesitated a moment, but that was all. She led her young ones to the washroom outside, the one with the sign on the door. GREYS ONLY, the big, black letters said. The mother’s chin dipped slightly as she stood before the door. She looked down at her daughters and told them something. She made them hold hands. With her free hand, she tried the doorknob. The room was occupied.
The youngsters had been good and patient up to now, but they couldn’t be so anymore. They let their mother know it. She hushed them. She had them each by the hand again and her back was rigid as she faced the washroom door. They would wait.
The little ones couldn’t wait. Again, they let their mother know it, pleading with her. The mother hushed them again. She didn’t want a scene, but there was going to be a big one if she didn’t get her daughters inside that washroom as soon as possible.
Mo could see inside the store. The washroom in there had just been vacated by one of the older Human women with the hair piled up real high. There was nobody waiting to use it. The sign on its door said HUMANS ONLY in big, black letters.
The owner had put up these signs a number of years back. They had always been there, as far as Mo knew. He had never really worried about them. It was the way things were, after all.
But right now, two little ones needed to go to the washroom real bad. Was there any difference between the one for Human folk and the one for Grey folk? Mo had been in both; he cleaned them on a regular basis. They looked pretty much the same to him. Only the signs were different. Right now, did a pair of signs really matter?
The mother didn’t know what to do. She glanced once toward the bus, toward Mo. He was looking down at the pump, but he knew she was looking his way. He could feel such things.
He didn’t turn toward her. He didn’t look at her. He just nodded his head at the store. She glanced up as the older woman headed back to the bus, and she saw the vacant washroom inside, the one marked for Humans. Her questioning gaze flicked back to Mo.
Eyes downcast, he pointed a finger toward the store and scratched at the back of his head with a careful air of nonchalance.
The young mother hesitated a moment. Then with a quick word to her little ones, she led them inside by the arms without a glance back.
Mo’s gaze dropped to his own bare forearms. They were thick and muscled with strong cords beneath the skin, grey with the silver sheen of a dolphin’s hide. The cords would twitch like a snake when he clenched his fist. He used to squeeze his hands into fists a lot, back in the day. Like sledge hammers, they’d broken through the walls of his quarters.
“Boy,” the Humans had called him. But he’d been a boy then, really – just fifteen Earth years.
“Boy,” the Human had called Mo’s father. Mo’s hammer-like fist had broken that Human’s jaw.
Mo closed his eyes and shook his head. He relaxed his hand, stretching out the long, four-knuckled fingers. He took a deep breath and let it out in a quiet hiss.
The diesel pump clicked and Mo turned to remove the hose from the bus tank. As he was capping it, he heard someone clear his throat nearby.
“About time, boy.” The bus driver had his wallet out and was thumbing through the green bills. He kept his eye on Mo as he did so. “You take the money here?”
Mo nodded and wiped his hands on the bib of his overalls. He didn’t look up.
The driver had the cash out, but he paused before handing it over. From beneath the bill of his Atlanta Bus Lines cap, he watched the young Grey mother and her two youngsters scurry past, eyes to themselves as they boarded the rear of the bus. Only when the door had creaked shut behind them did the driver pay Mo what was due.
Mo nodded again and stuffed the bills into his pocket.
The driver still had an eye on him. For a moment he said nothing as he sized-up the big Grey standing before him. Then he said in a low voice,
“I seen what you did, boy.”
Mo felt every muscle in his body tighten.
The driver took a step closer.
Mo looked him in the eye. Two black, all-seeing orbs that pierced through time and space stared unblinking at the driver.
The Human swallowed, silent for a moment. “Be glad I was the only one,” he muttered and turned on his heel.
With every passenger accounted for, the bus rumbled to life and eased out onto the highway, crunching across the gravel and leaving the Route 40 filling station with a cloud of dust and exhaust. Mo watched it go.
In the back window he could see two little Grey faces, their big, black eyes fixed on him. They smiled at him.
Hands deep in the pockets of his stained overalls, Mo smiled back.
© 2011 Milo James Fowler
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.
[...] in Residential Aliens (February [...]