(Special to the Lion blog by classy dame reporter, Sara Jay)
Some folks wait their entire lives for a story such as this one. Technically, so did I, but hopefully I have some living to do, yet.
It was just an ordinary day in the 'Ville. The Shepherdess had fed my guppies while I'd been covering a story last week in Madagascar, so in return I'd offered to watch the shop in the morning while she visited with an old friend. I was up on the rooftop enjoying the bookstore's garden, singing to myself and topping off the seed bin in the passenger pigeon coop, when I noticed a stranger in the midst of the usual birds. Attached to his leg by a red string was a tiny scroll of paper. I freed it and unrolled the message.
Confucius Say: May you lead an interesting life. On the back were some lucky numbers.
Huh. I pocketed the fortune and went about my day, though something niggled at the back of my mind and wouldn't let go. It wasn't until that evening when I realized what had bothered me about the incident: When I'd held the bird to remove the message, the usual thrumming heartbeat had been absent beneath my careful grasp. Could it be…? I raced back up to the shop--the Shepherdess had already locked up for the night, but there, fallen onto the ground, was the confirmation of my suspicions.
I picked up the bird from where it lay on its side, feet still scratching the air and head bobbing rhythmically. "Coo, Coo, Coo" it purred tinnily, and as I turned it over to examine it in the gaslight, I felt rather than heard a faint snick and a whirring. From within the bird spoke a monotone voice:
"Tomorrow. Mr. H__. Jake and Dorothy's. 4 O'Clock. Sharp. Tell no one. Come alone. Bring your notebook. Drop the pigeon."
Intrigued, I ignored the last of the bird's instructions and, after a moment's inspection, twisted off its plastic beak to reveal what was either an off switch or the self-destruct mechanism. Never being one to shillyshally with the what-ifs, I flicked it and flinched. I braced for the explosion, but the avian robot just gave one last dopplered-down coo as its glowing red eyes faded to black. I stashed it behind one of the flowerpots, then walked back home, thoughtful. I wouldn't sleep until hours later, but rather chewed on the day's unlikely turn of events. The Shepherdess was right; there was never a dull moment at the shop.
The next day, I fretted. My restless night had left me bleary and paranoid. I hoped to have the upper hand in my interview, so I came early and sat in a wall booth at Jake's to watch the incoming customers. I'd just drained my third cup of joe when, as I tilted the cup back, I saw I'd been joined at the booth by a figure holding a dinner menu in one hand and a glass bottle in the other.
"The instructions said 4, sharp. You're 20 minutes early. And you should go easy on that coffee, Miss Jay. It's your fourth cup."
"Third, actually," I corrected, then quickly did the math and realized he was right. I cleared my throat. My hopes for the upper hand were diminishing.
"Mr. H__, I presume?"
He didn't reply, but rather continued as if I'd not spoken.
"In 1891, something appeared in the sky over Dublin, Texas: something from another world, something which may have changed the town forever."
I listened expectantly as The Mysterious Mr. H__ took a long sip from his soda. He was a tall drink of water, or what I could see of him. The menu effectively blocked all but his hat from my view. I thought my clever camera tricks would catch his mug in at least one of my photos, but all my surreptitious pictures strangely came out blurred or blank, save this one:
So I waited. Patience, you see, is a journalist's greatest asset, save for her plucky personality and shorthand skills. Mr. H__ was quiet for a moment longer, perhaps reading the menu, perhaps reading me. His silence was as inscrutable as the Sphinx, but he blinked first (At least, I assume he did.). He cleared his throat and began again.
"That account, that sighting--most folks think that news story was the end. They don't know. They never do."
When nothing followed that enigmatic statement, I decided to cut to the chase, get to the grist.
"Gleepers, Mr. H__, I'm not sure I follow. I've covered some pretty fantastic stories in my time, but this one takes the cake! Surely having a levitating cotton bale explode into a rain of metal and manuscript is enough! Really, Sir; what more could there be?"
His gloved hand gripped the menu tighter until the laminate took on a wavy pattern in the glow of the overhead lights, sort of a film moire which reminded me that I knew nothing about this gentleman, where he came from, who he was, and I'd not left note of my agenda with anyone save a hurried note scribbled on the icebox.
I'd struck a nerve with him; that was obvious, but even so, I felt that I was not in danger, but rather on the brink of an amazing revelation. I took a bracing sip of my coffee, then met his stare (or what I extrapolated to be his stare.).
"Miss Jay, have you ever felt the weight of truth? The lonely chill from glimpsing what lies beneath our day-to-day placations and hypnoses? I have. I carried the burden for years, shivered in its growing rime, been its guardian and its prisoner, and now the time has come for us both to be free. I hold the key, Miss Jay. I need only your pen to turn it."
He lifted his soda again. I nodded my thanks to the waitress as she gave me a warm up, and as soon as she left, he spoke again.
"The manuscript. Didn't you ever wonder what became of the fragments?"
"I just always assumed they rotted away. Now the metal--"
"Forget the metal!!!" His vehemence startled me.
"Don't you see? The metal was just a red herring planted to throw folks off the trail of the real prize."
At this my skepticism (yet another quality of any journalist worth her weight in graphite) kicked in.
"With all due respect, Mr. H__, who on earth would do such a thing?"
"Who…on Earth…indeed, Miss Jay."
It was at that moment I first felt the clammy fingers of truth graze my neck. I downed my coffee, turned up my trench coat collar, and leaned closer to the man behind the menu.
"Holy smokes," I quietly exclaimed.
"Holy smokes," he agreed. After a moment's pause, given I felt more for me than for his own collection, he continued.
"The writings were of strange hieroglyphs, unseen before by any of the townsmen. Undecipherable as they were, the fragments quickly disappeared, never to be viewed by the public again."
"All this has been public knowledge for the last century, Sir. What am I missing?"
"That same year, actually, that same month, Miss J., a secret formula began to appear throughout the area, an elixir so satisfying, so invigorating, that to this day folks will drive hundreds of miles just to pick up a few bottles."
"You don't mean…." I reached into my coat pocket and nervously fingered the tiny scroll from last night. "An interesting life," indeed. The numbers on the back--10...2...4--suddenly made sense.
The Mysterious Mr. H__ took a drink from his soda in confirmation.
"The one and the same. The formula for Dublin Dr Pepper has been known as the most closely guarded trade secret in the nation, perhaps…on…Earth. The recipe is locked away within a vault guarded round the clock by armed guards and known by only 2 people at any given time. In that vault? A single fragment of a manuscript. The sighting? June, 1891. The soda? June, 1891. The crash sight? Just across the street from the bottling plant."
At this point even your intrepid journalist's unshakable cool was broken. Here before me was overwhelming evidence that Dublin Dr Pepper was no mere beverage but actually the result of superior alien technology! They always claimed it was the pure cane sugar that gave it such zing, but perhaps that was just the beginning.
And what, exactly was Dublin Dr Pepper? To we earthlings, perhaps, it was merely a refreshing and tasty beverage, but who knows what effects it might have on extraterrestrial metabolisms? A Miraculous Medicine? An Alien Aphrodisiac? A Fountain of Youth for Greys? And who was I to presume that they actually drank the stuff, anyway? Perhaps it fueled their warp engines, or was the syrup a coating necessary for their bodies to safely withstand the rigors of interdimensional travel? No wonder they'd returned to Erath county! Who knew what type of calamities were occurring on their home planet as their remaining stockpiles of the elixir diminished while the sole copy of the recipe now rested in Terran hands!
"Mister, you have me convinced. Does this mean we should prepare for invasion?"
The corner of his mouth twitched (or I assume it did), the first display of amusement he'd shown since beginning the interview. Mr. H__ made a slight motion with his now-empty soda bottle, and the waitress returned.
"One of these for the lady, please. She's been drinking too much coffee, it seems."
The waitress returned with my drink. I took it, hands trembling.
"Here ya go, Honey," she said, then pulled a wry face when she saw how reverently I regarded the bottle.
"Enjoy. It's out of this world."
I took a tentative sip, and as calm returned me to my journalistic senses, spoke again.
"So what does this mean for humanity?"
"My research indicates they are a peaceful lot, these beings. If they want it back, they're here for the formula and nothing more. And perhaps they are merely watching us appreciate their gift. Heaven knows our primitive society could use a boost. We weren't ready to be taught how to build a hyper-drive, but maybe we managed to qualify for a soda pop light years ahead of all the others."
I jotted down some final notes, then flipped the pad shut and leaned over the table.
"Off the record, Mr. H__, but--how do you know these things?"
…And that, folks, is all I can write of what followed. A journalist's reputation for discretion must never be compromised. Sara Jay, reporting live from the Lion.
Text Copyright 2008 by The Literary Lion, using with permission the intellectual property copyrighted 2008 of Dr. Pepper/ 1891 crash site connection by J. Huse, all rights reserved. The Dr Pepper name is a trademark of the Dr Pepper company.
Here's a close up of the handshake:
