Angle: State of Mind

Our family was eating a dinner of pork chops, cornbread, mashed potatoes, and okra when we heard a large car driving slowly up our long gravel driveway. I went outside to investigate, assuming that it was some kind of package delivery.

When I opened the door, I saw two people getting out of a black SUV. One of them was a large, athletic-looking man wearing a dark suit, and the other was a tall, thin black lady, also wearing a dark business suit.

Now, SUV's are quite common in Keever County but people in suits are not. I knew that these were not ordinary folks. The lady addressed me very politely. "Are you Joseph Sigmon?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"May we come inside to talk to you about a matter of national security?"

Now that was strange. What could I possibly have to do with national security? I never did anything criminal, and I don't know anybody who does. But they were not acting hostile, and I was too curious to simply turn them away.

So I said, "I dunno, ma'am, I'll have to ask my parents." With that, I backed slowly into the house, keeping my eyes on them. They made no move to try to stop me.

I closed the door and locked it. Then I told my parents who was outside. My dad got up immediately and asked, "Yew think they really from the govmint?

I shrugged. "Dunno. Prob'ly."

"Yew think we'll need our lawyer?"

I thought about this, then said "Nope."

My dad nodded his head, then asked, "Yew think we'll need our guns?"

I thought about this a while longer. "Nah."

"Well okay then, Ah trust ya. Yew can let 'em in. If they try anythin' funny, jist holler."

Most fathers would show at least some curiosity about strangers from the government inquiring about their son. But when I turned 18, my parents had decided that my affairs were my own and that I was entitled to my privacy. The fact that I still lived under their roof was of no consequence. This arrangement had worked perfectly well for the last seven years, and nobody seemed ready to question it, as long as I paid my rent on time.

I went back to the front of the house and opened the door. The people had not moved. I said, "Come on in." and held the door for them.

As the black lady came up the steps, she said "Sandra Bolch, NSA" and showed me an identification badge that said the same thing. Of course, I have no idea what a real NSA badge is supposed to look like, or even if real NSA agents carry them. But I simply nodded politely and continued to watch them carefully.

I knew that Sandra was watching me just as carefully. She was definitely looking beyond the jeans, boots, and flannel I was wearing. She could tell that, despite my appearances, I was not an ordinary country boy. I wondered what she knew, or suspected, and resolved to be very careful about what I revealed about myself.

Our front door opens into the living room. I sat down in the easy chair and invited them both to sit on the couch. They did, without hesitation. They did not mind our old and dusty furniture, even though it was getting their fancy clothing dirty. In fact, it almost seemed that they were more comfortable with their current surroundings than their suits.

Sandra did not explain her presence on our property. Instead, she began the conversation with a probing question. "Mister Sigmon, do you consider yourself special?"

That was a loaded question, but one that I have become accustomed to answering. "Well, everyone 'round here knows I was born with a lot of smarts. But that's nothing to be proud of; it's just like being born fast or tough. I don't let it get to my head."

Sandra continued probing. "Aside from intelligence, do you think there is something different about you, about the way you think?"

Now that was getting too close for comfort. I decided to react in character, and rose my voice. "Now see here; you said you were going to talk national security, not ask personal questions."

Sandra simply looked at me for a few seconds. Then she said, "Your attitude and character are very important to national security. Before we trust you with certain information, we must know what kind of person you are."

I stared back while I processed this. Then, I replied, "I don't remember applying for a government job. I've been running the computers at the sawmill for the last three years, and I'm happy where I am."

Sandra nodded. "Yes, but you have come to our attention as being one of the few people qualified for a certain job."

"And just how did that happen?"

Sandra was about to say something, but the big man interrupted. He raised his hand and swung it in the air. The door between the living room and the rest of the house swing shut in time to his hand motion.

Then he said, "Time to cut the crap. We're psychics. We can read your mind. And we know that you are a psychopath."

I did not react to the apparent demonstration of magic, or the claim of supernatural powers. I also did not said nothing in response to the man's claim. I simply leaned back in my chair and stared at them suspiciously.

Sandra continued, "You have no human feelings, Mister Sigmon, no innate sense of empathy or morality or love. Everything you do is the result of cold calculation."

So. Somebody finally figured it out. I decided to ignore the 'magic' for now and focus on the allegation. "I am a good citizen, I pay my taxes, and I have never committed a crime. You have no right to accuse me without proof."

Sandra leaned forward. "If you are a good citizen, it is only because you have decided that this is the course of action that makes your life easier."

I shook my head. "You could say that about anybody. And unless you start talking about national security, then this conversation is over."

The two of them looked at each other, and then Sandra said, "Very well. We have recently discovered a species of non-human intelligent life-forms. When we attempted to make contact, they replied with a list of people that they would be willing to talk with. You were one of the names on that list."

"We have already investigated many of the people on the list that they gave us. Most of the ones we found were in prisons or mental institutions. Several more are hardened criminals, or otherwise living on the fringe of society. All of them are known, or suspected, to be psychopaths."

"And then we have you. You are the only person we have found who lives a normal life. You are the only person we could consider trusting to represent, and negotiate for, the human race."

I considered this silently for some time. Then, mostly in order to stall for more time to think, I said, "Of course you understand that I need to see some proof of all this."

The beefy man held out his arm and clenched his fist. I felt invisible hands grab the front of my shirt and lift me out of my seat. Soon, I was floating in midair. I did not struggle, or even move, but continued to watch the man with a calm and patient expression on my face. Finally, I was shoved back into my seat.

I chided him patiently. "That only proves that you have either psychic powers or advanced technology. I have still seen no proof of these aliens."

That made the man mad. He started to get up, but Sandra grabbed his arm to stop him. "He is toying with you. Do not allow him to provoke you into some rash action, and do not give him a reason to try to use his handgun."

She looked at me now. "You have done a surprisingly good job of shielding your mind from psychic probing. But I have other ways of seeing the holdout pistol that you have cleverly concealed behind that belt buckle. I can also see your parents in the other room. Your mother has a shotgun, and your father has a pistol. They are listening for sounds of trouble."

Her calm gaze drilled into me. "Your parents love you very much, Joseph Sigmon. It is truly a pity that you are not and will never be capable of returning that love."

I shrugged. "I am a good son. I take care of them and make them proud. I make their life easier, and they make my life easier. That is more than can be said for any of my brothers or sisters. What good are love and empathy if they don't stop you from becoming a drunken bum?"

Sandra shook her head. "I finally understand why the aliens made the request they did. It is clear now that you and I will never be able to properly communicate, just as the aliens would never be able to talk to us. But you would be able to talk to them, on the behalf of the rest of the human race."

She leaned toward me. "We need you, Joseph Sigmon. These aliens could be a very serious threat to all of us. And trust me, they are real. I know that I will never be able to use honor or loyalty or patriotism to convince you to help, but know this: If things go badly, then you, personally, will suffer. This comfortable life you have built for yourself will crumble away."

"All you have to do to prevent it is to come with us for about a week and talk. You will not be put at risk. We can pay you handsomely, and manufacture any excuse that you may require to explain your absence."

"You do not have to make a decision now. We can give you several days to think about it, and if necessary to prepare." She stood up and held out a business card. "This is my contact information. Think about it."

I got up and took the card. "I will think about it."