My shop used to be a little oasis in the middle of the interstate. Summer road trippers would pile up on food, drinks, gasoline. I would offer to take a look under their hood, provide oil changes or replace threadbare tires; make sure they made it to their destinations safely. Now, there's not a drop of grease under my fingernails.

 

I get it, the world’s changed; people don’t want to risk getting stranded in the middle of nowhere. I don’t blame them for wanting to avoid the hurt of being abandoned.

 

Heat mirages fill the long days with hazy views, but hope and optimism appear with the night sky. I lock up the shop, grab a cold one from the cooler, and climb the stairs to my little folding chair on the roof. I watch as the sun crawls beyond the mountains, the sky cascading from yellow to orange to purple. As twilight sets in, I scan the sky and as soon as I spot the first star to emerge, I make a wish. My wish is always the same: to see a real-life UFO.

 

There’ve been reports over the years, of course. Dale even got the news to come interview him that summer he claimed to have been abducted. At first, I believed him. He described how the silver dome reflected the moon, and the lights underneath flashed green and white. He even talked about how a pink tractor beam slowly pulled him up. No one ever says the tractor beam is pink. Then, he described the ‘aliens’ as having large silver heads and blacked-out eyes, and I knew he was lying. Those are Hollywood aliens. Dale never worked the closing shift again.

 

So, now I sit here and I watch, night after night, wishing that I could have an actual encounter. That a flying object would appear in the blink of an eye and stop to make contact with the only life form in hundreds of miles. Then, they would realize their mistake.

 

But wishing is akin to waiting for a pot to boil, so I've developed a communication system. I take one of the handheld mirrors and a flashlight from the convenience store downstairs. Every hour on the hour, I flash the light and have it reflect off the mirror. Dot, dot, dot. Dash, dash, dash. Dot, dot, dot. It’s my way of screaming, “Stop, someone is out here!”

 

The sky turns a midnight shade of blue and fills with billions of stars. I wonder if people living in the cities realize what they’re missing, light pollution blocking out all of this beauty. After one more glance around and not an object in sight, I close my eyes. I imagine what it would be like to be abducted.

 

The pink tractor beam would be warm, not like the desert heat, but cozy like being wrapped tight in a blanket or hugged at the airport. Floating upward would feel safe, chugging slowly like the beginning of a roller coaster without any of the anxiety of the drop that’s approaching.

 

Once aboard the ship, I would stand tall and greet my captors by name. “Hello, Borg. Hello, Klamra.” I would know their names without being introduced. Our fingers would interlock in traditional greeting.

 

They would have so many questions about human life. Trying to consume as much knowledge as possible in the shortest amount of time. I would allow our brains to link, a cord connecting through our ears. No need for them to ask questions verbally, instead, what I knew they would now know.

 

They’d learn that humans have specialized jobs and are not all-knowing. How my job, for instance, is to fix cars, but I have no idea how to fix hearts. How humans find one partner to mate with, and when they procreate, their offspring lives with them for eighteen years or so. How when someone breaks the social order, they are caged like an animal and not shot into space to spend the rest of their days alone in oblivion. And how, when a human dies, they celebrate their life by encouraging them to pass on to an afterlife. They don’t become a fuel source filled with wisdom to enhance the next generation of the species.

 

They wouldn’t care about the experience of one individual, but I would make sure my journey flowed into their consciousness. They would hear about how life is full of wonder. First, you care about the stars and the moon, the intricacies of the universe. Then, you meet the girl. Your answers lie in the irises of her almond eyes, the curls of her auburn hair, the beating of her loving heart. Until one day she’s gone.

 

Loneliness is the key to the human experience. It’s what I would force them to understand. There’s an innate longing to feel connected, to feel wanted, to feel a part of something larger. Once you lose that, your heart can never truly heal again. I would show them where my heart had been broken twice.

 

My eyes open, bright and aware that none of this would actually happen. I would never be able to calmly articulate all of what it means to be a human. Instead, I would probably be a big bag of mush, crying and yelling out incoherently. How? Why?

 

I grab my empty beer can, fold up the chair, and then pick up the mirror. I take a long hard look at myself and see what the world sees. Buzz cut, coveralls, five fingers on each hand. Then, I take a deep breath and watch as the human form I chose to occupy all those years ago becomes more and more translucent. Underneath, I see that my cerulean skin still exists. My three-fingered hand traces the reflection of my square head, as water fills the corners of my lavender eyes.

 

Maybe tomorrow will be the day they come back for me. One can only wish.