My Alien

By Nicolas Van Der Haar

My Alien. Odd to think of him as mine. I mean, I don’t even think of him as a ‘he’. Is he an it? It’s much too late to ask. I filled out a form at work, and the government just dropped him off one day as if he was a new recycling bin. I don’t own him, at least I think I don’t. The government didn’t send me a bit of paper saying ‘congratulations, you now own an alien fresh to Earth’. Least I don’t think they did. What they did send me was a small list of things like ‘try to teach it whatever language you speak at home’ and ‘don’t let it stand in the sun for too long’.

I don’t much like my alien. It’s much too tall, isn’t fond of the sandwiches I make, and it’s constantly cooking dinner rolls on the dining table candles whenever we sit down to eat. But it’s the inconsiderate attitude it takes that really irks me. It talks all the way through Frasier and Seinfeld. I have tried to negotiate with my alien. Pleading with it as we watered our freshly planted pittosporums. Whispered into its small flower-shaped ears while it slept. I think it was sleeping. Once I lost my temper and shook its enormous primary arm from side to side, screaming all kinds of nonsense at it. I felt rather foolish afterwards and had to apologise profusely. It didn’t seem to mind.

Simone’s alien is so much cooler and wise. It’s not fair. Last week it learned how to ride a bike and then taught Simone how to dance a rumba and just before she went to sleep it came up to her bed and promised Simone that she would never die a painful death. She hasn’t yet. My alien says almost nothing, it just likes to eat burnt dinner rolls and sprinkles dried coconut on all of its meals. I called a government hot-line and inquired, apparently they can sometimes get terrible stomach trouble and need time to adjust to Earth food.

“These aliens — my apologies, these non-Earth sentients simply want to learn and understand what real human life is like!”

Jillian says I should be grateful I have a sentient alien at all. They didn’t give them to everyone, after all. It is not my fault she has three poorly trained dogs and no spare bedroom.

I suppose it could be worse. Evette’s alien has a foul attitude, sloped back, and hooded eyes. Apparently, it loves physical exercise and getting tattoos. It found Evette’s old tattoo gun and now wants to start its own studio in Evette’s garage. Absurd.

This morning, in spite of the cold, I drink coffee on the front steps of the house. I like my morning coffee sweet and milky. So white you can barely see the brown of the coffee. I had to get up before the alien, otherwise it would insist upon making it for me. The alien is awake now and watching me through the kitchen window. It’s already scrubbed and cleaned the whole house. Emptied and refilled the bird cage. It even dusted behind the fridge. It squashed its body against the cupboards until it was thin enough to wedge itself around and collect the cobwebs with a damp rag. It has even promised to wash and re-stain the dining table. In its dull, toneless voice, I hear the alien singing to the radio. It is right now polishing an old coffee cup and mangling Petula Clark.

“Down-town! Down, town! Down! Town!”

I am beginning to seriously dislike my alien.

About the Author

N.H. Van Der Haar is a writer based in Melbourne.

They can be most recently read in Novellum Magazine and The Victorian Reader.

He writes theatre reviews for On the House and is also a staff writer for the New Absurdist. 

He can be found online on Instagram: @nic_noc_nac.