They say everybody hates Mondays. After a couple of days and a Friday night off, you struggle to return to the rat race. This Monday is a ridiculously hot day, with the heat only adding to the stress of getting back to work.
I am one of the rare individuals looking forward to this specific Monday, looking forward to get back to teaching science to disinterested, sleep-deprived kids. After a very hectic and life-changing week, I was happy to get back to some semblance of normality.
Which is why it was frustrating to learn I would be given a police escort to work.
"Mr. Klein," Roger said in the same polite tone that wore at my nerves, the lens flare from his sunglasses striking my eyes. "Are you ready to leave." Unlike me, he didn't seem bothered by the heat, despite wearing a thick suit. I wore a short-sleeved dress shirt and I felt like I was broiling.
"Yes," I said with restrained frustration to the suited giant. I went to pick up by briefcase, but he grabbed it before I could get it. I wanted to bellow "I can get my own bag", thinking he was doing it to annoy me. However, arguing with a man whose job is to protect the President is incredibly unwise. So, I held my tongue.
He then held the door open to the Police SUV that would take me to the school. In the passenger and front seat were two cops giving me looks of concern.
"Can't I take my car, and you follow me," I asked again. Roger looked at me like I was an petulant child.
"Orders sir," he said. He would always say that whenever he did anything that would interfere with my routine. Mary came out the door, dressed in her gym clothes and carrying her gym bag, her long brunette hair in a ponytail, ready to join me.
"Mrs. Klein," Roger said. "For security purposes, you and your daughters are going to receive a separate escort to work and school."
"Excuse me," she said in an offended tone. "I can break any bastard who tries anything." I knew that to be true. Mary was a personal trainer at a local gym. Some idiot tried to grab her butt at the supermarket. The man was on the ground, begging for mercy in 30 seconds.
"Orders," he repeated. She sighed, not-to-happily accepting it. We gave each other hugs and kisses, and I got into the car beside Roger. As we drove to the elementary school, Roger sat still with an odd stare, as if expecting a threat to come out of nowhere, his hand near the pistol he kept. I noticed my neighbors giving me odd looks as we drove by.
One more burning reminder that my life would never be the same.
Roger Keyes was real-life Secret Service agent. A man who was trained to take bullets for the President of the United States. He looked like James Bond if he were a bouncer: sunglasses, suit, shaved forehead, a bulk that was 2 meters tall.
(Yeah, I use the metric system. I'm a science teacher. Sue me.)
I shouldn't really be complaining. Roger was a pretty good guy. I mean, when I first saw him at my door, I expected him use a neuralyzer. You know, that light thing from Men In Black, and make me forget having saw Twilight.
Initially, I wasn't pleased to learn that he would spend his days guarding my house, but he spent the weekend acting like an uncle to Rachel and Rebecca, partaking in their tea parties, games of make-believe with stuffed animals, and playing catch with them. He also helped Mary and I in the garden, and even happily answered questions Twilight had about the American system of government.
At dinner, gushed about his wife and two kids, showing Mary and I the pictures of them in his wallet.
I didn't hate Roger per se. Deep down, I knew he was just doing his job. I hated what he represented: my quiet life being over. Now I was a an international celebrity, and would expect to be guarded 24/7.
We pulled up to the elementary school I taught at. It was a typical "form follows function" style built in the 1960s, with the structure made up of bricks with glass windows. The parking lot was full of students, yellow school buses, and cars driven by parents dropping off their young children. I also saw members of the press, cameras in their hands and eager expressions on their faces.
As soon as my police escort pulled in, some students and reporters started crowding around it, with some parents holding their kids back from recklessly running into a moving car. As soon as I stepped out, with Roger at my side, everybody in the parking lot started giving me odd stares. The girls in the crowd looked at me with awestruck eyes.
"Three, two, one," I muttered.
"Mr. Klein," the girls shouted, running toward me. All of them were asking me questions about "the pony", if they could meet "the pony", if we could pet "the pony." The reporters were no better, asking me questions that I wasn't allowed to answer.
Thankfully, Roger was there keeping them back. When a nosy reporter came up to me, he flashed his Secret Service badge and a subtle snarl, which was like "reporter repellent", as it scared the paparazzi away. When an excited little girl came up, Roger put on a warm smile. "Sweet-heart," he said gently and firmly to some girls. "Please back away."
Now I understood why Roger had been chosen. He was the only man in the Secret Service brave enough to deal with the most hazardous force on Earth: overzealous little girls. As a teacher and a father, I am professionally trained to beat them back with a stick.
(I'm just kidding, maybe).
"Young lady please," said the other officer in a kind tone. Roger and the two other cops kept back the mob of excited girls, gently pushing them away with stern but kind tones. Their parents began holding their children back, and warning them about disobeying a police officer. Once I was inside, Roger and I walked toward the only safe place in the school away from those little monsters: the teachers' lounge.
When I was a kid, I always imagined that the teacher's lounge was like an ultra-exclusive VIP waiting room, with delicious food and fancy entertainment. Largely because kids were banned from the teachers' lounge. Kids always will romanticize the places adults won't let them into.
As I've discovered, the average teachers' lounge consists of a few tables, some old chairs, a mini-fridge, vending machines, a used microwave, shoddy carpeting, and a broken pinball machine that will never be thrown out , fixed, or replaced no matter what.
(Yes, there have been statistical analyses of this done. I'm a teacher, trust me, you don't have to look it up!)
The real joy of a teachers' lounge is to have a place to escape the stress of dealing with almost 20 children on an hourly basis. But even here today, I wouldn't have any peace. All of my co-workers were giving me odd, mocking smiles.
"Hey if it isn't Pony Guy," bellowed a woman with facetious cheer. "How've you been, Pony Guy. Want a carrot?" The other teachers were giving me mocking smiles, as if trying to hold back laughter.
"Hello Pauleen," I said with gritted teeth. Pauleen Anderson was the blond-haired gym teacher in her late 40s, wearing grey and black sweat clothes. She was a woman of great height and weight (possibly from her Scandinavian origins) , who didn't take BS from students not wanting to exercise. She so excitable and strong, she would probably run a 50 mile marathon with one leg. She was my closest friend at the school. We snarked at each other, and went for beers after school was out.
To me, Pauleen was the tough older sister you both loved and loved to strangle.
(I'm just joking. Almost).
"Hello, Agent 007," she said to Roger, who let out a sly grin. "How's the search for the Hope Diamond going?"
"Ha Ha," he bespectacled man said with a mocking laughter. "You must write comedy, you're so creative. Ten years old call me at 'Bring Your Dad to Work Day'." He lifted up his sunglasses, giving Pauleen a sly look. "You must be Rosie O'Donnell's stunt double."
"I love this man," Pauleen said enthusiastically. She patted me on the shoulder with a warm grin, asking "How was life with the rich and famous". Oddly enough, Roger didn't react to that, recognizing that the gesture was friendly.
Though a small part of me was wished he had broken Pauleen's arm.
(That was a joke. Though it would be nice. Maybe just her fingers. A pinky would suffice.)
"Jake," said Homer Ridges in a dusty voice. He was the school's custodian, a 78 year old pensioner who supplemented his income mopping floors. He was a quiet, solitary man.
"Yes," I replied.
"You got lots of mail," he said, pointing to the mail slots that were also in the lounge. I saw mine was jammed full of letters. Just before I could go check my mail, Roger immediately moved toward the mail.
"Nobody move," he bellowed. Everyone backed away from him. The word of the Secret Service is to be disobeyed at one's own risk. He put on rubber gloves, and started sifting through the mail. He had done this at home too.
"Roger," I asked in a tone of forced politeness. "Is this necessary?"
"Mr. Klein," he said patiently. "You are now one of the most influential people in the world. Bombs and biological warfare are sent through the mail all the time. Some malcontent could send something to you." Some of the other teachers started backing up further.
"Are you going to ask my mail to remove its shoes," I said sarcastically. "Or confiscate its toothpaste? Apparently, our government sees toothpaste as more dangerous to bring on a plane then guns."
"Your safety is paramount," he replied to me, not refusing to cease inspection. Those words again filled me with frustration.
"So who's been writing to ya," Pauleen asked excitedly. She ran over to the letters before I did, much to my frustration.
"Look at this," she said happily. "You've been getting letters from the President of France." Everyone actually stared at Pauleen with interest, ignoring my greeted teeth. She looked at another. "I bet you'll get a letter from the Queen, asking for tea and-," I ran up to her, and snatched the letter from her with a snarl. Yeah she's tough, but frustrated anger has the ability to overcome muscle-bound stupidity.
"Get out my damn mail," I yelled.
"What's your problem," she said, genuinely shocked. Others were confused at my outburst, while Roger just continued to sort out the mail. I took a seat next to Harry Dean, another fellow science teacher, who looked at me with concern.
"Yeah Jake," Harry said. He was a balding, African-American man with black hair. He was somewhat overweight, his bulk somewhat straining his grey suit. "Most people are lucky to get mail from world leaders. Most mail is just bills and junk mail." I let out a sigh, letting my patient mask fall away.
"It's just," I said, letting the anxiety flow through my voice, "I feel like I'm getting fame and attention I don't deserve."
"Jake, you definitely deserve it," Pauleen said, putting a warm hand on my shoulder, her frat girl voice giving way to genuine affectation. "You gave some poor, adorable pony food and a place to crash."
"Anybody would've done that," I said. Harry gave me a warm smile.
"Jake," he said. "What you did is a very big deal. Scientists were predicting that alien races might wipe us out. They said if aliens found us, we were going to go the way of the Natives: being murdered and enslaved and all that."
"They would attempt wipe us out with lasers, with their military strategy somehow focusing on wiping out famous monuments," said Matthew Koch, a math teacher who looked like a grown up geek, with plaid shirts, suspenders, and thicker glasses than mine. He gave a facetious grin. "Not on unimportant things like resources or military bases." A let out a small laugh at that.
"The first meeting between our species and another intelligent species is something people would write about for centuries to come," Matthew said, his geeky voice sounding almost sage-like. "Whatever happens during that first meeting would forever define our relations with the aliens. Giving some poor creature food and shelter is the best way for two separate species to break the ice." He let out a sly grin, tracing his fingers over the letters. "The politicians are giving you all these awards because they were grateful that you weren't a psychopath who gutted her for fun, or some crazed hunter who used her skin for coats. Or-,"
"I get it Matthew," I said. He clammed up.
"If these creatures turn out to be dangerous," Harry said. "You might've saved us from some intergalactic war." Everyone else chuckled at that, not thinking some adorable pony would be capable of causing havoc. But if half of what Twilight said was true, especially the part of her fellow Princess that could raise and lower the sun, then that wasn't a remote possibility.
"So when will we have contact with Ponyworld," Pauleen said amusingly. I was about to correct her, but Roger interrupted me.
"Classified," he said simply. "Classified" was the code word for "none of your damn business," and no one was going to argue with the federal agent. With that, everyone dropped the topic and went back to their small breakfast.
I looked through the pile of letters Roger had felt safe enough to give me. Some of it was from foreign nations offering me their highest awards for foreigners, letters from major corporations and NGOs and-
"Uh," I muttered, seeing a letter from Amnesty International. I annoyingly threw it in the trash can. Hey I am for human rights, but those Amnesty people are a bunch of sentimental fools who are clueless about the world, thinking protesting will get world governments to behave. The world doesn't work that way.
I went back to opening the letters.
"OK boys and girls," I said to the class of 5th graders. They looked at me with remarkable focus for kids getting back to school on Monday. I was standing in front of the whiteboard. "Let's talk about chlorophyll-," I paused when the hands of everybody in the class shot up. I sighed, and pinched the bridge of my nose in annoyance.
"If this is a question about the pony," I asked. "put your hands down." Every hand went down. "Just because there is a pony doesn't mean you can't stop doing your work." I took a deep breath. "OK, who can tell me what chlorophyll is?"
Josie, a young girl with long red-hair sitting toward the back, raised her hand. She wasn't active in class, so I was confused seeing her raise her hand.
"Yes, Josie," I said, noticing her wry grin and the twinkle in her eye.
"Can we pet the pony," she said. Soon, everyone in class started begging to pet the pony.
"Josie," I said. "I said no questions about the pony!" They kept asking away. I finally lost my patience, and slammed the briefcase loudly on the desk. Every student clammed.
"Guys," I said seriously. "Twilight is not some animal you see at a petting zoo. She is an intelligent being, like you. She needs to be treated like a person, not like some pet cat." I let out a sigh. "Seeing an alien maybe fun for you, but for adults it is a big deal. And we can't have little kids being allowed to gawk at her like she is some circus. So no, you can't see her now." The kids in class let out an "aww" of disappointment. Feeling bad, I decided to throw the kids a bone.
"You know what," I said. "For just this class, we can spend the afternoon talking about Twilight. You can ask me any question you want." I narrowed my eyes through my glasses. "However, you have to do extra homework tonight." To my surprise, they enthusiastically agreed.
Last Monday would be the most transformative day in my life, and as I would discover, one of the most important moments in human history. Mary and I were getting ready to plant our favorite tulips in some unused part of the lawn, when we saw something in the pachysandra. We assumed it was a racoon, because we heard munching.
Mary, screaming like a madwoman, went into the pachysandra with her rake.
(Mary guards her garden the same way a dragon guard their horde. If a bear went into the garden, I'd pity it)
"Get out of here," she yelled angrily, waving her rake around like it was nunchucks. "BEAT IT YOU STUPID PEST!"
"Please don't hurt me," the most desperate, forlorn, and needy voice called out. We paused in shock. "I'm sorry," the female voice said. "I'm just so...hungry." My wife and I were in shock. Reluctantly, she pulled away the pachysandra to see what was hiding.
We saw some lavender...horse thing lying on the ground. Its mane was purple with a magenta stripe, it was the size of a small foal, and it had big purple eyes. I noticed it had some... horn growing out of its mane, and wings on its back. Despite its small muzzle, it had an unusually human, and gaunt, face. The face was looking at us with unmistakable terror.
"I'm sorry," it said tearfully. "I didn't mean to steal your flowers. I haven't eaten anything in weeks. Please." The thing was not only human, but it was clearly crying and in terror. Our shock was replaced with concern and worry.
"Don't worry sweetheart," Mary said, her shock replaced with maternal concern. "We'll help you." We lifted the creature up. I noticed that she had some weird star-shaped tattoos on her flank.
(I wasn't staring. I swear.)
Our living room couch has a pullout bed whenever we have company. We put the horse-thing there. My wife got a bag of lettuce and began feeding it to the creature, who ate it with tearful gratitude.
"Thank you," she said tearfully. "I'm sorry I ate your crops." Crops. We didn't eat the flowers.
"Don't worry about it," my wife said awkwardly, her protectiveness of her garden replaced with shock and concern. "Miss..."
"Twilight," she said, her voice weak. "Who are you, what are you, and where am I?" Just as we were about to answer, we heard two tiny feet run in.
Rachel and Rebecca, our twin 9 year old daughters, ran into the living room. They looked at the spectacle with genuine wonder.
"Oh my gosh," Rachel said.
"A pony," Rebecca said.
"Can we pet it, can we," they both asked with amusement.
"Girls," I said with annoyance. "The poor creature needs to be left alone."
"But-,"
"But nothing," Mary replied with exasperation. "Go upstairs and don't tell anyone about this." The girls obeyed, giving one last look at the pony.
"Hey," the pony said with some offense. "What do you mean by 'poor creature'?"
Eventually, she told us about the world we came from. It was a world of magic, pegasi, dragons, etc, and that she was some Friendship Princess. It sounded like some fantasy book to us.
Despite seeing a talking pony, we were a bit skeptical about what Twilight told us. Until she levitated a piece of lettuce using some glowing horn. That made her talk of pegasi pushing clouds and delivering mail more believable. Which was good. Because her story was-both figuratively and literally-out of this world.
She was trying to create a more stable form of teleportation (yes they teleport, which she demonstrated to me). However, the "thaumic conductor", in her words, had been worn out. So instead, she ended up in some interdimensional void. She wandered it for days, only carrying the bottle of water she had been holding for sustenance.
After weeks of wandering and being near starvation, she managed to find a hole in the void, which happened to be next to my lawn. Apparently, her kind can eat flowers, which is why she was digging at the pachysandra.
We told Twilight about Mary's career as a physical therapist, and my profession as a science teacher. Her worn out face lit up. She was herself a scientist, she said, and wanted to learn more. She excitedly collected all the science books I had into one pile and read, and she excitedly asked me many questions.
We talked for hours about Earth science, Earth technology, and human achievement. She reacted the same way to planes and satellites as we did to her talk of magic princesses. Our normal was her weird.
To be honest, she was the student every science teacher dreamed off. She was as hungry for knowledge as she was for the bag of lettuce my wife gave her, and she picked up a lot of ideas very quickly.
She begged us for astronomical information, needing that to help her get home. Using the internet (the idea of having more information in a box then in a library stunned her), we found her something she needed: maps of stars. Using astrological observation, she determined it would take three months for the "proper planetary alignment" to allow her to cast a spell to reconnect with her world.
Now, you're probably thinking I had some hilarious anecdotes about how Mary and I hid Twilight for several months, with all kinds of funny hijinks.
Well, no.
Let me put it this way.
When I was a college student, I was a tinfoil-hat conspiracy nut. From JFK to the New World Order, I believed in the all-mighty power of government to do anything. But my biggest conspiracy was the one where the moon landing didn't happen, and that it was filmed in a studio by Stanley Kubrick.
(They did try to fake the moon landing, but Stanley Kubrick, the perfectionist, insisted upon shooting it on location).
I eventually worked up the nerve to confront a physicist about it. He was polite about my lunatic proclamations, but he eventually responded to my "proof" with a simple question.
"If the moon-landing was faked," he said. "Then why didn't the Russians tell the world? They would've loved to expose our 'capitalist' lies." I actually didn't have an answer, and after a few weeks, I acknowledged his point.
The idea that our governments are capable of these wild conspiracies may seem believable, but the reality is that gives governments more credit then they deserve.
I'm not saying governments don't keep secrets. Hell, they were forcing Twilight to be silent about certain things. But the schemes that some like to imagine governments capable of pulling off require secrecy, discretion, and perfect planning that is almost impossible to have in real life.
Watergate was a conspiracy, and it was undone by one security guard who didn't even understand the gravity of what he uncovered.
Muammar Gaddafi was a brutal tyrant who suppressed information. And even he couldn't halt the rising tide of the Arab Spring.
Anyways, when my daughters started taking pictures of Twilight with their smartphones, I realized right away that keeping Twilight a secret just wasn't possible. And if Twilight did turn out to be dangerous, I didn't want to appear like I was hiding something from the government. So, Mary and I contacted the FBI, even sending them pictures.
On Tuesday, I opened my door to find Roger, with a police car in front of him, asking me to wait for a military truck to come pick us up. By midday, Mary, Rebecca, Rachel, Twilight, and I were being driven to Fort Hamilton, a military base in Brooklyn. For a moment, I feared that conspiracies were true when two soldiers carried Twilight away in some biohazard bag.
We were separated from each other, and some government agents asked me some harsh questions about whether or not I had told anyone about the ponies. After several hours, we were reunited with each other, to my relief.
Mary had been asked several questions, while two army soldiers basically baby sat Rebecca and Rachel. Twilight had been inspected to see if she carried any deadly pathogens, given a bath, and asked hard questions about whether she would threaten national security that. When she came out, she wore this pout on her face that made me want to pet her.
"I told them I wasn't a foal," she said with annoyance. "But they insisted on giving me a bath instead of letting me wash myself. It was so annoying." Everyone laughed at that, to her chagrin.
Within hours, we were headed to DC, where Mary, Twilight and I got a guest room in the White House and a dinner with the President of the United States and First Lady.
Yes. We were being wined and dined by the leader of the "free" world.
When we were received by the First Couple, The President, going along with Twilight's "princess" story, gave Twilight a bow, humoring her proclamation to being a princess. Twilight, recognizing his authority, gave him a bow in turn and called him "your Excellency".
"Princess," he said jovially. "This is America. We are trained not to bow before our leaders. You can call me 'Mr. President'." Then we went to a dinner.
He looked at Mary and I with the feigned emotions politicians are known for, thanked us for our "services" to the country, and told us that if the meeting between species went well, we would be line for some Medals of Freedom and some of the priciest jobs in DC.
If the transition went well, I'd be working at some of DC's top private schools, and Mary would be working training soldiers in the Pentagon.
Most of the conversation at dinner was directed toward Twilight, who spoke to the President in a cultured, respectful way that did at least prove she was groomed for leadership. From what we heard, elected democracy seemed almost foreign to her. If the President didn't believe what he heard, he was good at hiding it. He also smiled when Twilight used her magic to pick up her fork.
On Wednesday, my family was given a guided tour of DC. When we came back to the White House, we soon discovered that rather then hide the truth, the President immediately would tell the world about what happened.
After a short press conference involving my family, the President, Twilight, the world knew...quite a bit. For obvious reasons, the President didn't reveal everything Twilight told us, like when she would be able to reconnect with her world again, or her being a princess.
Some of the things were more mind-blowing then my college philosophy course was. Her "magic" seemed to fudge with the laws of physics. We also weren't sure if Twilight was lying, so it was best to not reveal them until contact with her world was assured.
(As they say, trust but verify).
Despite my insistence, the President revealed Mary and I's involvement, and ordered Twilight to stay in our house instead of some military base. The PR of our story-an alien enjoying "American hospitality"-was too good to hold up. Barring a direct security threat, Twilight would be staying in our house. Over the weekend, Mary and I were flooded with demands for interviews, protestors, and letters from a ton of important people. And our lives were restricted from the presence of Roger and the Secret Service.
In a matter of days, our normal lives had been undone.
It all hit us like a ton of bricks.
When we finally came home, again by police escort, I was relieved to not have to answer so many questions about Twilight. When Roger and I walked inside, Mary came up to me with worry.
"Mary," I asked, "what's wrong".
"Jake," she said, holding my hand, "Twilight locked herself in our bedroom."
"What," I said. Roger stared at her, worried.
"She was reading some book, and then she started crying, and ran into our room," Mary said. "She locked the door and wouldn't come out." Without a word, Roger grabbed some tool and ran toward the door.
"Princess Twilight," he asked. "Are you OK?" Twilight didn't respond. Without a word, he used the tool to pry the door open.
We saw her lying in my bed, looking incredibly upset. She wasn't hurt, but she looked like her entire family had died.
"Twilight," I asked in a quiet tone. "Are you OK?" She didn't respond. "What happened?" She didn't say a word, but she gestured to an open book on nightstand. I opened it, and saw why she had been upset.
It was a picture of Hitler, his toothbrush moustache and all. My pony friend had just read about the Holocaust.
(Oh boy).