An excerpt from the novel "The Second One's Also Worth Buying"

by Oleg Sentsov

Translated from the Ukrainian by Ali Kinsella

“Is this about the Jim Harrison?”
“No, a different one. But it’s also worth buying.”

(conversation overheard in a bookstore)

The morning the aliens attacked us, Jim Harrison was in the bathroom as usual—not because he had an overwhelming physiological need, though Jim himself explained his obscenely long sits on the john as the result of digestive problems. In reality he had taken the opportunity to have a little alone time, read his popular science magazines, and not listen to his wife Deborah’s lectures. She, however, very quickly figured out what he was up to, just as she always did—in general, men are extremely naïve and uninventive in their little deceptions—but she allowed her husband to sequester himself for an hour in the bathroom so he wouldn’t get in her way of making breakfast by being in the kitchen. This permission was conditional: During Jim’s regular visits to the bathroom, the door could never be fully closed. First of all, this was so the cat, a fat, lazy creature of indeterminate sex since getting fixed, could unobstructedly answer nature’s call alongside Jim. Second of all, so Jim could always hear whatever important things his wife said to him. And third of all, to calm her nerves: What if something suddenly happened to him and Deborah couldn’t get the door open to save his life? When her husband wasn’t home, Deborah periodically rummaged through Jim’s magazine collection kept behind the toilet tank in order to lay bare his obsession with the glossy, naked ladies on the covers. But she never found it. Slightly disappointed, she would put the innocent, family-friendly magazines back where she got them carelessly so her husband—not yet caught red-handed—would know that he had no hiding places that were off limits to her. Unfortunately, or rather, fortunately, Jim was both unobservant and nearsighted, so he never noticed any traces of these domestic searches even if he sometimes couldn’t find the magazine he had been reading just the day before. He assumed it was his own absentmindedness. Competing in absentia with the glamorous beauties, Deborah wanted Jim to look only at her. This required a bit more time than looking at an ordinary woman, since you can’t take in a centaur in a housecoat in a single glance. Of course, over their ten years of marriage Jim had managed to duly study his wife, yet she hadn’t stopped there. She grew wider and somehow also lower in order to be ever larger and more interesting to her husband. No one cared what Jim thought of this.

That morning everything started as usual. Deborah was making a modest breakfast of four dishes including dessert. She was an excellent housewife, which in large part explained the affection that Jim, who always wanted to eat well, felt for her. Jim had taken his place. This time he was flipping through a publication on travel and staring at the illustrations in an article about the life of Papuans, and mostly the lady Papuans, for an inappropriately long time. The cat passed up the opportunity to relieve itself in the bathroom at the same time as this nobody and simply went, as always, on the rug in the living room. It then gently rubbed up against the soft calves of its mistress, while helping itself to its second serving of sausage that day. On top of the refrigerator the TV was playing a dumb morning show about cooking. From time to time Deborah smiled at the host’s unsophisticated advice and offered him her own, loudly commenting on the celebrity chef’s greatest fails, calling Jim as her witness. He only made some noises that sounded as though they had come from his very bowels, mostly mmhmming and uh-huhing, in addition to those two phrases of his that bounced back and forth like a ping-pong ball: “Huh, honey?” and “Uh-huh, honey!” Sometimes he forced a prodigious “You, as usual, are right, my darling!” When it was being determined once and for all that the host was not only incapable of preparing a mirepoix, but also knew nothing of the universe of eggplant, the program cut off mid-word. Instead of the studio kitchen, the screen now showed a newscaster, as scared as if he had just been ripped from the bed of his lover and told he was five minutes from execution, who announced in his velvety voice, “Unidentified flying objects have appeared above America.” Then, swallowing the remains of his courage, he continued, “The president is expected to speak to the American people in half an hour.” At the very end of his brief speech, he barely exhaled, “It appears they’ve already landed.” For a few more seconds, the TV showed the face of the newscaster, apparently not in the least happy about this, and then he disappeared to be replaced by the cooking show as if nothing had happened. But the host didn’t get to torture the poor vegetables anymore because the TV went off—as it would later turn out, forever. The fridge stopped humming, and so did the cat. Deborah looked at the clock on the wall. The second hand took its last tick under the vigilant eye of its master and the clock died at 7:20.

“Now what was that?” In the sudden quiet, this seemingly normal question addressed to no one in particular did not portend anything good for this “no one.” Having sensed something and immediately recalled its pile on the rug, the cat instantly dashed from the kitchen for its favorite hiding spot behind the wardrobe in the foyer. Jim shrank in anticipation of the roar of thunder and even tried to close the door a few centimeters, but it treacherously squeaked on its hinges. There were exactly ten minutes until Desperate Housewives started. Everyone knew that. Even the cat knew that. More importantly the neighbors knew that, since it was viewed at an invariably high volume. And, of course, Jim, who hated this show with all the warts on his toady soul, knew that. At first Deborah gave the TV people five minutes to resume the broadcast. Then, quickly realizing that it was the power that had gone out, she gave the electricians three minutes to troubleshoot since the TV people had incompetently squandered two of the minutes allotted them. But Deborah couldn’t wait for the time to run out—she certainly did not trust the acumen of the energy company’s workers—so the tigress got on the phone. But it was as silent as King Tut. She gave the telephone operators an additional three minutes to repair the line, realizing that her time wasn’t unlimited and she was already in zeitnot. The rheumatic shuffling of the wind-up grandfather clock that she had bought on sale two years ago actually warned of this. This clock had the indefensible habit of being a few minutes fast and it now threatened to toll the decisive moment. All this time Jim, having forgotten about the Papuan ladies, was convulsively praying to his gods to return power to the house because he would ultimately be the one to answer for all the TV people, electricians, and telephone operators who weren’t managing their responsibilities. But the gods didn’t want to know anything about Ohm’s law, nor about Jim’s shrew, and remained as usual, unavailable and uninterested. Jim closed his eyes and watched his life whirl past in the few remaining seconds to the apocalypse. It was so boring that he was able to watch some of the more interesting moments twice to fill in the gaps. His last thought was, “I wish those damn aliens would hurry up and get here before she starts…”

It was quite possible the little green men had already landed but were just too far away to save Jim. And start she did. The bedroom door suddenly opened and none other than Moloch appeared in her flowered housecoat and started hurling lightning bolts at her slave. Although they were fairly standard in their composition, Jim couldn’t get used to them, taking a few of them to heart, especially if the verbal discharges were given new syntax.

“What the hell kind of man are you? You can’t even take a normal shit and that says it all! The world could fall apart and he’d be sitting on his throne reading magazines!” Deborah often spoke about Jim in the third person during their one-sided arguments, perhaps in order to somehow, albeit figuratively, expand the circle of participants in the scandal who could publicly testify to her husband’s villainy. At her culmination, Deborah noticed a half-naked woman on Jim’s lap! Even if she was a savage in a necklace, even if she lived on the other side of the globe and was present here only as a photo, this was still practically adultery! And since, according to the script, this was where the main tragic heroine in their family drama was supposed to go from words to action and then to tears, Deborah bellowed like a cow moose, grabbed the hateful magazine, whipped the offender with it, and having thrown the crumpled mess at Jim’s face, slammed the bathroom door with all her might. Although said door had managed to survive a lot in its short life and was accustomed, it would seem, to everything, it did not expect such a blow and first cast away its knob and then broke out in a new crackle all over its painted surface. Jim was locked inside. He spun the broken doorknob in his hands, attempting in vain to restore it to its place. Meanwhile, the dying sounds of a large mammal were coming from the living room. Jim waited a bit and then pulled up his pants and started scratching at the door like a cat that got into trouble during its nighttime revelry and was just now returning home. This time he was freed rather fast. The fragment of doorknob twitched and the door squeaked opened. Deborah the Liberator stood at the threshold with red eyes. Although the words cost her immense effort, she managed to say, “Go find out what’s going on at the neighbors’. Try calling from their house. And then come right back! Breakfast is of course hopelessly ruined, but you still have to go to work.”

Not believing he was saved and that everything ended so happily, Jim’s jello legs obediently followed the route his wife indicated. She walked him to the front door and helped him put on his blazer. Even if he was just going outside for a few minutes, Deborah’s husband needed to look presentable. When he was already at the door Jim dared to carefully put forth his own version, “Honey, maybe this is because of the aliens?”

“Someone is always to blame, just never you!” came Deborah’s answer, after which she shoved Jim out the open door. He took two steps onto the walkway and froze. He raised his head high—above him flew an enormous It. Deborah had just opened her mouth to yell at Jim to move when her jaw went slack, for she also saw It. The enormous blob floating above the houses was obviously not of earthly origins. It briefly blocked the morning sun and then floated on, while hundreds of Jims and Deborahs stood on their lawns unable to utter a single word. They had all seen the coming of aliens infinite times in movies but upon encountering it in real life they turned out to be totally unprepared.

***

As soon as the flying object had moved off somewhere in the direction of the horizon, the people on the street began recovering from their initial shock. They bunched together discussing what they had seen and tried to predict what would happen next. Deborah, who managed to change from her housecoat into a house dress, stood in a group of female neighbors discussing what the aliens might look like, imagining when the holiday in honor of first contact with our extraterrestrial brethren might begin. The women expressed a certain unease at the prospect of having to go without lunch since their houses still didn’t have power, but no one doubted it would return by evening and everyone would have dinner with their families. This was America and there were inviolable things no aliens could change. Jim, having stood around on the street without finding his only friend, Phil Collins, among the enthusiastic witnesses to the arrival of the cosmic guests, decided to go to his house. Fortunately he lived nearby, just at the end of the street.

Phil’s athletic figure, his beautiful wife Marion, and their six-year-old triplets were the model family. It was like they had come into this world from a toothpaste commercial. The triplets were called Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Phil found it unbelievably funny to have named his children after the great-nephews in the cartoon about Scrooge McDuck. Of course, he couldn’t admit this in Marion’s presence. From childhood she had dreamed of naming her sons none other than Romeo, Rolland, and Rocinante. But while she was recovering from her difficult labor, Phil had enough time to write their quacky names on the birth certificates and then it was too late to do anything, the terrible scandal notwithstanding. In the intervening time, the story of their naming had been somewhat forgotten and everyone had gotten used to it. Jim had a hard time telling the triplets apart—not too different from their own father. It didn’t bother Phil too much whom he called what as long as the number of children his wife sometimes entrusted him with matched the number he gave back to their mother. To be fair, this happened very rarely and mostly when Marion had the night shift at the hospital and Phil was left alone with the kids. Even sleeping they posed a certain danger and could make him worry. That morning his worrying was especially noticeable since Marion hadn’t returned from work on time to wake up her husband and children, feed them all breakfast, take the triplets to school, and finally give Phil a break. Phil had been out of work for two years now because there weren’t any open positions worthy of his talents. He couldn’t fully realize himself in his previous position as a security guard at a grocery store, so he was now engaged in a search that had long ago turned into lying on the couch. It was a good thing that Marion’s nurse’s salary allowed her to feed all four children.

When Jim got to his friend’s house, he was in the kitchen in a bad mood because he had to feed all three little devils. Phil was incapable of doing this by himself, especially if the absence of his culinary prowess and the presence of a broken microwave were taken into account. Jim came to help him, and through their combined efforts they were able to open two jars of jam and peanut butter as well as slice the bread. While the kids smeared the contents of the jars on the table and on each other and Phil tried to pour soda into three tall glasses that the tiny, sticky, impatient hands immediately grabbed, Jim told his friend the main news of that day, and perhaps all following days. 

“Phil, buddy!” he shouted. “Something unbelievable happened today. Aliens came to Earth!”

“I hope they didn’t kidnap our mom!” Phil said. “Because I won’t last ‘til evening with these three!”

“Aliens kidnapped our mom?” One of the kids first said this out loud, then got surprised by what he’d said, and then furrowed his brow and wailed. His two brothers joined him and soon the children’s lament filled the whole kitchen. In response Phil growled like a lion and said that he’d give whoever didn’t pipe down to the aliens to do with what they liked and that Mom would be home soon.

It didn’t immediately squelch the tears. What most came in handy was a box of candies taken down from the top shelf. When the roar had turned into muffled gulps and then into cheerful sucking, Phil took Jim to the side and said, “Dude, that wasn’t your best joke. What’s gotten into you so early in the morning? Does Deborah know that you’ve skipped work again and you’re hanging out in other people’s houses scaring small children?” 

“Phil, honest to god,” Jim tried to persuade his friend. “First there was an announcement on TV, then the power went out, and then an enormous blob flew across the sky!”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” said Phil, ever the skeptic. Even if Jim had been holding an alien’s hand, Phil would only believe him after a thorough interrogation. But Phil decided to stop this nonsensical argument; he was troubled by more earthly and important matters. “Okay, Jim. It doesn’t matter. Help me get the kids in the car. I have to take them myself ‘cause Marion’s gone and disappeared.”

The two of them barely managed to tear the kids away from the jam, help them get dressed, and put them in the car where they continued licking their sticky fingers. Jim opened the garage door, Phil waved goodbye, turned the key in the ignition, and nothing happened. Phil turned it again and again. Harder, he cursed, he hit the steering wheel, but the car wasn’t encouraged to start even after all this coercion.

“Damn battery’s junk!” he said getting out of the car and opening the hood. Phil peered inside but didn’t see anything new or interesting there. Jim also looked at the car’s bare guts. Phil tugged at something. Jim held back. The hood slammed shut and the owner of the garage proclaimed, “Never agree to buy a second car because you’ll definitely have to drive the old one while your wife gets the new one!”

Jim nodded even though that situation posed no threat to him. His family had only one car and he wasn’t allowed to drive it, just wash it on Saturdays. Deborah couldn’t drive and considered passenger vehicles a dangerous form of transportation, unlike buses or trains.

“Alright,” Phil said, taking a different tactic. “We’ll push it.”

He put one of the boys behind the wheel and sternly told him to only go straight and touch nothing else. The kid was happy, the other two also put their hands all over the wheel and shouted, “What about me?!” But Phil calmed them down by thundering that they’d all get their turn and then he and Jim started carefully pushing the car from the garage. The house was on a small hill. The car seemed reluctant to roll out into the fresh air, but when it hit the driveway below it quickly gained speed and jumped into the street with no outside help and crashed into a post on the other side of the road. The friends were left standing on the other side. One scratched at his nape; the other rubbed his forehead trying to figure out where they’d gone wrong. Without rushing—there was no longer any reason to rush—they approached the still car from behind. Jim started to look inside, afraid of finding the children’s bloody bodies, while Phil warily took in the damage to the front of his car as if it were some newly dealt cards in poker. Fortunately the impact was minor and the tiny passengers were intact—unlike the bumper, which suffered in the unexpected encounter with the post but was apparently very happy to see it, for it was trying to completely embrace its new friend. The kid who’d been nominated driver was in his seat holding onto the steering wheel tightly, eyes wide open, too scared to even blink. His two brothers sat calmly on the back bench, all their previous desire to play chauffeur today vanished. Through the closed door Jim asked, “Are you all okay?” For some reason he hesitated to open it, perhaps not wanting to disturb the fragile silence inside the car. One of the boys said, clearly talking to someone more competent, maybe his guardian angel, “When is Mom coming?”

Jim didn’t know what to tell him so he stood up and turned to Phil.

“The boys seem to be fine.”

“Uh-huh. Unlike the car.”

“I guess it’s not totaled…” Jim offered some reassurance that Phil could only nod at while Phil lit a cigarette. Jim turned down the one he offered him. He rarely smoked and only when Deborah couldn’t see him, and right now he was not exactly at a safe distance from her.

“Jim, we have to push the car back into the garage!” The cigarette had woken Phil from his stupor and returned his enthusiasm. “It’s blocking the whole road, and anyway, people could see…” he added more quietly.

Jim agreed, but he suggested not risking the children’s lives any further. Phil raised his index finger in agreement—maybe he remembered that he was a happy father three times over—opened the door and gave the war cry of an Indian chief: “Cartoo-oons!”

His tribe instantly jumped out of the car and ran ahead laughing to storm the house. Phil barely managed to shout after them, “And if Mom doesn’t come home, you don’t have to go to school!”