Synopsis: Roger Kiser has been abandoned by his adoptive family and tossed on a bus headed through North Dakota. The bus’s path will take it into Montana where Roger could meet his family again. To avoid this, Roger decides to get off the bus just before it leaves. Another passenger named Elvis tries to befriend Roger and convinced him to stay. When Elvis is rebuffed, he curses Roger. Coincidentally, Roger slips getting off the bus.
Roger groaned and lifted his throbbing torso away from the bus. The two paneled door immediately slid shut behind him. Through the glass, Kiser could still hear the muffled sounds of Elvis further berating him. Soon, the protests were drowned as the purring of the bus’s engine grew to a roar.
Hesitantly, the bus rolled slowly away, and Roger was left in a low cloud of white exhaust and chilled breath. A moment later, the frigid wind’s force scattered the exhaust.
Kiser straightened completely then wrapped his arms tightly around his body. “I don’t remember it being so cold outside. This is crazy.”
The bluster seemed to be affecting the people adversely as well. The few folks outside scampered to their destination with a slight bend to their bodies. Most had thick parkas and caps. All Kiser had was a thick sweatshirt.
Roger pulled up his hood and began marching to the bus stop. Surrounding the large cinder block building was a sea of asphalt covered in used cars, filthy ice, waiting buses, and piles of snow. It was little more than a frosted box built for purpose and not style. On one side was a large mural of a man taking a large step with bowling ball stretched out on the arm behind him. A creepy smile made it appear the man had more on his mind than making a strike. Above this was a failing electric sign that read, The Paragon.
What eventually caught Kiser’s attention were a couple of dingy green banners hung above the bus rear door. The wind whipped the banners into spasms yet the message across the front read could still be read. It said, “ Aliens Go!”
“What was that supposed to mean?” Roger could only assume that it referred to the local high school team.
Everything seemed perfectly lower-middle class, so Kiser hustled through a set of soiled glass doors. He passed a retro looking bowling alley, and then an aromatic lunch counter. Once Roger’s nostrils filled with the scents of fried food, his appetite returned with a vengeance. Considering he had no money, there was no point in torturing himself. He pushed through the front doors and gave the lunch counter one more passing glance. Even the display pie looked good and it was probably twenty years old.
From the front of the bus depot, Kiser could see an expanse of commercial road and finally survey his new home. There were few trees. Those that did exist looked more dead than dormant. Pickups outnumbered cars and most were neither new nor foreign. Homes and nearby businesses were distinctly practical, with a keeping-up-appearances-is-a-waste-of-time look. There were a few working class citizens strolling in one direction or another. Light snow covered everything and the sky was awash in gray.
Roger’s attention returned to the front parking lot. About twenty feet to his right was a bored looking driver leaning against a small, courtesy van. The driver had wrapped his coat and scarf tightly around his body in a futile effort to remain comfortable. Most of his coat was bright green with sequins stitched into every seam. His bright outfit contrasted strongly with the listless expression on his face. The decals along the vehicle’s side spelled out, “City of Buffalo Rind – Transport for non-aliens.” Below that was another strange proclamation. “Extra Terrestrials must take a different Shuttle… to Heck!”
The man’s glare eventually found Roger and his backpack. Magically, his lifeless expression changed awkwardly to forced enthusiasm. He stepped toward Kiser, and said, “Hello! Welcome to Buffalo Rind! You’ve arrived just in time! Let me drive you to the business district where you can find laser proof lodging, and equipment necessary for survival. Or if you prefer, I can take you to Agmom’s Hotel and Electronic Casino.”
The man’s grin was outstandingly artificial. The introduction sounded recited, which added to its confusing effects. As the driver approached, Roger found himself taking a few cautionary steps backward.
The man stopped a few feet from Kiser. He began scanning for luggage. “Hmm, looks like you pack pretty light. You are here for Alien Days right? Or are you waiting for someone else?”
Roger knew he wasn’t expecting anyone but before proceeding he needed to check something. “If I’m here for Alien Days, do I have to tip or pay you?”
The driver’s expression became even less sincere, if that was possible. “Well no, in truth it’s a free shuttle service.” His breath escaped in white puffs that the wind immediately whipped into nonexistence. “And since you’ve stripped me of any courtesy, are you coming or not? It’s (uncouth clause) freezing out here.”
The driver spun toward his van without making sure Roger was following. Kiser pulled his backpack closer and rushed after the sequin green coat. Before marching to the driver’s seat the man carelessly opened the van’s side passenger door. The interior was a dark blue and without notable amenities. Roger jumped in, and with in seconds the van was fish tailing into traffic.
When he had regained control of the vehicle, the driver glanced Roger’s way and asked, “You don’t have any money for a tip huh?”
“Sorry. I am without any disposable income.”
The driver didn’t seem surprised. “Well,” he began as he reached for the radio dial, “I sure hope you like Pokka!” Within seconds the wail of an off tune accordion drowned out any other noise and any hope of a conversation.
The final destination was not far. They drove over a set of railroad tracks. Just to the east, a tall grain elevator stood huddled against the tracks. About a half-mile later the street was dominated by gas stations, fast food establishments, and farm supply stores. A generous coating of snow and dirt covered everything.
The van stopped in the parking lot of a huge gray and blue striped department store. A massive, lighted sign above the three sets of glass doors read, Alfa & Omega Mart. And below that was another, smaller sign, Buy here now or when we’re the only store left. Your Choice!
The driver turned down the volume on his radio and rotated to ask Roger a question. “Ok, kid how’s this?”
“No thanks.” Roger replied. “We have these in Arkansas. Is there anywhere else you can drop me off?”
“Sure. Really, the only reason I brought you here is so I could spin cookies in the parking lot for a second before I take you down town.” The driver returned the volume of his radio to earsplitting levels and slammed his foot on the accelerator.
Roger grabbed the back of his seat and held until the vehicle came to rest again. When Kiser next opened his eyes, the driver was opening his door, and gesturing for him to step out. Grudgingly and thankfully, Roger stepped back into the cold.
The driver’s voice sounded as if he was mumbling to himself. “Once again, welcome to Buffalo Rind, North Dakota’s best kept secret, and that’s saying something.” The man then handed Roger a brochure. With blurring speed, he had returned to the driver’s seat, and Roger was left breathing exhaust.
