Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 The Notary Connection

   A radio amateur, who also possesses a telescope, walks down the
boulevard amidst and through people with red noses.  The noses are red from
the cold.  They don't wrinkle and are rarely covered even in winters like
this one.  The person we follow has his or her head bowed to avoid the
freezing breeze from getting into his or her brownish lungs, so walks
forehead-first raising his or her eyebrows to watch the gloomy fellow
citizens eye-witnessing the street as they follow their own paths.

   He is almost definitely a he, now as he nods to the colporteur selling
somebody else's news, for when he nods his chin uncovering, we see three
day old beard.  Our guy is on his own errand, probably going to buy new set
of lenses for his fat camera in the nearby shop, the window of which
decorated with white puffs of Christmas foam, the kind that conquers the
space when released and then hardens.

   In order to reach the shop, he disappears into a small alley, if only a
bit longer passage hugged by several gray buildings, together with inside
parking lots for those who live around here.  This place is empty, the
citizens are glued to their television sets, thumbing the remote or already
sleeping the dusk out.

   In the alley he runs into an alien.  Non-earthling.  We are all stunned.
This rarely happens, if ever.  It indeed does, some claim.  Yet our hero is
stalling.  Of course he lives on the Balkans, so he calculates this to be
some kind of an elaborate setup in which he will turn out embarrassed, turn
even green with his red nose showing several seconds close-up through some
annoying local TV whose people force their amateur asses to produce their
own material.

   But our man is also tech-savvy and sci-fi literate so he thinks he knows
a real alien from a mock one.  He's got the money to buy the new stuff for
his optic prosthesis not by his usual payment, but more by either writing
series of columns for the daily in his city or maybe winning on an
anonymous short essay contest on the topic of your choice.  They usually
value hot and contemporary with a humane side to it.  And that's ok, I
think, as long as you - the writer don't get superficial and as long as you
don't offer shallow excuses for twisted implied and applied morality,
however wide morality's plate might seem to some.  And more to the point,
just give him some time and he will determine the certainty of to which
extent this particular alien was genuine alien-material from far, far away.

   So he gets an eyeful of the alien and never really moving his wrists out
of his long black coat of the urban, undistinguishable.  The alien does not
have many clothes on it so that all the interested parties will be sure it
is an alien.  It has a figure of a bipedal mammal plus one leg and only one
big eye central to its, say, head.  The creature has some other peculiar
features (like color green), but even more important is the universal "I
come in peace" sign to be carved firmly in the brain of our human.  Our
hero will live long and the picture of the alien will undoubtedly survive
all the seasons of his memory slowly dissipating. And of course the peace
sign comes in the shape of an immobile upraised palm with all three fingers
of the alien hand high above the ground.

   Inherent Mediterranean mentality hosted in our character - stops him
from doing the same with his own limb.  His numbness is still nurtured by
his sticky paranoia that something stinks here.  His social awareness is
still checking the perimeter.

   The alien states the obvious: - I come in peace.  I will not hurt you or
anyone.

   Our hero is still quiet.  He is of the academic kind.  His lot does not
react fast when possibly in danger.  Such kind also believes what aliens
say.  Who the fuck will travel that much only to say something like
resistance is futile - this is one of the thoughts quickly entertained in
the circus of our man's circuits, while he is unavailable to move or utter.

   - I really mean that...  - it continued - although it is like in
California, you know, when you are a doorman of a porn lair and when
someone wants to get in, you ask her or him if he or she was the officer of
law, or some shit like that, and by the law the party who wants to get in
has to answer truthfully or get fucked in the court.  So, i feel like i
must say what i've said.

   The darkness is creeping in and the shock is creeping out of our human
representative (this story is written primarily for and by human beings),
while the time slowly dissolves on the way to its final and allegedly big a
crunch.  So he thought around fact 1: We have an alien situation (and now a
cracky brain-pun as well).  And fact 2: the alien is talkative.

   - Where are you from?  - asks our man with sudden surge of initiative
and sweeping the floor with his thick-accented English, but knowing his
grammar 'alright'.  The alien talks English out of quite understandable
reasons.  The question seems to be legit.  Can any first question directed
to an alien be treated as a smalltalk?

   - Seattle.  - says the alien and grins.  - I was hanging there with some
weed-friendly people.  They would get high and start making jokes about how
they know an alien.  Chuckle-wise, you can do wonders with some weed and an
alien.  They used to look at me and start suppressing a good laugh.  I've
even got offended in several occasions.  THC doesn't affect me.

   - What?

   - I cannot get high, that is.  Otherwise I'm from some star, several
hundred light years from here.  Dunno exactly.  Never bothered to do the
math, cause why should I?  We don't use light years where I'm from.  Our
year is too short and, anyway, every other alien has it's own year.  Some
weird shit to use light years as distance thing.  Folks might think you're
amateurs and assimilate or dissintegrate you just for the fuck of it.  And
I didn't read the name of my home star from your earthly charts as well. 
Hell, I didn't even look up to try to see it for myself, crazy bustards
living there and all.  And me?  I'm as benign as a baby doll.  I also like
to travel.  Well, the star might be visible only from the southern
hemisphere of your li'l planet, as far as I'm concerned.

   - What are you?

   - Fuck, man.  Did I get you by surprise or what?  So sorry.  Tell you
what.  I was here to study the Balkans' hassles for a bit and then tail
home, but then I've got a call from a good friend of mine who was fetching
a high speed ride on an interstellar ferry, let's call them that, yes?, and
the friend of mine discovered that she was actually on one of those old
heavy-duty 18-fucking-stellar-wheelers which have attached to it one of
those...  galactic-mainframe-backbones and such computing stuff.  She knows
I'm here, so she did the dig against the database and guess what she tells
me?  She told me that this planet of yours isn't even booked.  I mean of
course many different aliens know this place, some even come here to have
fun, most of them hiding from publicity using heavy tech, but nobody ever
bothered to check if it was checked in.  So what is the place you go to
when you want to make a deal official, or some paper or something, my
friend?

   Our hero is dazzled and dumbstruck.

   - My friend?  Hello?  I'm very sorry to bug you, but please help me,
will'ya?

   - I don't understand what you want.  - our man says - Somebody might see
us here and panic.  Why don't we move somewhere?  - his voice trembling. 
But our hero is not stupid.  He wants the credits of shooting (by camera)
the alien to himself.

   - Yeah, let's go to your place.  Do you have coffee?  I can smell it.  I
mean I can smell it, but I cannot drink it.  But I also meant I can already
smell it.  My alien-rocket thing is this car here.  - the alien pokes a
green twiggy finger into a white old Skoda next to him.

   They get in the car.

   - I must also admit to you - says the alien as they slam the doors -
that I was actually very determined to meet exactly you.  I know you can
read stellar maps.  We need to read the name of my star.  Tell you what? 
You get famous I get paid some.

   - I was thinking what you asked me.  - says our man. - Oh, yeah?  What?
The officials? - Yes, it is called a notar.  A notary. - Oh ok, the public
notary.  Notorious notarius.  It'll do.  Let's hit it off, I'll explain
everything.

   They drive up and off.  The car turns totally stealth as they go
airborne.

   In the human being's apartment, politely offered, the alien decides for
orange juice (his body is sugar-happy), while the academic settles for a
beer to reshuffle his sensitive nerves.  A beer from the fridge, even.  He
is not the one to change preferable beverage just because of his planet's
behavior that is offering only winter at this time of the year.

   The alien sighs and falls into an ugly armchair, which is probably
inherited.  His rubbery and rather short upper limbs rest snuggly over the
fat and soft sides of the furnished piece.

   - Here's the deal, my friend.  - It starts - I let you do the paparazzi
thing on me and then it's your call how famous will you make me.  Watch
your ass, though, Chomsky sidekick, cause here's the math: one human plus
one alien plus all the crude oil makes zero.  I don't want you to get high
profile lead-ache over my skinny ass.  Humans might be ugly as hell, but I
still like your sado-brain mazo-asses.

   - And what do I do for you?  - asks then the business-man carrying a
warm and freshly unplugged desk lamp in his right and a cold beer in his
other right hand while approaching the alien and tripping over the fuzzy
yellow slippers abandoned in the small and stale apartment by his ex.  Some
beer foam spilled, but on the parquetry rather then on the carpet, for the
people on the Balkans tend to buy short carpets, maybe to save money for
beer, slippers and tech stuff, or maybe a brand new European wheels in some
distant future, a wedding here and there, a flat for the son, who is not
that dumb, but still likes to eat carpet-money.

   The alien eyes the curly and hairy human cautiously, like if its body is
fragile and the admittedly larger human is no-brainer or dangerously
clumsy. The alien's heavy and rather large eyelid waters the eye in several
strokes, blinking in fear, the activity that also releases silent rubbing
noises.

   - What the fuck with the beer, man?  Alcohol eats my skin cells.  - it
lies - you want me intact for the shoot-out or what?

   - Sorry.  - says the man shyly.  He thinks of breaking the small
incident by asking again what to do for the alien, whatever which he gladly
would, but then thinks better of it and does not ask anything.  Shoot first
(with the camera) then ask questions.  Anyway, redundant is not cool. 
Especially if it's in talking.

   - No worries.  You're lovely again with your feet firmly on the ground.
A dick extension, huh?  - the last remark pointed to the phallic
semi-automatic camera that the human is proud of - No offence, though.  Our
kind has much smaller prongs, but then we never have to wear the rubber.

   The human then raises one eyebrow very academically.  He reacts
quizzically more to the sound of the chuckle then to the obscene and shrewd
crack, which are usual among the old farts in his department.

   - Is our DNA very much different from yours?  - asks the man.  Now the
thing is that he asks this not only because he is interested.  He is a bit,
but once you acknowledge the existence of the other, you don't really care
much what proteins dwell in there, unless you are a biochemist with
jar-glasses who wants to write a juicy paper to compensate for the lousy
sex life, or more probably, the really interested one (biochemist).  He,
our guy, he simply changes the subject.  And that is not because he is
uncomfortable with the joke, as was explained.  It is because people on the
Balkans change subjects in the middle of the conversation.  Much like this
written now, admittedly.  Maybe that `uncomfortable' bit is fundamental, or
something.

   - DNA, huh?  If I hump a gorilla nothing will come out, my friend.  I
might bruise the animal though, having my passion.  But, generally, I'm a
prudent extraterrestrial and I wouldn't insult the leading bio-structure of
this world by copulating with your fauna.  Yes...  sapient, I am.

   - You are not saying much.  - says the human, letting his awkward
English embed double meanings.

   - I compensate with a lot of talking.  Anyway, you can start clicking
away with your thing and I'll tell you what I need.  First we find what
star I'm from.  The name or the number, whatever.  After that, we use your
dusty computer to put up a little text about our first contact stating that
it took place.  Then we take it to the notary and we sign it there and file
it.  You get one copy, I get the other the notary gets the third.  You pay.
After that I go home, meaning I leave the globe and I do what I do.  What
do you say?

   - It is all right.  But...  - tried the man. - It's non-negotiable.  I'm
the alien here and you're just like any other guy, only with a camera and a
stellar map.  I'm in no mood for vivisection or governmental protocols.  I
can get killed or bored.  I want to get my paper and to get out of here, so
I can cash in.  They give ten thousand Aldebaran mega-gold ducats for every
discovered civilization.  I am making this Aldebaran shit up, but they
really do give a small fortune.  What do you say, you and me, huh?

   - Can I at least ask some questions?  - he asks already. - You can try,
but I either don't know much of what you want to know, or I don't care, or
I try to be a smart ass, or, even worse, I might lie.  I might also confuse
you and then you will not be happy.  I'm not exactly first-contact material
here.  I barely know the significance of the prime fucking numbers. 
Anyway, we don't have time.  You know about the prime numbers, don't you?

   - Did you come alone?

   - Yeah, I came alone, I leave alone.  I live alone.  I don't like
company.  I can barely stand you.  I'm kidding.  Let's snap it, then,
please.  I'm on my way to buy a cheap moon and start a revolution there
with some Sirius nympho sluts.  I'm making all this up, don't quote me.

   Two hours later the alien wanders off somewhere out.  The notaries work
until four p.m.  Our hero doesn't speak with anybody that night.  He hides
the films.  Goes to sleep unable to get some.  He gets up suddenly fifteen
minutes later and goes to his office to lock one film there.  The next
morning, the alien's last on Earth, they disembark the Skoda as they
identified a notary office with not many people around.  The alien shows up
in a coat, a hat and a pair of sunglasses, which really don't fit his only
eye as it walks under the cold sun.  They manage to slip in unnoticed.  The
alien fixes some kind of repulsion gadget just outside the office and they
get in safely.

   The notary is alone.  If she has any aides, they are on breakfast or
something. The notary is a young nervous lawyer with short black hair and
black blouse.  No earrings, no necklace, slight make-up.  Her huge brown
eyes do the ping-pong between our hero and the alien who takes the coat off
and folds it neatly over the wooden chair.  After some silence the notary
clears the air with her hands trying to gesture something like: what is
going on here.  One silver ring, no watch.  That is very peculiar for a
legal person.  She probably uses her mobile phone to measure the time, when
outside the office.  She really asks what is going on in her native
language.

   - Do you speak English?  - asks the alien. - Yes, I do.  - answers the
notary - who are you people? - Here - the alien offers the printed
documents to the notary.  They are of course in national language of the
country.  The notary eyes them once again thinking along the line that she
is in some kind of a situation here.  This printed document, like all the
documents in the world, does struggle to model the reality, but fails to
convince the fairly young administrative that everything is normal and
dull. For nobody is selling a car here.  For hereby it states that this
thing is an alien.

   - You are not a citizen of this country, sir.  - says the notary
sporting a poker face, although she doesn't feel like gambling today.  Our
hero, fussed up himself, suddenly admires the way this notary girl/lady
handles herself.  She's lovely, he thinks.

   - Yes, that is correct. - Do you have any documents with you?  - asks
the notary. - No - answers the alien in a strained voice.  Something is
bothering him - Excuse me, can I use your toilet?  - he then asks. The
notary says nothing, doing the human calculation.  Of course she thinks
this is some kind of setup, but then she also knows the other non-alien
looking person from the public life.  What is going on?  She suddenly feels
cold.  Luckily, she thinks, she is wearing a bra today. - It is ok - says
quietly our hero in their common language, although he is not sure if it is
ok. - Go ahead - says the notary ever not so politely, pointing her right
thumb behind her in a kind of a masculine way. The alien wanders off. - You
know I cannot stamp this.  - says the notary to our man almost
apologetically. - Listen, I'm... - I know who you are.  I read your
columns. They're good.  So what?  - the notary interrupts. - Oh, you do? 
But I was going to say something else. The notary then does her manual
air-clearing move to offer her attention. - This creature is really an
alien.  I think it cannot be controlled, because it uses advanced
technology.  It looks detached from reality, but I think that it knows what
it is doing.  It is also leaving very soon.  I don't think I can stop it,
or anybody else could.  Let's file this paper, let's be good hosts and then
we'll think about the consequences.  Please? - You must be out of your mind
- says the notary and smiles somewhat nervously.  Her smile is not cool,
but our hero thinks it is cute. - It will leave very soon.  You can close
the shop and I'll buy you a drink when it does.  We need it.  - our hero
surprises himself by his proposition.  He hopes for a yes. On the mention
of the shop she suddenly stands up and walks to the entrance to see if
there is anybody close.  She tries to open the door, but she finds hard to
approach it, because of the repelant device planted by the alien just
outside the shop.  By the way, she wears an executive navy blue skirt,
which doesn't cover her knees and has her blouse tucked in.  She has a
small tummy, which adds to the prospect that she seems perfect to our man.
Wine tummy, maybe.  Would look good in combination with his beer belly. -
I'll kill you if this is some kind of a fuck-up - she says and sits in her
chair aggressively letting the pathetic little wheels that support her body
creek in effort to comply to its duty.  She doesn't believe that the freak
is an alien, of course, but playing along seems to be the easiest way out.
Legal consequences?  No worries.  And the alien situation easily justifies
her lose language, especially on the Balkans.  Our hero doesn't give a
dingo's kidney about it.  What he likes from her non-formal claim is that
they seem to be pretty close already.

   The alien joins them few minutes after to find them chatting.  They
switch to English and offer him the paper to be signed.  The formalities
are boring, but they finish soon.  The alien visit is now official.  The
alien holds his paper greedily.

   - Off I go now.  - it says. - Listen, we were...  - tries our man. - You
are going to have sex tonight.  A very good one.  You are going to get
married next year.  I know this things, I can read future. -...  going to
have a drink.  - finishes the human with his eyes wide. - I know, but I
split now, really.  Grow and prosper, humans, I really like you.  And don't
be strangers.  We are official now. - Let me walk you out.  - shouts our
man.

   - I was making-up that future reading shit, of course.  - says the alien
while he picks up the that repulser thing.  Our man tries not to run away -
The destiny is not written...  Well, I'm making this last bit up as well, I
wouldn't know.  Well, blah, blah.  Have a good day for a start, though. 
And have some sex, please. - Can you leave me that?  - asks our clever man,
pointing to the repulse generator.  It would be a good proof that the
pictures he made yesterday were not doctored.  Something very material to
nurture his claims. - But i cannot switch it off.  This is an industrial
thing.  Not meant to be switched off - the alien taps with one of his three
legs impatiently. - So what?  I still want it.  Make it a gift, please. -
But if you don't keep it with you, you might not be able to find it or
approach it later.  And I cannot just leave it like that.  It's
irresponsible. - I know it is dangerous just to leave it around.  I'll keep
it close to me, you have my word.  - Oh, yeah?  If you keep it, you
definitely won't have sex tonight.  Chose now and chose wise, I'm in a
hurry.
   Goran Petrov 15.12.2001