Home Alone Kid Gets Canceled

“I mean, how would you know? They could be microscopic. The aliens could even be smaller than atoms. They could be here already. They could be inside you. In your guts. Crawling up your colon, coming out your…”

“Okay, I think that’s enough information.”

A phone from the office upstairs rang out, sounding almost like a fire alarm, interrupting the group discussion.

“This place has a rotary phone in the office.”

“A typewriter too.”

“What’s a rotary phone?”

“But do aliens believe in Jesus? That’s what I’m wondering.”

“Yo, you’re fricking right the aliens believe in Jesus. God created Jesus so He created aliens too.”

“Aliens are God’s creatures. I bet the aliens have churches, megachurches and shit… Aliens on some intergalactic Joel Osteen shit…”

“Please watch the language!”

In the windowless basement of the church, the support group sat in a circle. Most of the participants were somewhere between 30 and 50. The oldest seemed to be the haggardly motorcycle lady, at around 60 or so. The motorcycle lady sat looking extremely disinterested. Her legs were tightly crossed, and she cocked her head to the side, rolled her eyes, and brushed a long lock of stringy gray hair behind her ear. Then she went back to biting her nails.

The youngest of the group was maybe 20, a catatonic ginger with a chipmunk face. The ginger was dressed in all black and sat, expressionless, in an electric wheelchair, his hands balled into fists and his crystal blue eyes fixed on the cream-colored tile floor.

“My turn? Yup. Okay, like, I used to think I saw dead people, ghosts. Like that kid in the movie.”

“Isn’t that kid dead now?”

“I heard he got put in jail for smoking crack and stealing a car.”

“Happens to every child star. Except the Home Alone kid. He turned out alright. I think.”

“Nah, the Home Alone kid made racist comments about Asians and got cancelled. I read about it on Twitter.”

“Wait, isn’t he married to an Asian?”

“That gives him NO excuse!”

The ginger in the wheelchair coughed loudly, then swallowed his phlegm.

“Me? Yeah. Well, uh, just last night I talked to my sister, for the first time in years. She’d gotten hooked on meth. Then robbed a 7–11 at knifepoint. Then stole her ex-boyfriend’s sister’s car. Then did two years in a federal penitentiary, came out covered in tattoos.”

“Face tattoos?”

“Yup, a big red pentagram on her forehead. I saw it on Facebook.”

“Nah, that’s not going to help with the job search. Can you imagine being an HR person, calling someone in for an interview, and then the applicant walks in, has face tattoos, a flipping pentagram on their head? Geez Louise.”

“Then the face-tattoo-person turns back to crime. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Well, face tattoos are far more accepted these days. But maybe not a pentagram.”

“Actually, she got a job as a customer service rep for a moving company. Works from home, from her trailer.”

“That’s weird, man. Picture that, calling up to ask a question and you’re talking to someone with a tattoo of a pentagram on their head.”

“Better than someone from India. I can’t understand their accents.”

“That’s racist.”

“Racist that I can’t understand what they’re saying? Really?!”

“You and the Home Alone kid. You’re both racists!”

“Cool it, you two.”

“My sister got trained for phone work in prison. It was part of her vocational classes, taking customer service calls. She also learned telemarketing.”

“Oh my God, I am never screaming at another telemarketer.”

“Yo, for sure you better not yell at that telemarketer. That telemarketer breaks out of prison, hunts down your ass.”

“Please watch your language.”

Heading the group was a frumpy woman in her 30s. She had freckly, pallid skin and bushy blond hair that’d been tied into a thick ponytail. She wore a gray pantsuit and shiny black shoes that appeared too formal for the occasion, making her look more like a businesswoman than a counselor. Her voice was throaty yet strangely stentorian.

The bone-thin 50ish fellow, sitting near the elevator, belched loudly and everyone collectively groaned. But he paid it no mind. He just sat, bobbing back and forth, scratching his left arm compulsively, his small eyes darting about the room, frantically, like a frightened cat’s. Every couple minutes he curled his upper lip, made a clicking sound with his mouth, sort of like a cicada.

“In the future, robots will do those jobs. Robots will do everything. Robots will be attorneys and accountants.”

“It’s not your turn yet, please…”

“Look, already, you call up your bank or something, and it’s a robot answering, and they make those typing sounds when you talk to them, as if it’s a person. Honestly, I find the whole thing creepy.”

“I don’t know. I don’t mind it when there’s a touchscreen menu in a restaurant. I don’t have to bother with waiting to call over a person to order my food.”

“I saw a story on the news, ‘bout a restaurant using drones to deliver food to tables.”

“Hey, that’s better than a waiter. I hate calling out, excuse me! Excuse me! Like the person’s name is ‘Excuse Me.’”

“At most places they wear a nametag. Or they tell you their name.”

“Like I’m supposed to remember their name. I forget my own name sometimes.”

“I can’t spell my name.”

“Even if they have a nametag, I still call them ‘Excuse Me.’”

“I like calling people by their name. Even a stranger.”

“Excuse me!”

“What a horrible job, being a waiter.”

“In France, being a waiter is a well-paid, respected profession.”

“Come on, I mean, if you’re a waiter, you’re basically someone’s bitch.”

“Language.”

“Oh, so you’re a misogynist too!”

“I said cool it! Remember that I need to sign off on your paperwork, you guys.”

“Please don’t use gendered-language!”

“Yo, that’s why they spit in your food. Because you don’t call them by their name. Always saying ‘excuse me.’”

“No, it’s because you’re a racist! That’s why they spit in your food! Because you’re a racist! And a misogynist!”

“Hashtag FUCK YOU!”

“Cool it!”

“You ever had a waiter with a pentagram or other face tattoo?”

“I’d welcome that. They’re being honest. True to themselves.”

“I can imagine a robot with a face tattoo.”

“I for one am looking forward to the robots. As long as things don’t go all Terminator, I’m cool with it.”

“Universal Basic Income. I’m with it.”

“No one would rob a 7–11 if there were UBI.”

“Robots would rob 7–11s.”

“Robots would rob other robots.”

“Robots wouldn’t be racist. If there were robot police officers, like Robocop, they wouldn’t shoot…”

“Oh stop!”

“Robocalls.”

“Nah, since the robots are made by people, they’d be extensions of us, be as flawed as us. Racist and all that.”

“Stop accusing the robots of racism! Be nice to the robots! God made the robots!”

“But do the robots believe in Jesus?”

“Just don’t call the robots ‘Excuse Me.’”

A bell, which sounded like a wind chime, gently jingled from the freckly pantsuit lady’s purse, signaling an end to the meeting.

“See, right there, that’s a robot, a little square robot. They’ve already infiltrated us!!”

“It could be an alien too. An alien robot. A microscopic alien robot!”

“Excuse me!”

“Okay, okay, everybody. Thank you all for coming. I’ll see you next week. Please bring over your paperwork so I can sign you off.”