The Big Mix-Up

This story … my hand to God, it’s true … and it started on June 8, 1974.

I’m typing now, fast as I can, trying to get it down before … well … before it ends. I’m starting typing this out at 1pm, Thursday, May 18, 2023, and I’ve got somewhere I’ve got to be at 5pm. I’m going to be there.

On June 8, 1974, I was traveling with my boss, a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, visiting his west coast district. We’d been doing meet-and-greets and photo ops, shaking hands with local and state officials, doing press briefings and holding fund-raisers and working one-on-ones: meetings with big-dollar donors. We’d been in-district for three days. Everything was completely normal until, day three, some guy walks into a photo op and whispers into the congressman’s ear. The boss frowns, turns and looks at us – his staff – and the photo op ends. At this point, none of us know what’s going on. We’re shuffled around for a few hours, the congressman and his Chief of Staff huddle, drift apart, huddle and drift apart, and finally, stuffed into two automobiles, we hit the road, destination unclear. We stopped occasionally and the congressman would make or receive calls, first at a state patrol substation, second, a truck stop, third, an administrative building in some podunk town. Every stop, the congressman was out of the car, into a building and back in about five minutes.

The oldest member of our team, Ray Hermann, is a DC lifer. Lanky and soft-spoken, he’s worked The Beltway for decades. At the photo op, he sees the guy whisper in the congressman’s ear, turns to us and says: “Shit’s hit the fan.” What Ray Hermann doesn’t know, what none of us know, is he has less than twenty-four hours left to live.

We get to a small airport and there, waiting for us, is a military aircraft. I wonder: why a military aircraft? We board and we’re given a spiel by the same guy who whispered in the congressman’s ear. We assume he’s FBI or CIA, and we start referring to him as Mr. Personality.

Here’s what he tells us:

(1) You’re not going where you’re going and upon leaving, you won’t have been there. We’ll inform you later where you were and what you were doing.

(2) Follow all commands. “Eyes forward” means eyes forward. “Eyes down” means eyes down. “Stop” means stop and “go” means go.

(3) If you’re asked a question, the answer is either “yes” or “no.” Do not hesitate to answer. Do not answer a question with a question.

(4) Do not talk amongst yourselves until hearing “talk amongst yourselves.”

I look around and see the lone female on our staff – Brenda Turner – scribbling in a notebook. We all know the congressman and Brenda have been spending time together … they’re having a thing. It is not to be mentioned, and isn’t. Brenda is smart, talented and capable, knows her way around DC and is phenomenal at her job. She’s a brunette, five-foot-nine or thereabouts, and a dish. She’s scribbling away and Mr. Personality clears his throat. Intentionally. We all look up, he looks at her and shakes his head. She’s back to scribbling. Again, he clears his throat. She doesn’t look up. The throat is cleared once more before Mr. Personality stands up, crosses to her and grabs her notebook.

She’s up, glaring, about to speak when the congressman enters the aircraft. She looks at him, he looks at Mr. Personality, looks at her and shakes his head. Mr. Personality opens her notebook, looks at her scribbling, rips pages out and hands the notebook back to. She’s about to speak when the congressman steps toward her, holds a finger up to his lips and shakes his head. He puts a hand on her shoulder, gives her a slight nod – meaning “sit down, I’ll explain later” – and she does. He goes further back into the aircraft and the plane takes off.

It’s a short flight and we stumble off the plane into a blast of heat and piercing sunshine. Mr. Personality says “Eyes down,” and I gotta say, it worked. We’re all eyes down, immediately. Everybody is shuffling their feet, stretching, and a jeep pulls up – sounded like a jeep – and the congressman climbs in and the jeep pulls off. We’re still eyes down, shuffling our feet, and a bus pulls up –military brown –and we get on board. The bus pulls out with Mr. Personality standing in front, next to the driver, looking through the windshield.

That’s when we get a good first look at where we are.

It’s the desert. Washed-out yellows and browns. Washed-out blue sky. We’re heading toward two aircraft hangars and the door to one is open and – I swear it’s true – when we pass that hanger everyone gasps. We see what’s just inside and it looks like it’s straight out of the movies … silver, shiny, a bubble on top, standing on three legs. A flying saucer.

The bus drops us at some barracks – there are two – where Mr. Personality says “Disembark.” He gets off first, we file off, and he’s about to speak when Brenda steps forward and says: “What’s going on, Superboy?”

He looks at her, nonplussed, and says “The congressman will address your concerns as time becomes available.” Mr. Personality stepped back onto the bus, the bus pulled off, and a kid in fatigues steps out of building number two – he’s nervous, it’s apparent – and holds the door and asks if we’d care to inspect our rooms. We do. They’re spartan, but who are we to argue? The kid disappears and we stand in the hallway, wondering if we’re allowed to talk.

There are four of us are:

Me. Donald Anderson. As I write this, I’m seventy-one years old. I’ve already mentioned Brenda and Ray. Both highly qualified. Both very, very smart. Our fourth? The congressman’s Chief of Staff, Oscar Nash, an Ivy League grad. Tall, brown hair, brown eyes, manicured, clothes pressed and shoes shined, from a family of DC mainstays.

Ray, a bit tense, says “Think we’re getting out of here? Not likely. Things disappear here.”

Oscar pipes up. “Shut up,” he says. He’s looking at Ray but he’s saying it to everyone. He starts spouting party line on national security and motherhood and apple pie and on and on while we exchange glances. His oratory is about to go up another notch when the congressman walks in, wearing his “God bless America” look, and says “Okay, here’s the thing. We’re not here, and when we leave, we weren’t here. At this point, nobody knows how long we’re going to not be here, so stay calm. Get some rest.” He made eye contact with each of us. “Off the record,” he says, “weird shit has happened, or is happening – we’re not sure it’s over – and we’re going to not be here until what is not happening quits happening.” It’s a deer-in-the-headlights moment. He sees that, and makes his point again: “Remember: we’re not here, and you never heard me say that.” He turns, looks at Brenda and she walks over to him, they start whispering and he nods a couple times and she nods a couple times before he steps off and is gone.

Five minutes later I’m lying on a half-worn-out bed in my woefully substandard room and there’s a knock at the door. It’s Ray. He steps in, leans toward me and says, “You see what I saw?”

I answer in the affirmative.

“Crazy shit happens here,” he says, and shrugs. He left without another word and that would be the last time I saw him alive.

Did I say they took our watches? They did. Wallets, too. A military guy took ’em after the congressman left. That upped the tension a notch.

In the middle of the night I wake up to noise in the hall. I get up, open the door and see the congressman and Brenda talking to a man dressed in fatigues. Oscar’s door opens, he steps out, so I do the same. He has a few words with the congressman, walks over to me and asks, “Have you talked with Ray since we bunked in here?”

I answer in my best interests. “Nope.”

Brenda is looking at Oscar. Oscar is looking at me. The soldier and the congressman leave, we go back into our rooms, I can’t get back to sleep, so I wait awhile, then decide to take what I hope will be a discreet look around. I slip on slacks and shoes and tip-toe outdoors. I’m getting the night air … that’s my story if I get stopped.

In front of our barracks I see the runway and two hangars. I slip behind our building, walk its entire length, walk the length of the next one, and stop when I see there’s another building there – it’s the first time I’ve seen it. It’s smaller and set back. Before I can take another step I hear a jeep, so I crouch down and watch the jeep pull up at that building. The driver jumps out, a passenger jumps out, they root around in the back of the jeep and drag out a body; that’s what it looks like to me. I think that immediately: it’s a body. Stars are out, moon’s up, it’s a bright night, but the two guys, the body, the jeep, they’re silhouettes. Right away I’m thinking it’s a body, and what’s worse, I’m thinking it’s Ray. Instantly, that’s what I’m thinking. They haul their cargo into the building, and in a minute or two and they come back out, fire up the jeep and take off. Something flies out of the jeep as it’s racing off. White, shining in the moonlight, floats up like a feather before fluttering to the ground. I scurry over and pick it up, scurry back to the corner of the building, eyeball the thing and break out in sweat. It’s Ray’s official ID. I run back to where I picked it up, drop it and skulk all the way back to my room, hoping nobody’s seen me.

Couple hours later there’s knocking up and down the hall. We get up – it’s just me and Oscar – get herded down to the other barracks where there’s a mess hall. Mr. Personality comes in and provides crucial direction: “Eyes down” he says. Brenda shows up next. Nobody says a word. Big plates are dropped in front of us – eggs, bacon, toast, followed by black coffee – and Mr. Personality gives us the okay and we’re whispering between ourselves and, pretty quick, another soldier comes in and whispers in Mr. Personality’s ear, leaves, and Mr. Personality looks to me and says “the congressman would like a word with you.”

I follow Mr. Personality out the door and we go over to the building I saw last night, and walking in I figure it’s an admin building of sorts. The congressman is in a conference room, flag on the wall, maps, two long tables, photos and plaques. The congressman nods, waves me in and I sit.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, and I tell my second lie. “Yessir.”

“Good,” he says. “First, let me thank you for your commitment. It’s appreciated.” He’s smiling, I’m smiling, so why am I apprehensive? Here’s why: he reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls something out and pushes it across the table toward me. It’s Ray’s ID. “They tell me,” he said, and he looked toward the door then back to me – we were alone – “your fingerprints are on this.”

“You have my fingerprints?”

“You were fingerprinted a couple years ago,” he said. “Your job, it’s required.”

I froze up.

“How,” he asked, “would your prints get on Ray Hermann’s ID?”

Do I tell him what I saw or play dumb? Didn’t have to.

“Ray’s body was discovered this morning,” he says, “in this building, just inside the south door. They’re saying he had a heart attack.” He made a face like he’s not buying it. “You think he left his room and broke into this building, looking for a safe place to have a heart attack?”

The congressman is up for election in eighteen months. He needs this like he needs a poke in the eye. For a politician, the number one thing is getting elected. Number two is getting elected again, and number three is keeping party bosses happy. Number four is raising money to get elected. He’s good at those things. He leaned across the table at me, glanced at the closed door, inched just a bit closer to me and starts chewing on his lower lip. When he talks it’s a whisper. “There’s weird shit going on.” He’s nervous. I’ve seen the congressman happy, sad, concerned, bored, irritated, angry, disappointed, interested and indifferent. I’ve never seen him nervous.

“We gotta get the hell out of here,” he says.

Back at the mess, Oscar and Brenda are speculating, and the word “alien” is tossed around. While they’re talking, in comes a soldier and tells us our departure is in an hour. We’re to go to our rooms, grab our stuff and meet back in the mess.

Back in my room, I grab my stuff, stuff it into my suitcase, then hurriedly write notes to myself about what I think’s been going on. I write descriptions of Mr. Personality, the military guys, the runway, the hangers, the buildings and surroundings and the flying saucer. I make a quick pit stop, pick up the suitcase, open my door, step into the hallway and turn right, depart the barracks – the door closes behind me – and immediately I’m standing in the dark. It’s pitch black. My hands start shaking, my mouth goes dry, and I had this thought instantly: no matter how brilliant or crazed or duplicitous or scientifically advanced the U.S. military is, they can’t turn day into night.

My gut tells me the aliens are monkeying with the sun, the moon and the stars. Sound crazy? It felt crazy, believe me. I try going back into building, find the door locked, and my gut tells me I’m on my own. It’s instinctive. I’m getting an up-close look at the weird shit the congressman was talking about. I stand there, perfectly still, listening. It’s spooky quiet. There’s no way in hell I’m going to say something as stupid as “who’s there?’ or “anybody there?” and after a while I take a hesitant step and creep along the buildings until I can just barely make out the shape of the admin building. I stop, standing there a moment, and I’m about to head toward that admin building when I hear a screeching coming from one of the hangars. A door opens and three shapes come out of the hangar where we’d all seen the flying saucer. Those shapes start coming toward me. They walk to, and then past, the admin building, walk toward me and I start shaking – nervous as I’ve ever been – and they walk right up to me. When they get close enough I’m seeing triplets, four feet tall. Maybe four-and-a-half. Perfect duplicates of each other.

Aliens.

There’s a movie, Village of the Damned, made in 1960, based on a book called The Midwich Cuckoos, published in 1957. The triplets who walked up to me looked pretty much like the children – that’s what they’re called in the book – the children in The Midwich Cuckoos, the children in Village of the Damned. In the book, in the movie, those children were the offspring of aliens.

The aliens stare at me, relaxed. Then, all of them ask a question. There’s no other way to say it. It’s like they were all talking as once, even though I don’t think I heard anything audible. “Are you Donald?” they ask. I was in shock, moving toward unhinged, and I don’t remember answering. Then, two of them stepped back, one stepped forward and says to me – this time it’s audible and his voice sounded exactly like the congressman’s – he says to me: “We gotta get the hell out of here.”

He motions with his head, then all three turn and walk toward the hangar. I followed. Seemed the logical thing to do. At the hangar, the saucer we saw earlier, it’s backed into a corner. They don’t even look at it. They have some kind of conversation, and then the one that did the talking, that sounded like the congressman, he steps back toward me. He steps closer, bows – you know, like you see Japanese do – and for some reason I bow to him, and before I straighten up I hear him say “Be patient.”

I’ve had a long time to wonder just what that meant. Have I been patient since that day? Don’t know, really, but it’s been a very long time.

Anyhow, right when he says that, right when he finishes, I straighten up from that bow and suddenly I’m in broad daylight. I’m on a city street, people around, traffic going by. I start hyperventilating. A man stops and says, “Hey buddy, you okay?” and I can’t answer. He’s leaning over, inspecting me, then he’s looking around, like wishing he was somewhere else. I suck it up, convince the guy I’m okay, and I huff a couple times, rub my face and look around and a car pulls up at the curb, the driver’s window goes down – there’s a woman inside – and she hollers “What the hell!” She gets out, leaves the car running, and when I get a good look at her, my legs buckle.

It’s Brenda Turner.

She leaned in real close and hissed “Get in the car. Now!” She’s nervous, puts a hand on my arm, guides me into the passenger seat, goes around and gets into the driver’s seat and we’re rolling in seconds. She drives into a park by some river, parks, tells me to get out, I do, and we start walking. I’m dizzy, my breathing is off, we get some distance from the car – she keeps looking around like she’s afraid we’re being followed – and says “Okay, Donald, I don’t know why you’re here, but you gotta get out of Omaha.”

That’s how I discovered I was in Omaha, Nebraska.

Sounds like B-movie nonsense, right? Sounds like something from a cheap, poorly plotted sci-fi movie from 1952, but it’s the truth! I’m in Omaha, sweating through my clothes, sweating so much my hair is wet. I don’t respond and she’s staring into my eyes, waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know where you’re coming from,” she says, “and I don’t know why you’re here.” She’s angry and obviously frightened. “But I’ve been here for ten years now – alone – and never expected to see you again!”

If I’m not in shock, I go into shock right then. That’s got to be it, right? Shock? I’m cold. Trembling. Goosebumps. Bending over, like I’m going to heave. Ten years? I’m thinking ten years from when? Didn’t I just bow to some alien? Minutes ago?

I ache all over. She’s rubbing her hands together, trying to compose herself, and finally she says “It’s June, 1984. You’re in Omaha, Nebraska. Where you been for the last ten years?”

We get back to her car, Brenda leans back, takes a couple deep breaths, then off we go. “I’ll get you cleaned up and we’ll talk,” she says, “then you’re out of here.”

We get to her bungalow, get inside, she plops me into a chair and says “Spill it.”

So, I tell her the story I’m writing here: I step out of the room where I never was, tip-toe past the barracks, spot the admin building, see three figures walking toward me – I’m glued to the ground – they’re aliens, one bows, I bow, and when I straighten up I’m in Omaha.

That’s so hard to believe?

We’re at her kitchen table. She stands, walks into her living room, goes down a hallway, comes back and drops an accordion folder on the table, opens it, pulls out a newspaper, drops it in front of me and says “Read the headline.”

It’s the New York Times. There’s a banner headline across the top. It reads: Congressional Staff Lost in Airplane Crash. The date on the paper: June 11, 1974.

In short, me, the congressman, Oscar, Brenda, and Ray were killed in a plane crash on June 11, 1974.

“Here’s my story,” Brenda says, and off she goes and her story is like mine. In 1974 she has breakfast, hears we’re departing, packs her stuff, steps out of whatever building she’s been in, tiptoes in the dark, bumps into three aliens, hears pretty much what I heard, bows, and wakes up in Arlington Heights, Illinois. She’s wobbling down the street when a car pulls up, rolls down the window, and – presto-chango – it’s Oscar. He takes her to his place (sound familiar?) in Arlington Heights, gives her hell for showing up in his town, gives her a suitcase full of money – ones, fives, tens, and twenties – and tells her she’s gotta get out of town. She points at the suitcase, asks “Where’d you get that?” Oscar tells her she had it with her when he found her and she says “Bullshit,” and he says “okay, don’t believe me. Suit yourself. But it was standing beside you when I found you. I grabbed it, threw it in the back seat, got you in the car – you’re welcome, by the way – and here you are.” The suitcase, the one with the money, it’s her suitcase, the one she had in Nevada.

My response to her story? “Where’s my suitcase?”

She stands, motions for me to follow, and we go outside to her car. She pops the trunk and, sure enough, there’s my suitcase, the one I had in Nevada,

“I could use a change of clothes,” I say. “I kinda stink.”

“Plenty money in there to buy clothes,” she says.

“You haven’t looked?”

She shakes her head.

“Can I?”

“It’s your suitcase.”

I look. She’s right. There’s plenty money in there.

“So here’s how it goes,” she says. She looks around the neighborhood like’s she’s scoping the place out. “Oscar told me this and I thought it was selfish, but it’s for the best.” She paused, then: “Don’t make a lot of friends. You won’t need money, ever, I’m sure of that, but live a quiet life. Suck it up, okay? It is what it is. My advice? Live quietly. Make acquaintances, not friends.” She paused, swallowed, looked a bit forlorn. “I don’t have friends,” she said. Yet another pause, and she shrugged, grimaced, and shrugged some more. “I’ll get you to the train station tomorrow morning. Get yourself a ticket that goes a long way. Go about three-fourths of the way – that’s what I did – then get off somewhere and …” she huffed, lowered her gaze and shook her head, “try and have a life.”

At this point I’ve only been gone from where I never was a couple hours. Ten years went by?

“Okay,” I say, “I hear what you’re saying. Quiet life. No friends. Go far. Start over. But won’t I need a job?”

 “The suitcase,” she said. “You need money, go into the suitcase. And before you ask, I worried for years about my suitcase. Would someone steal it? Would I lose it? Would it run out of money? But I still have it. I’ve quit wondering how it works.”

The next morning she took me to the train station and I took a train heading east. The suitcase has been churning out my allowance since.

I last saw Brenda in 1984, thirty-nine years ago.

I’ve lived all over the USA, moving every couple years. The suitcase provides financial independence, so relocating isn’t difficult. My first stop was in the south, and it was there that I developed the rules I’ve been living by. Don’t throw money around. Walk slow and talk low. Be cordial, polite, and stand-offish. It’s worked.

The well-appointed mobile home community has worked for me. They’re filled with polite and cordial people. I’ve traveled regularly, “working” as a “consultant,” and if questions continue after someone asks “what do you do for a living?” I grimace and say “I help clients stay out of trouble with Uncle Sam.” That works great. Add “trouble” and “Uncle Sam” to any sentence and you’ll see eyes roll and chins start nodding.

Why the traveling? First off, the looking over my shoulder is less demanding when I’m on the road. Second, I’m always looking for a new place to call home, just in case I need to move. It hasn’t been an easy life. I get lonesome. I have trust issues. I have this secret, and you might ask, why have I kept this all secret? I don’t know. The plane crash, maybe? Isn’t that one way of telling me to keep my mouth shut?

The suitcase that provides financial independence? What can I say? It sounds like crappy science fiction, I know. But I swear, I’m not making it up. And the suitcase also provides a driver’s license. A passport, too, and whenever I changed addresses, I got a new driver’s license and passport.

Ten years after Omaha, I’m living in the upper Midwest, in a nice mobile home community. Walking out of a grocery store one day, I see a car circling the lot, going fast, then slow. The car makes two lefts, is heading down my row, I’m putting groceries in my car when that car pulls up behind mine, stops, I turn around and my heart sinks.

It’s Oscar Nash.

“Oh my God!” he says. “Don, I can’t believe it’s you! Get in the car!”

I go over, lean down and get a good look at him. He’s sweating bullets, breathing heavy, licking his lips and he smells like a distillery.

Thinking fast, I say “Stay here.” He’s shaking his head, so I say “pull into that space right there.” I point at it; he pulls in. I say “shut off the ignition.” He does. “Stay here,” I say. “I’m getting my groceries home. I’ll be back, give me twenty minutes. Can you do that?”

He’s mumbling a bit. I reach in, tap his shoulder, and ask, “Are you okay?” He looks up at me and says, “I’m being followed.”

Just what I needed to hear.

He’s all panicked, shaking and mumbling, so I ask him “What did I say?” and he blurts out “stay” and I say, “Good.” I reach in, pull the key out of the ignition, hold it up for him to see, and say “I’ll be right back. Do not go anywhere.” I hand him the key and say “Put that in your pocket,” and I take off.

Takes me twenty minutes. When I get back he’s asleep. I tap on the roof until he wakes up and when he does he rolls his screwy eyes and asks, “Wanna hear my story?” and I say “Not interested, and you gotta get out of here. Now. Today”

Little good that did.

He spent the next twelve hours talking, me listening. He’s a basket case, certain he’s being followed. He starts with “That suitcase! They have to know where I am, right? Wouldn’t that make sense?” (Frankly, it does. I’ve thought that myself.)

Then he drops this bomb: “Don, I’m married.”

We’re at a small park, he’s pacing, rubbing his eyes and his mouth, licking his lips. “Three times. I’m married three times. Once in Illinois, once in Wyoming, and once in Georgia. Lord, help me …”

I immediately think the worst. “Christ, Oscar,” I say, “you haven’t done something …” and he knows where I’m going and starts shaking his head.

“No! I didn’t hurt them. No! No, they’re all alive.”

“Okay,” I say, “no biggy … so … you’re divorced twice?”

“No!” he says. He starts the pacing again. “I’m still married,” he said “to all three. I just pick up and go when things get a little dicey.” Suddenly, he’s sheepish.

“How did you find me?” I ask him.

He sits down. “Luck,” he said. “I left Georgia a week ago. I’ve been driving with no destination.” He looked like he was going to cry. “Is it luck I found you? Coincidence? Or someone’s plan? An alien’s plan?” He starts the pacing again, stops, sits and goes all serious. “It’s gotta be their plan,” he says.

I get the feeling that he wants to hang onto me for dear life. And life is dear, I’ve learned that much. If Oscar is being followed, where’s that put me?

“Stay here,” I say to him again. “I want to show you something.”

He’s pale. I wonder how long it’s been since he’s had a real night’s sleep.

“You trust me?” I ask him, and he’s about to swallow his tongue, telling me he does. I say it again: “Stay here. Gimme an hour. I’ll be right back. I need to show you something. Promise me you’ll stay here.”

He looks at me like I’m his parish priest. “I promise,” he says.

I get back to my trailer and in forty-five minutes I’ve got everything I need. Thirteen hours later I’m three states away, sleeping in a rest stop. Couple hours of sleep, more hours on the road, and I’m figuring if he’s being followed I might be being followed, so I’m on high alert. I spend a week at a dumpy old resort – it’s not all that busy – then another couple weeks bouncing around until I’m ensconced in nice mobile home community multiple states away. There’s a new driver’s license in the suitcase, a new passport, and I start over.

I’m in my early-fifties, financially secure, I dodged the Oscar bullet, so what would be the sensible thing to do? I ask you, what would an intelligent person do with decent health, some serious financial security and a quiet, private life?

I didn’t do it.

I went full bore into investigating my situation. It was unwise, I know. My life was stale, I had more time on my hands than was healthy and it seemed like it was time I should examine my predicament. Sound noble? It wasn’t.

I went down the rabbit hole. Willingly. Enthusiastically. I spent years checking out every news story, every rumor, every theory. I visited every site where true believers believed an alien event had occurred. Amherst, Ohio – check. Grand Junction, Colorado – check. Redwood Valley, California – check. Anchorage, Alaska – check. Yukon Territory, Canada – check. Franklin, North Carolina – check. Cape Hatteras, North Carolina – check. Gulf Breeze, Florida. Farmville, New York. Tinley Park, Illinois. San Diego, California. Phoenix. Chicago. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check.

I spent twenty years confabbing with scientists and mathematicians, conspiracy nuts, wackos, flakes and screwballs. (I figured I was one of the latter.) I exchanged theories with PhDs, astronomers, physicists, priests, autodidacts of every stripe, self-professed witches and warlocks (don’t ask), pilots, law enforcement personnel (always wanting my name), journalists (always wanting my name), farmers, teachers, housewives and (ugh!) wanna-be science fiction writers.

I met a guy who had an enormous collection of photographs, all of them notated and filed chronologically. Snapshots of lights in the air and on the ground and configured in crazy shapes. Photos of airships, scorched fields, people standing and pointing up and pointing down, cops and uniformed military, fields of dead cows, sheep, and buffalo. Photos of abductees, little aliens, big aliens, men and women and children floating in the air, being hit by lightning, ascending and descending from spaceships. Whenever I asked where he got them he went mum. Nice guy, actually, and I stayed with him for a couple weeks when I was in my mid-sixties. He had rituals for anything and everything and over time I realized his obsessive-compulsive disorder was in a class of its own. In the evenings we watched episodes of The X-files – he had the complete series on DVD – and he’d recite dialogue along with Mulder and Scully. He’d make highballs and we’d smoke a joint. I tell you, things got screwy.

I met a defrocked minister who went on, at length, about how God is only genuinely available to us after death, but prior to death, aliens were “available to those attuned to the proper waveshape.” Aliens, he contended, were spiritually advanced and here to help us. His beliefs were a mixture of religion, science, mythology, and movies and tv shows about aliens. He went on and on about this never-ending cascade of experiences he’d had or had heard about. “Prior to our inevitable transformation,” he told me shortly before we parted company – I figured transformation meant death – “aliens are available to speak with us. They’re shy, and reluctant to interfere with our life cycle, since theirs is subtly different, but when approached, they’ll share some incredibly valuable spiritual information.” When I asked him if he’d ever got some “valuable spiritual information” from aliens, he got a little squirrely. I didn’t push.

I burned myself out. Physically, emotionally and spiritually. I gave it all up. I met some great people, met some crazies, learned a great deal, but I never was able to find the clinching piece of evidence I needed. What was I looking for? Well, why had my life gone this way? Why did I feel like I was half-alive in the world, or even more interesting, why did I feel like I was fully alive in half a world? I’d actually seen aliens! I had a close encounter! Was I covering up? Why? Covering what? I know how this all sounds! What I’ve written here, it’s sounds a bubble off, right?

All those years, searching and questioning and investigating, I’m not sure I heard anything as outlandish as what I experienced. And, honestly, I didn’t believe most of what I heard. A magic suitcase? Come on! If that ain’t a bullshit detail to throw into a bullshit story, I don’t know what is. But it’s true! I have a magic suitcase! It’s been supporting me for over fifty years!

So here’s the deal. Here’s what got me to writing this all down.

This morning – May 18, 2023 – things changed dramatically. And right after things changed dramatically I started typing away at what you’re reading – to get it all down just in case somebody wants to hear my tale.

This morning – May 18, 2023 – I heard a knock on my door, opened it and Mr. Personality was standing there, smiling. “Good to see you, Don,” he said. “Glad you’re home.” He stepped in without being invited. There was a notepad in his hand and he was paging through it slowly, before stopping and tearing out a page and handing it to me.

“It was just a big mix-up,” he said. “But it’s fixed.” He looked at me and smiled again. I’d never seen him smile before.

“Pay attention to the instructions on your sheet.” He pointed to the paper in my hand. “Under no circumstances are you to share the information with anyone, and please, arrive early.”

My heart rate had picked up on seeing him. My lips were dry and I felt woozy and I was trying to imagine just what he had in mind – and I must have looked like that. “Everything’s fixed,” he said. “Thanks for understanding.” He turned to walk off, stopped, turned back and said “Oh, and bring the suitcase.”

The paper had my name on it, a nearby location and the specified time I’m to be there. I stared at that paper for a long time and felt a mixture of fear, anxiety, relief and world-class curiosity. (I wasn’t terrified. Does that say something positive about me?) I closed the door, sat on my couch, and read everything on that paper. Multiple times. Then I realized this was my chance to reveal to the world that I had a genuine close encounter. Maybe my last chance.

Before starting this typing, I drove to the location noted on the paper, stopped a couple blocks away and walked the surrounding neighborhoods, checking out the mixture of homes and businesses in the vicinity. At the exact meet-spot I did a three-sixty, saw nothing out of the ordinary, walked down toward the river, saw nothing out of the ordinary, walked back up to my car, drove back to my place and got busy typing this.

There may be some discrepancies and errors in this report, so please understand, I’m short on time. I’m typing as fast as I can because I’ve only got a couple hours before my attendance is required elsewhere.

Here’s my thinking:

If I’m still “officially” dead – like in the newspaper story – then this meeting I’m supposed to attend today could be bad news. Why don’t I feel that way? I don’t know, but I don’t. Really. I’m not worried, and the not being worried is really weird, because I’ve been worried – off and on – for decades now. But Mr. Personality used the words “mix-up” and “it’s been fixed” at my door. Keeping those words in mind, and knowing he asked that I bring the suitcase, I’m factoring in these things in my decision to show up when and where he wants me to:

(1) Area 51 – been there, done that. It has a reputation, right?

(2) Aliens and a flying saucer – seen ’em. Believe in ’em.

(3) An unsolved (questionable) homicide – is Ray still alive? (I hope so.)

(4) Day turning into night – quite a feat, and no, that’s not in our military’s capability.

(5) Ten missing years – I’d like that explained, to be honest.

(6) A newspaper publishing a plane crash that (maybe) didn’t happen? Okay, so newspapers make mistakes, we all know that. How do you fix that?

(7) Brenda in Omaha, Oscar wherever he is today – are they alive? (I hope so.)

(8) A missing (dead?) congressman? (I wonder if he got a suitcase.)

(9) A magic suitcase – can I keep it? (Haven’t I earned it?)

So, I’m going to that meeting because I am really, really curious as to what has been fixed, who fixed it, and what the fix looks like. Have I mentioned I worked for the U.S. House of Representatives? (I know I have. I’m being dramatic.) As a former government employee, I assure you there are errors of monumental proportions made regularly within the U.S. government. I suspect that would be true of governments all around the world. Are these errors ever announced publicly? (I ask that question because I know the answer. It’s ‘no.’)

Were we – myself, Oscar, Brenda, the congressman, Ray – were we unwitting participants in one of those colossal screwups? Or maybe, I say maybe, it was a gargantuan screwup made not by our government but by aliens working with (or without or against or in spite of) our government. Who’s to say just because aliens can build and operate flying saucers they’re not capable of screwing up? (I mean, did their first attempt at a flying saucer actually work?)

What am I trying to say? Well, I’m guessing.

The aliens were real. (That’s not a guess.) They were in Area 51 for some reason. (Will we ever know the reason? Probably not.) Ray did something stupid (a guess), or maybe he did have a heart attack (another guess). The aliens did what they did to buy time to fix whatever happened. (I know, it’s a flimsy stab at a bad guess, but I say aliens are just as capable of screwing up as non-aliens are.) Were all of us scattered around to buy time to fix it all? (Is an hour to an alien the same as an hour to an earthling?) Maybe the aliens were irresponsible, or criminals. Maybe they’d hotwired a saucer or something and done some damage here on planet Earth – which is not cool for aliens to do – and so the responsible aliens eventually came to fix their mess and it took some serious alien-time to do it because … hell, I don’t know. I’m getting way out there, I know. (I’ve always enjoyed a good B-movie.) But I got nothing else, except fifty-plus years of wandering around wondering should I hide and why, should I go public and why, and why am I afraid and what am I afraid of?

Let me stress: I’m not saying that what I’m writing down is completely accurate, but my theory that something screwy happened in Area 51 … you haven’t heard that before? Am I the only one? Think about that for a minute, or take as much time as you need.

Sorry, but there’s no grand finale. I cannot deliver a complex yet perfectly clear explanation for any of it. But let me swear – one more time – everything I’ve written here has actually happened. (Except for my ‘irresponsible/criminal alien’ theory. That’s a little shaky.)

Before I go, let me reveal where I’ve been living for the last couple years – as well as the time and location of the meet Mr. Personality delivered to me.

I’ve been in Henderson, Kentucky. Nice city, wonderful people, very affordable, nice amenities. You should visit sometime.

The location of my meet? The corner of Powell Street and South Water Street, up from the Ohio River. I’m to be there at five pm, today.

Last thoughts? There’s a bunch of them, but the main one is – I don’t know why I think this – I’m expecting to hook up again with Oscar, the congressman, and Brenda. Ray, too. I know it’s a little late in this tale to bring up time travel, like you needed one more reason to call bullshit on all this, but maybe it’s not time travel. Like I said: an hour to an alien vs. an hour to citizen of planet Earth? And, as I finish, one more thing.

I’ve set up contact info, an email address, in case you want to contact me. In case you can contact me. I did it right away, before starting this typing. I don’t know what’s to happen after the ‘meet’ today. If I’m still alive and able to add to what I’ve written here, I promise I will. You want to contact me? Give it a try, but be patient. Like I say, I have no idea what’s in store for me, and it may take a day or two for me to get back to you, but if I’m able, I will. I promise. Will that make all this more real? Honestly, I hope so, but that’s for you to decide.

Here’s the email: [email protected]

That’s it. The end. (Almost.)

Once more, what I’ve been telling you, it’s no more crazy than much of the stuff I’ve heard and read about. I ran into a group in California – years ago – claiming most movie stars are aliens. (California, right?) I met folks in Maine who claimed aliens were developing the sea bed off the coast. There was the group in Kansas who were sure aliens were here to obtain crop samples. Those kinds of stories are everywhere, and the folks that tell them, that believe them, they seem reasonably normal. I think I’m reasonably normal, too, so, if you’ve made it this far, I hope I’ve at least been entertaining, but I promise, this story is true. Drop me an email sometime. If I can – if I’m here, if I’m alive – I’ll get you an update. I promise.

Wish me luck. I might need it.