Allow Me To Introduce Myself
by Max Rauhman

 

 

When James’ eyes flickered open, he discovered that his son was leaning over his face and staring intently at him. “Can we enter the contest, dad?” said Les.

 

“Go back to bed son, it’s too early,” said James.

 

Les giggled, “Daddy! We’re at the library.”

 

James lurched upright and looked around. Apparently he’d fallen asleep at a reading put on by the Cita Dennis Hubbell Library on New Orleans’ west bank. Of the seven parents, nine children, one author, and two library staff members who were there when the reading started, not one of them thought it was necessary to wake him up when it ended. James knew for a fact that some of them even had to step over him to leave. A scratchy sensation in his right hand clued him in to the fact that he was holding a piece of paper. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and looked at it.

 

ESSAY CONTEST!

 

NASA recently made first-contact with the Porterion People of the Porter-3 Star System, and is seeking a volunteer to serve as a cultural emissary to represent Planet Earth! Write an essay explaining why you should be chosen for this important mission. The winner will be cryogenically frozen and sent on a 140 year journey to the Porterion’s capital planet, Caleba.

Maximum word count: 4500 Words

Due Date: April 1st

 

“Oh, neat,” said James, still trying to orient himself from the very public nap he just woke up from. “Some kinda sci-fi writing competition. Used to- uhh, my buddy and I wrote sci-fi when I was your age.” Les waited expectantly, pleading with his father using only his big, cartoonish eyes and wide smile. “Yeah, yeah. Tell ya what. You don’t tell your mom that I- uhh- that I fell asleep a little bit, and we’ll- sure, we’ll do the contest.”

 

“Awesome! I hope I win!” said Les.

 

“Why? Are you that tired of hanging out with your mom and I?” James teased, and Les laughed as they exited the library. On their walk home, Les pitched one idea after another as to why he or James should be selected, but eventually his eight year old attention span kicked in, and he started describing a cool bird he saw on the internet. By the time they arrived home, James had nearly forgotten that he’d promised Les he’d submit something to the contest. By April 1st at 7:45 PM, he’d completely forgotten, which was why he was confused when Les said “Can we submit our stories now, dad?”

 

“Can we… what our… whats?” James asked.

 

Les presented him with the flier again. “You said we’d both submit one.” His wide eyes sparkled with eagerness, but his flushed cheeks and quivering lip betrayed his expectation that he was about to be disappointed. Hope urged him with pointed eyes from the armchair where she sat pretending to read a copy of The New Yorker, and James knew that he’d better make sure he kept his word to his son.

 

“Oh, right. Of course we can, uh, submit our stories. I actually just need to go put the finishing touches on mine, then we can submit them. Hang tight!” James grabbed his laptop and ducked into his office. He pulled up Google and typed in “Best movie monologues of all time.” And copy pasted the top result into Chat GPT, adding the instructions to re-write the monologue as an argument for being selected to represent planet Earth to a newly discovered alien species.

 

Chat GPT spat out the revised monologue, which was only about 400 words. “Make it at least 3,800 words,” he instructed.

 

James read the resulting piece. “Holy shit,” he said out loud as he skimmed over an inspired monologue about the value of friendship, and the virtue of sacrificing oneself for the greater good. He used a thesaurus to spice up some of the language, and moved a few sentences around to improve the flow. Then, he slapped the title “Allow Me To Introduce Myself” onto the document. The title was the only genuine creative contribution that he made.

 

“Hey Les! Les!” He shouted until his son showed up. “Are you ready to submit these or what?”

 

“Yeah!” Said Les, as he bounded into the home office. James opened the New Orleans Public Library website, and clicked through to the contest submission portal. After he made an account, a short film began to play. A humble pilgrim drove his wagon along a cobblestone road, until his wagon morphed into the original Model A Ford automobile which puffed and chugged along an increasingly modern roadway. The Model A then sprouted wings and a propeller before executing a shaky liftoff along a primitive runway.

 

“Umm… ok, this is kinda weird,” said James to Les, who was mesmerized by the technological revolution unfolding before his very eyes. The prop plane became a  P-51 Mustang fighter jet, and a victory banner descended over the nations of Italy, Germany, and Japan. The Mustang then pointed itself towards the moon, and shapeshifted into the Apollo 11. The camera perspective entered the shuttle cabin, where A Buzz Lightyear look-alike was inputting new coordinates into a computer, charting a course towards the Porter-3 Star System. “Join me, Citizen. And together, we will explore the galaxy.” Then, he initiated the new protocol, and the video ended.

 

“Wowee! That was really neat,” said James, “I gotta say though, that’s not exactly what I was expecting them to do when I voted in favor of renewing the library millage last year. They made it sound like….they were, ya’know, broke.”

 

“Oh dad! I hope I get picked, I want to go to Porter-3!” said Les.

 

“Kiddo, I bet your story’s the best there is, so I wouldn’t be surprised at all. Let’s go ahead and submit them. Let’s see,” said James as he clicked over to the next page, “Terms and Conditions.” A sprawling document scrolled forth in front of him, and James just cycled through it while saying “blah blah blah, yada yada,” James then let out a melodramatic yawn that made Les laugh. “ ughhhhh, they just have to know that literally nobody reads these,” said James when he got to the end, he clicked “accept,” and proceeded to the next page where he confirmed he wasn’t a robot by, ironically, clicking all of the frames of a photo that contained robots. “Could a robot do THIS” James teased Les, as he aced the human authentication test on his first try.

 

On the next page a yes/no prompt appeared that read “I confirm that no part of my submission was drafted, edited, or revised using generative AI technology such as Chat GPT, or a similar service.” James nearly flinched when he saw this, but he caught himself so that Les didn’t see. “Les,” he said. “Did you really write your story?”

 

“Yeah, I did,” said Les.”

 

“All of it? We can’t be submitting work that isn’t ours to a contest, ok?”

 

“Daddy, I’ve been working on it for like forever! I didn’t use that stuff," said Les.

 

“I know you didn’t, little buddy, just had to check,” said James, and then he clicked the confirmation as prompted. He filled in their names and contact information, uploaded their stories, and then clicked Submit.

 

“Exciting!” said James, feigning pride in his submission and interest in the outcome. “Just in case we get zipped off to Planet Canjabelo-”

 

“Caleba,” corrected Les.

 

“That’s what I said. Anyway, what do you say we go grab a big bowl of ice cream while we’re still on Planet Earth?”

 

“I want chocolate with sprinkles!” Said Les, his big beautiful eyes glittering again.

 

“Ok, but first you gotta go tell your mom what a cool guy your dad is,” said James as they crossed through the living room on their way to the kitchen.

 

“Dad’s the coolest!” Shouted Les to Hope.

 

“He sure is,” Hope humored Les with an exaggerated smile, then returned to her magazine.

 

 

 

 

Three weeks later, Les bounded into the living room, squealing “The results have been posted!”

 

“The ... results?” Said James, who’d totally forgotten about their submissions.

“The contest!” Said Les as he climbed onto the couch next to his dad with his tablet.

 

“Oh yeah! I’ve been marking the days,” said James, lying. “Say, you think if one of us goes to see the aliens, we’d be able to bring the other one and mom with us?”

 

Les clicked the results link and leaned against James’ shoulder. “I don’t think so. Space shuttles are little, and this is prolly a bear’s bone mission.”

 

James looked pridefully at his son, who was eagerly clicking through the website pages to get to the results page. “Les, when did you get so dang smart?”

 

“Dad!” Les shouted as he flipped the screen so James could see it. “You won!”

 

“Oh, hah. Ummm, that’s wonderful news,” said James, “Wonderful.” He clenched his jaw and scratched his head.

 

“I can’t wait to tell everyone at school!” Said Les.

 

“Speaking of which,” said Hope as she entered the room. “The bus will be here any minute,” and she took him by the hand and walked him outside.

 

When she returned she approached James and said, “Ok James, what the hell?”

 

“What do you mean ‘what the hell?’ Apparently I won the little sci-fi contest. What’s the big deal?”

 

“The big deal is, you never once mentioned writing anything until twenty minutes before you submitted it.”

 

“What are you implying?” said James, with a wounded look on his face.

 

“That you didn’t write the freakin’ story!”

James gasped. “Hope! How dare you? Look, I’ll admit that I phoned it in, but let’s be real. Probably ten people in the whole city submitted to that contest. I have a minor in English Literature. Apparently that was enough to elevate my last minute meanderings above Les and the other eight year olds who submitted. But, honestly, it really hurts that you would just waltz in here and accuse me of cheating. You could have at least asked.”

 

“James,” said Hope sternly. “I’m sorry for accusing you. You’re right. So, did you write what you submitted?”

 

James looked Hope right in the eye and said “Yes. Yes, babe. I wrote what I submitted.”

 

Hope held his gaze for a moment, and James felt perspiration forming on the back of his neck. “Ok, good.” Then she threw her arms around him. “Les is just so proud of you. I was worried about how this might affect him if you had to withdraw your submission after it was selected.”

James laughed as he squeezed Hope tight. “You’re such a good mom,” he said. “And thanks for keeping me honest.”

 

“I know we both need to get to work, but, does my library champion have fifteen minutes to celebrate?” Hope asked, gesturing towards the bedroom.

 

James bit his lip, feeling equal parts aroused and guilty. Then, he swallowed, and his eyes glinted. “I sure do,” he said, taking her hand and letting her guide him back to bed.

 

 

 

 

James checked his phone during his lunch break and saw that he had a voicemail. He played the message, which said “Hi, this message is for James, My name is Roslyn, and I’m calling from the Times Picayune. We’re doing a human interest piece on the library competition, and I was hoping to get a comment from you before I submit the piece at 2:00pm today. Give me a call back if you can.”

 

James immediately called the number back, and said “Hi, this is James, you called about the library contest?”

 

“Oh, hi James! Thanks for returning my call! How did you feel when you saw the results?”

 

“Like a bonafide astronaut! Haha, no but seriously, I wrote that piece just thinking it’d be a bit of fun, and it’s really a shock that anyone even read it in the first place. I guess I just feel lucky!”

 

“Do you think it’ll hold up against the other winners throughout the state in the next contest round?”

 

“The…next? Of- of course! Yes, I think it will, but you know, we’ll see. It’s all in good fun, right?”

 

“Who knows? Rumors are swirling on Reddit that the contest was funded directly by NASA, and that they’re actually looking for an emissary to the Porterions. It’s mostly just fringe conspiracy theorists with nothing better to do,” said Roselyn.

 

“Haha, yeah, I have an aunt who swears that aliens have been systematically infecting all the fish in the ocean with parasites that give them mind-control powers over any humans that eat seafood,” said James, and Roselyn giggled. James thought she sounded really cute when she giggled, but shook off the fluttering feeling he was having by saying quietly to himself that he loved his wife over and over again.

 

“Well, I’ll sure be rooting for you,” said Roselyn. “Go ahead and save my number. If your piece wins the whole state, I’d love to do a follow up.”

 

“Will do! Thanks,” said James.

 

The next morning, James went out early to buy a paper, and leafed through until he found the five sentence write-up on page D-6. Les was deeply impressed that his dad was in the paper.

 

For the next week or so, everyone that James spoke to mentioned that they’d seen the article in the news, or read about it on social media. They congratulated him or asked him about it. One of his colleagues even called him “H.G. Wells.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know about all that,” said James. “I mean, I guess we’re both visionaries of our time, and apparently, we’re both really good at capturing the public imagination. Come to think of it, I guess the main difference is that he had the audacity to put his writing out there throughout his entire life, and I’ve been shy and sheepish about it this whole time. Well, I'll tell you what. That ends now!”

 

After that conversation, James found a way to say “Some folks have even been calling me H.G. Wells!” to anyone who would listen, in the hopes that it would catch on.

 

Two weeks later, his phone rang, and it was Roslyn from the Times Picayune.

 

“Hi James!” She said as he answered the phone. “Have you seen the results?”

 

“No, I sure haven’t, I thought they were going to be released tonight.”

 

“Well, they went ahead and posted them early. You won!”

 

“Really! Oh man, that’s incredible news,” James said. He wanted to bask in the limelight, but he thought it might appear immodest if the reporter picked up on that, so he said “Gosh, I’d love to chat more about this, but I really want to share the news with my family. Any chance we can talk later?”

 

“Wait, wait! I promise to make it quick. I’d really like to hear your immediate impression since you just found out.”

 

James was really grateful that this was a phone call, so Roslyn couldn’t see how delighted James was that she fell for his false-scarcity PR tactic. He thought to himself that he really should write more sci fi stories to flesh out his brand as an author. “Look, Roslyn. I’m no H.G. Wells. I was just pursuing my passions, and having a bit of fun. I think that’s why my submission connected with so many people. You can really feel my boyhood longing for space travel mash up with my lifelong devotion to literature. When I saw the prompt, I felt like it was tailor-made just for me.”

 

“That’s really incredible. Look, I’ll let you get to your family. I know they’ll be so proud! Other reporters from across the state will be reaching out to you, by the way. Thank you for letting me hear from you first.”

 

“Of course, Roslyn. You’ve earned yourself first-dibs on me for life! And thanks for the heads up. I’ll try to prepare myself for the media blitz,” said James.

 

“Haha, good luck! And don’t worry, you have a knack for this. Of course, it’ll be a whole different story if you win at the national level.”

 

James swallowed hard when she said this. “The…national?”

 

“Oh, yeah! You didn’t know? NASA confirmed that they funded the contest, but they’re being really tight-lipped about their reasons for it, which, of course, has given a shot of adrenaline to the tin foil hat community. They’re actually building whole narratives out of some pretty vague language screenshotted from the Terms and Conditions on the subreddit r/Porterion. Anyway, all fifty states, plus D.C., Puerto Rico, and I think even Guam participated through their local libraries.”

 

“Makes sense,” said James. His smile had fallen off of his face, and was replaced by cold sweats. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection on his monitor and saw that he looked like a wet, hard-boiled egg. “Umm, look , Roselyn, I think maybe this is all sounding like a bit much at this point, do you think I’d be able to withdraw my submission if I wanted to?”

 

“Oh my gosh, James, I’d hate to see you do that. You worked hard for this. You’re talented! You deserve to see where this takes you. Don’t get imposter syndrome now,” said Roselyn, and she let out another cute little laugh that made his cheeks flush.

 

“I love my wife, I love my wife, I love my wife,” said James.

 

“Did you just say that you love your wife three times?” asked Roselyn.

 

“Um, no. That’d be weird! There is some background noise on my end though so maybe you just heard something going on behind me. Look, I gotta jump so I can tell my family the news,” James said, and ended the call. Then, he went to the bathroom to throw up and splash cold water on his face. He breathed deeply a few times, then reminded himself that professional writers and bonafide weirdos all over the country had submitted. Odds are, this was his last stop. He decided to lean into it and really soak it all in while it lasted.

 

James called Hope, like he’d told Roslyn that he would. She spilled over with support and pride for him, as though she was compensating for starting off with an accusation last time.

 

“That’s incredible, boo! I still really can’t believe it all. I feel like I’m getting to know you all over again. When we first met you were so…imaginative, so creative and passionate. I guess I’d sort of forgotten that you have that side of you in the humdrum of paying bills and raising Les.”

 

“Oh, that side of me never really left, but I guess I’d kind of quit talking about it so much. Maybe I didn’t think you were interested in that stuff anymore,” said James.

 

“Sweetie, of course I’m interested. I love you James, and I want all of you. All of you, forever,” said Hope. “Hey, I’ve got kind of a naughty idea,” she continued. “What do you say we both tell HR we’ve got a tummy ache after lunch and use a half-day?”

 

“Oh I like the sound of that! Maybe you could try on that black lacy number we’ve been saving for a special occasion?”

 

“We are so bad!” Said Hope. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours? Love you.”

 

James felt sexual energy welling up inside him, and he deployed that energy to charm and disarm the several reporters who called him during the remainder of the morning. The next day, James’ picture was on print and web newspapers throughout Louisiana, beside headlines that read things like Local Family Man a Modern H.G. Wells? There was even a cartoon drawing that showed James standing on Cthulu’s neck, in an apparent confusion between H.G. Wells and H.P. Lovecraft, but that’s about what James expected from The Shreveport Times.

 

The aftermath of winning at the state level was much like winning at the local level, but bigger. He was invited to speak at the local NPR station hosted by the University of New Orleans, and was a guest on a few small TV news programs. NASA, being NASA, didn’t feel the need to provide any information whatsoever about the next round of the competition. It was unclear when they’d release the results, or why they’d organized the competition in the first place. Naturally, this fed the worst impulses of internet culture, and narratives about the program, “leaked” documents, and even about the remaining contestants’ personal lives spiraled off into the abyss.

 

But as the weeks turned into months, James’ media circuit dwindled and his celebrity faded, and he was forced to get back to his ordinary life. When people stopped bringing up the contest on their own, James began finding clever ways to work it into his conversations.

 

“Nice haircut,” said one of his colleagues in the breakroom during lunch.

 

“Thanks! One of the WDSU news anchors advised me to make sure I kept tidy and looked sharp at all times in case I win the next contest round. I might need to appear on TV on short notice, and I can’t be having a Doc Brown hair day. Actually, now that I think of it, maybe that’d actually be good for my brand!” James’s co-workers chuckled at that, but James laughed even louder.

 

“Got any plans this weekend?” another colleague asked as they were wrapping up work on a Friday afternoon.

 

“Yeah, I’ve actually got a few new story ideas I plan on kicking around,” said James, lying.

 

The day that NASA announced the winner started out like any other. Hope was wrangling Les for school, while James was making three PB&Js for their lunches. His cell phone rang, and James said “Yell-O” before he absent-mindedly stuffed his mouth with a spoonful of peanut butter.

 

“Mr. Hancock?”

 

“Errmhrmmm.” said James, gnashing at the wad of peanut butter.

 

“This is Maurice D’Anton, head of Space Operations at the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Congratulations Citizen, you were chosen as the winner of the essay contest.”

 

“Hrrrrm?!?” said James, trying to force himself to swallow.

 

“A team member will be in touch shortly to arrange for your meeting with Madame President.”

 

James finally got the lump of peanut butter down, with just enough time to mutter “what” before Maurice ended the call. He’d barely finished stammering the news to Hope and Les when his phone rang again.

 

“This must be NASA!” James said, only to find himself on the phone with the Guest Coordinator for MSNBC’s The Christoph Valenti Show.

 

“Oh my God, Oh my God, oh shoot!” James was pacing after he hung up. “They want to interview me on The Christoph Valenti Show in three hours!”

 

“That’s so cool!” Said Les.

 

His phone rang again, and James saw that it was Roslyn from the Times Picayune. He sent it straight to voicemail, then said to Hope, “babe, can you help me pick out a turtleneck?”

 

“What, are you Steve Jobs?”

 

“Wait, you- you think I should shave my head?”

 

“No!” said Hope.

 

Three hours later, James was skyped into MSNBC, staring Christoph Valenti in the face, and tugging at the most turtleneck-adjacent sweater that he owned. The interview started out a little rough, but James started to find his stride when Cristoph asked him about the internet rumors, and whether NASA had given him any more information about the purpose of the contest.

 

“Cristoph, I sure wish I’d been able to ask them those questions but, funny story, when they called I was literally eating peanut butter out of a jar, so I was just like ‘hrrmm? Mhhmmm’” Cristoph laughed at his pantomime, and James continued, “Look, I’ve read a lot of the whack-a-doo stuff being posted to r/Porterion, and most of it is pretty funny or just nonsensical. Do I think NASA is really looking for a cultural emissary to an alien species? No, but honestly, I can’t imagine a higher calling than serving the human race in our efforts to learn from a more advanced species, or trade for technologies and materials beyond our wildest dreams. So, if it is real, I’m all in, and I think I’d be perfect for the job.”

 

Cristoph said “Well, you’re certainly a better pick than I’d make! You’re so brave. I’d be a Nervous Nelly if I were you. But really, this whole experience must have felt like quite a rollercoaster!”

 

“Rollercoaster?” James smirked, but then forced his face into a deeply thoughtful posture. “It’s nothing like a rollercoaster. Imagine, Christoph, that you’ve spent decades quietly honing your craft. Studying, practicing, missing out on opportunities for leisure, society, or industry, all while never knowing that you’d ever deem your work to be good enough to share with the world. Then, one day, you seize on the tiniest little outlet to put yourself out there and BAM! Next thing you know, you’re being interviewed by Christoph Valenti about your upcoming meeting with the Leader of the Free World. A roller coaster? Oh no, Christoph, it’s like being blasted into space, leading an interstellar diplomacy mission on behalf of the whole human race.”

 

“Whoa! I’m really seeing why NASA chose you. That was intense- I got chills!” said Christoph, raising his forearm to show his goosebumps to James and to his viewers. “Is there anything you’d like to say to the other aspiring writers out there?”

 

“Believe. Believe in you. You’re more capable than you could ever imagine,” said James, wiping a real tear from the corner of his eyes.

 

“Ooof! Ok, I’d love to keep chatting with you, but I think I need to go somewhere private to weep,” said Christoph, blotting at his eyes with a tissue.

 

James’ monologue from the interview quickly went viral through gifs and memes, and the full clip was syndicated and replayed on virtually every news station in America. Meanwhile, James and his family were flown out to D.C. for their upcoming meeting with the President. On the flight, Hope laid her head on James’ right shoulder, as Les slept peacefully on his left. “You don’t think it’s real, do you?” Hope asked, looking up at him with worry in her eyes.

 

“No, that’d be bonkers. Even if they did make contact with an alien species, they wouldn’t just send some white collar desk jockey to greet them. They’d send someone who trained their whole lives for this. And besides, they’d need me to at least agree to it before they launched me into outer space!” James laughed, and so did Hope. Her sweet laughter warmed his heart, just like it had every time he’d heard it for the last eleven years. “And look, if it turns out to be real and they ask me to go, I’ll call the whole thing off and tell them they’ve got the wrong guy.”

 

“Thanks, boo.” Hope nestled closer to James and said, “Will you share some of your other work with me one day?”

 

“Nothing would make me happier, my love. I do feel like I’ll want to comb through some of my older stuff and revise it first. And, obviously, I haven’t been able to think about much else since-” James trailed off as he gestured widely at the plane.

 

“I get it hun, just please don’t make me wait another eleven years. ‘Believe in you. You’re more capable than you could ever imagine.’” She quoted dreamily as she looked up at him. Then, she kissed him and dozed off.

 

When they landed in D.C., they were given the white glove treatment. A penthouse suite, a driver, meals at the finest restaurants. They were even given private tours of some of the iconic buildings and landmarks of the D.C. area.

 

“When do we get to meet the president?” Les asked their chaperone after the tour of the Supreme Court.

 

“At this evening’s launch party, of course!”

 

“Oh, hah! Launch Party. Like from the contest prompt,” said James.

 

“The very same,” said the chaperone, turning his attention back to Les. “Your dad’s a very talented, very brave man.”

 

“Well, I guess it does take some bravery to put your work out there,” James chimed back in. The chaperone looked intensely at James, and James felt unnerved by a glimmer of a deep sadness that he saw in his eyes. The chaperone then continued with their tour.

 

After they left the Supreme Court building, they went back to the hotel to rest up before the launch party. When they were just about to leave the house, Les began complaining of a stomach ache.

 

“James, you go on ahead. I’ll make sure Les is doing okay, and I’ll do everything I can to come join you. You can’t keep the President waiting!”

 

James wrapped his arms around Hope, embracing her tightly. “I hate the thought of doing this without you; but, I’m so grateful for how well you take care of us.” He kissed her, then said “I really hope you can make it, but-”

 

“But if I can’t, you’ll tell me all about it when you get back, now go!” Said Hope, scooting him out the door of their suite.

 

James left the hotel, and there was a limo waiting for him, which brought him to the launch party. James was surprised to find that the room was organized like a press event, with a long table alongside a podium that was covered in microphones. The press began snapping pictures right when James entered, and he was quickly ushered into a seat right beside the podium.

 

When President Susan Milton entered the room, there was another explosion of flashbulbs, and the president walked right up to James and ceremoniously hung a medal around his neck. She whispered into his ear, “now, son. I’ve always found that it's best to just rip the bandaid off rather than to fretfully pull it from one end to another, so, let’s keep the comments as brief as possible and get this show on the road.” James nodded in agreement, although he was already trying to think up his next viral soundbite.

 

President Milton stepped to the podium and said, “Well, I’ll be! How do you introduce a man who everybody already knows?” She began, fetching an easy laugh. “James and I only met a moment ago, but I feel a certain kinship with him, like we were raised by the same strong-willed, brilliant mother, and bull-headed bumpkin of a father.” More laughs. “It’s because we have so much in common. We’re not only dreamers, we’re doers. We move the goalposts on what is thought to be possible. I, a dark horse candidate from west of Tulsa, Oklahoma turned first female president of these United States. James, a bureaucrat with a hidden penchant for writing, sitting calm, cool, and collected in his little turtleneck sweater, when he’s not ten minutes away from being cryogenically frozen and blasted into outer space.”

 

James’s mouth fell open and he was reduced again to the sweating egg version of himself. He couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not, but at some point he realized that everyone was staring at him and waiting. He tugged on the turtleneck collar that had suddenly become a vice around his neck, and leaned forward to the microphone positioned in front of him at the table and heard himself mumbling “I’ve… I’ve waited my whole life for this.” His voice cracked and he accidentally inflected up at the end of his sentence like he was asking a question.

 

“Then let’s not wait any longer!” President Milton said, and two hulking military personnel hoisted James to his feet. When James’s jelly legs betrayed him, they dragged him the twenty feet or so to the coffin-shaped deep freezer that was being wheeled out as a presentation of this historic event. The service members had to pick him up and physically place him into his tomb, then restrain him in place using leather straps.

 

“May I have a word with the President?” James stammered. He was sweating, and fairly sure he’d urinated.

 

“Let me check,” said one of the soldiers, who went off for a private sidebar with the President. They walked back together towards James.

 

“Alone?” James said, eyeing the service members.

 

“Gentlemen.” President Milton nodded, and the soldiers stepped a few paces back. “What can I do you for?”

 

“Well, Madame Pre-”

 

“Son, just call me Suzie.”

“Of course, Madame, uh, Suzie,” said James. “Thing is, I didn’t actually write that thing I submitted.”

 

President Milton simply stared into James’s eyes expectantly, while James shifted nervously in the urine scented freezer, chafing against the leather restraints.

 

“You know that pep talk that Samwise Gamgee gave to Frodo when Frodo wanted to give up and leave Mordor without destroying the Ring of Power? Well, I uh, just sorta copy-pasted that into one of those AI software thingies, along with the contest prompt. Then I, kinda, edited it a bit using a thesaurus and moved some sentences around. And, I guess, I did come up with the title myself! That part was original.”

 

President Milton continued to stare blankly at James while he squirmed. Finally, she drew in a deep breath and said “Well Citizen, I’m proud of you. I didn’t think you were going to come out with it. You need to realize that we’re literally the United States Government. We figured out what you’d done in a matter of seconds- in fact it made us even more excited about choosing you for the mission.”

 

“What?” Said James, stricken. “But- but, Why?”

 

“Well, we can’t be handing our best and brightest over to a recently contacted extra terrestrial species, son.” President Milton laughed, but when James didn’t join in, she continued. “Look, these aliens wanted a live human specimen for science, and we didn’t feel like we were in a position to say no to such a technologically advanced species. So we built out the contest to make a big to-do out of it for the historicity of the moment, and of course for the good press. Then we were looking for someone who didn’t really have too much to offer this world, y’know? Someone who was pretty mediocre in virtually every respect, and who either wanted to go, or who was at least dumb enough to accept the terms and conditions without even reading them.”

 

“Ugh!” James cried out.

 

“Yikes, kid. I actually had you pegged for wanting to go rather than failing to read, what with all of the enthusiastic radio and television interviews,” said President Milton.

 

“What are they going to do to me?”

 

“Heck, I don’t know!” Said President Milton. “We asked them if it was an evisceration or dissection situation, and they said no. But, none of their very many eyes were looking straight at us when they said that, and they already kinda make this ‘hee hee hee’ noise when they breathe, so it really is hard to get a read on them.”

 

James looked like a scolded puppy. “I’m not guessing we can call the whole thing off?”

 

“Ooof! No can do amigo, the fate of the galaxy hangs in the balance. And besides, this is an election year, and there are a lot of cameras pointed at me.”

 

“Can we at least postpone it for a few hours so I can say goodbye to my family?” James asked, his throat closing with grief and his heart pounding in his chest.”

 

“Listen, we’re on some seriously tight timeframes,” said President Milton, double tapping the freezer. A technician came over and began turning knobs. Various lights came on, and whirring sounds began. A glass casing closed, separating James from President Milton.

 

“Oh, and Citizen,” said President Milton, her voice slightly muffled by the barrier.

 

“Yes, Suzie?” The temperature in the chamber was plummeting, and James could see the fog from his shallow, rapid breaths. He was losing feeling to his fingers and toes.

 

“The title was excellent.”

 

“Thank you,” James said as he somberly fidgeted with the medal that President Milton had given him. Then the small cabin pressurized, and his tears froze to his cheeks.

 

 

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