text: When I was 17 I cut my bottom lip on the edge of a beer can. My first concern was whether or not Brenda would still think I was a good kisser. Alan was already in the hay clutching his stomach in fits of laughter as Reggie took a deep pull from his Cuban cigar. The three of us were in the center of the Shetman pasture atop a large circular hay bale. “Staton, you idiot.” Reggie exhaled the smoke from his nose like a dragon who had just stifled a sneeze. “Nobody never taught you how to shotgun?” “You really just- just poured it on your face.” Alan was making a timely recovery from his hysterics. “Dammit, Joanie.” He pushed his thin wiry glasses up all 50 yards of his long nose. “Let the record show that Reggie Aldron still holds the Hardy Men shotgun record by half a second,” Reg boasted while glancing at his analog watch. “Um, ow!” I showed them my lip. “Quit bein’ a pussy. It’s just a scratch.” “‘’Tis but a scratch.” Alan echoed goofily. “Fellas, it’s time we saddled up the Black Cats,” said Reg as he hopped off the hay bale and scooped up a box of fireworks from the Red-Rider wagon we had parked adjacent to it. The familiar dusk of July cast a muted orange-blue tincture into the cathedral ceiling over the little farm in Masynville, Kentucky. Something about the evening felt cathartic. Maybe it was the buzzing cicadas or the cool night air setting in, or maybe it was that dreamy feeling of anticipation for the boundless summer that lay ahead. No school. No work. No worries. It was Independence Day in America if that meant anything to anyone. After all, nobody felt quite Independent anymore with ship-out day looming in the consciences of the Mars-eyed. We still celebrated in the ways we could, if not to reminisce over the Revolutionary War, then at least to set off some Roman Candles and down some booze. I related to the former, Reggie related to the latter, and we both knew that Alan had gone Mars-eyed years ago and had little concern for either. “Are you helpin’ orrr?” I was torn from my meandering thoughts to Reg, who was packing the soil with fireworks. “Nah, chief. You look like you got it under control. Plus I gotta tend to this sucker.” I pressed my handkerchief more firmly against my lip. Alan took a running start and pole-vaulted onto the hay bale using his bamboo walking stick. “Your form is bad,” I observed “Ah, Well. You may have made third in state, but never forget how badly you lost in the 400 meter to me.” “Oh, this shit again.” I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, this shit again.” We began to bicker loudly but were shut up real quick when we felt the unmistakable sensation of the Zippers in their tin can. You’d always feel it in your bones first. It was like someone had decided to play your skeleton like a flute, and all the air was rushing around trying to find a way out. Then the ground shook- so much so that the crows would spook and the dogs in the barn would get to barking. That sound, though. Oh, that terrible sound. It screamed the scream of a person whose throat needed water and vocal cords had all dried up and split. We clenched our ears. A pixel in the sky dilated into a sleek aircraft of silver pipes and wires. Alan and I up and ran behind Reggie as he stared with clenched fists. “They’re here early this season.” Reggie grimaced. “What do they want now?” “Probably here for inspection.” Alan’s voice betrayed a hint of pride. Now, Alan could never read the room. I often wondered if he knew we hated the Zippers and chose to ignore it, or if it truly went over his head. In any case, neither Reggie nor I were all that fond of the Martians. Our resentment, principally, was from when the Zippers decided that there was no longer room for anyone on their planet without an IQ that was yay high. Of course, Alan’s IQ *was* yay high, which is why we suspected that they’d take him in the next year. He’d ace the LIPAT with flying colors then board one of the tin cans to join the ranks of the “best and brightest of humanity,” while we the people, the common folk of earth, would stay here to till the soil and toil over the prejudice. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. We liked it here. Most of us didn’t take to the thought of change. We were all perfectly happy with our ‘76 Pontiac Sunbirds, our Coca-Cola curly straws, and our acid-wash jeans. We woke up every day to watch MTV and make scrambled eggs and hoped that it would be that way for the rest of our lives. As the spaceship zipped across the sky, Alan saluted, Reggie tossed up a middle finger, and I tended to my lip. It suddenly occurred to me that we wouldn’t be friends for long. Hell, I’m not certain that Reggie and Alan were even friends *then*. What I do remember was that the fireworks that evening were a little dimmer than they had been the last year. Maybe I only remember it that way because the sky would light up with the first interstellar war of mankind not soon after. What a damn shame.