Kind Mr. Richards

Michael decided it was the right time to visit Mr. Richards.

“Mr. Richards?”

He knocked on the screen door and waited. This was not a bad sign. Michael had known Mr. Richards since he was a young boy and they first moved next door to the very old home that reminded him of something from a monster movie. As they were unpacking, he noticed the man sitting on his front porch, happily rocking away in his chair with a drink in his hand and sunglasses on to block out the light of that very bright afternoon. He had waved at the family and they all smiled and waved back. Michael wondered about his life from that moment on and would find out what he could.

Over the years, Michael did have a portrait of their neighbour that was sad and curious. He was a widower who had worked as a salesman for many years for various companies. Apparently, he was very good at it and could work freelance (no real information on income earned, but he did have a big house, so…). He had also been a veteran during the Vietnam War (Michael read as many books about it as he could, watching both “Platoon” and “Full Metal Jacket” when his parents were not around). And he was a widower (a new word; a word that he only learned because that was the first thing Mr. Richards told him about himself: “Nice to meet you, young man. Welcome to my widower’s life!”). His mother had sent him over for the introductions with a little food a few days after the move. The home smelled of cigarettes and dust, but it was pretty clean for a man who lived on his own (Michael never saw a maid). And he loved to hear Mr. Richards’ stories about the war work and life before Michael was even a thought to his parents. Soon, stopping over after school, part-time jobs, hockey games and dates became a very common thing. It was not unusual, especially on a cold day like this, to knock on the door and to have no response to his rapping on the screen and glass.

“Mr. Richards? It’s Michael. My mom just wanted you to have these.” He was holding a plate of cellophane-covered cookies in one hand as he looked through the window. “She made chocolate-oatmeal…again.” They did smell fantastic, but they stuck to his throat and he did not want to chance taking one without a glass of milk.

“Mr. Richards?”

He tried the door and it glided open. Not a single squeak after he fixed it for him last year.

The same stale smell of cigarettes and dust, but there was something else now.

For the first time, he was actually scared.

There had been no signs that Mr. Richards was in bad health, despite the cigarettes and the occasional drink shared when Michael grew up and became of age. He reminded his neighbour of the importance of his health, only to be told, “Everything will kill you, young man. You’ve gotta enjoy the ride.” And another beer was finished, chased by nicotine from a pack of Benson & Hedges. He would not accept that he would go that way.

He walked down the familiar hallway, again noting how clean and orderly the shoes and coats were on the stand and carpet (all those years of military training must have stuck with him, he thought). The kitchen was also quiet except for the hum of the fridge. No dishes were in the sink and the counter was as dry as Michael’s throat.

“Mr. Richards?”

He did not mean to shout, but after looking through the first floor and the upstairs bedrooms – he always wondered why he lived with two of them when there were no children – he knew that he would have to look in the basement.

The door was slightly ajar.

The strange thing now is it was not the first time he had stepped down there. One day, Mr. Richards asked him if he could put a few bags of potatoes down there after the local grocery store delivered his food for the week. The bare bulbs in the unfinished basement were cobwebby and dusty (the only part of the house he did not clean). The larder with the food was separated from the rest of the space by a pad-locked door that had been left open and it was easy to leave the russet potatoes in a basket after he cut the bag open and emptied the contents. It was when he was heading back that he noticed it.

There were clear plastic boxes filled with files.

And on one of them, it said, INVASION.

He could hear the steps of Mr. Richards in the kitchen directly overhead – another beer or sandwich, maybe – and he knew that he had a moment.

He lifted one lid, read one very clean and up-to-date folder (no dust on the boxes), and almost slammed it shut.

Michael could not believe what he read.

And he knew that he would not be able to resist if he went back down today.

It was colder now as he opened the door.

“Damn…”

It was a long step down into the dim light bulb glow. The cobwebs had been cleared and the files had been reopened. And something else was added: a foldable camping bed where Mr. Richards’ body lay. Michael noted the look of peace on his face as he studied the features of a man he thought he knew well.

He looked carefully at his old friend.

“Damn…and damn…”

Mr. Richards knew the whole truth.

The papers on the bed were also marked INVASION, but this was not the only word or phrase on the documents: ALIEN INVASION; NEIGHBORS ACTING HUMAN; POSSIBLE TAKEOVER OF SOCIETY.

Again, it was all neat and tidy and it only took one retinal scan for Michael psychic feed to share the information with his parental entities.

These humans were so impressive when they tried, he thought. You had to give them that.

And that was when he noticed that he was still carrying the tray of cookies.

It was more drug work for their study of the species. Maybe Mr. Richards noticed that he often nodded off and needed an extended nap when he ate the food? Maybe he had some experience with spy work during the war? It was never mentioned during their talks... But what if he had?

Perhaps…

He was wearing his full uniform and the gun had only used one round.

Michael placed the plate on the floor and realized that it would be easier to just float up the stairs now that he did not need to use his human form anymore.

“Respect, Mr. Richards. Our deepest respect…”

He made sure that the door was locked and the clean up could wait for the next wave of visitors from his constellation of vapors.

And he knew that it was going to be a beautiful day.