by Cliff Aliperti

(image c/o CNN)

The familiar man in his familiar costume, a military uniform with unfamiliar medals and ribbons, spoke in his language, unfamiliar to me, while a neutral voice translated through the TV in the break room.

 “We embrace peace with all peoples, especially your nation,” the translator said. “Opposing powers, enemies of both of our nations, are the ones who rattle sabers towards our olive branches.”

I looked away to take another bite of my sandwich. Same news, different day, but any talk of peace couldn’t help but boost the old appetite.

“This is bullshit,” said the IT guy whose name I hadn’t bothered to learn. His accent made the word sound like bool-sheet. I confess this got me to lower my guard. He was seated at the next table. There was one other employee in the break room, Terry or Jerry, a graphics designer or possibly an editor, something artsy. Terry or Jerry gave the IT guy the ole side-eye.

“How so?” I asked. 

Terry or Jerry wiped his mouth, tossed his napkin, and rushed out of the break room.

“That bastard is from where I am from,” the IT guy said.

“He says he wants peace with us.”

“No,” the IT guy said, slamming his hand to the table. Uh oh. Now I get you, Terry or Jerry. Whatever his name, the fellow must have seen this show before.

“Look, I understand,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “You had problems over there. That’s why you’re here now. But the man said he doesn’t want any trouble.”

“No,” the IT guy repeated. He turned and looked at me, his expression pained but frozen. “I apologize if I do not express this correctly. But that is exactly not what this bastard says.”

“Look,” I said, growing annoyed. “I just heard him—”

“No, I am sorry, Alex.” Wow, IT guy knew my name. “You just heard the translator. These words the translator said, they are not what that bastard says.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Now I really don’t understand.” 

“Look, there is no reason you would know this, since you do not speak my language. If they were smart, they would mute his sound and just let the translator talk. But they do not, so I can tell you with certainty that these words the television say are not the words this bastard says.”

“What’s he saying then?”

The IT guy exhaled before dropping his head. “He said that we are a powerful nation, not one to be bullied by foreign powers, no matter how strong such foreign powers pretend to be. He says we will defend ourselves to the last drop of blood, and he says if his demands are not met, he is happy to smash first and force action.”

“Jesus,” I said. How could that be? “How could that be?” I asked.

“That could be because your people are as shitty as my people. Just as happy at fooling the sheep. This bastard, he’s a bastard, but he’s not the one lying to you.”

“No, I don’t buy that,” I said. “How could the translator, like, just lie? We’re knee-deep into the twenty-first century. If they were going to bullshit us, they’d just deepfake it, wouldn’t they? That way even you wouldn’t know.”

“I do not matter.”

“Don’t say that,” I said.

“I do not matter,” he said again. “You do not matter, and the whole entire world do not matter to these bastards.”

“Easy now.”

Two days later, the IT guy, Harry was his name—actually, he said to call him Harry, because I’d never wrap my tongue around his given name—Harry came up to me waving his phone and insisted I look at something.

It was a video of a baseball player being interviewed after a game. The player was from another country and had a translator at his side.

“Look at this bullshit,” Harry said. Bool-sheet. I was charmed.

After the interviewer asked her question, the translator relayed it to the ballplayer. The ballplayer, cocky as any young native-born player, replied and the translator spoke without skipping a beat.  

“It’s just a pleasure to be on this team and be able to pick things up for the other guys on occasion. Did you see what Michaels did out there? He’s a wonderful player—”

Harry paused the video. “Did you hear the player say the name Michaels?”

I shook my head.

“Watch what happens next.”

“—just like all of my other teammates. I do it for them. I do it for the fans. I do it for you.”

The player began shaking his head. He and the interpreter had some crosstalk, which grew heated. The interviewer asked if everything was all right. The interpreter replied, “Yes,” but the ballplayer replied, “No,” emphatically and in English.

“Yes,” the interpreter said again. “He just wanted me to make sure I didn’t shortchange Forster. He had a hell of a game too—”

The player waved his hands in disgust, turned, and left.

“So what was the player really saying?” I asked.

“I do not understand his language,” Harry said, “but I dug around on internet to find out. In this case, the translator actually saved the player’s behind. He complimented the reporter on her physical appearance and asked her to dinner. Did you see that thing he did with his tongue? Do not know if that was for her or about dinner. He was also angry that the translator gave so much credit to the other players when it was him who won the game.”

“Sounds like a real jerk,” I said.

“Total asshole,” Harry said. “But now do you see how anything is possible?”

“That’s just a single instance,” I said, dismissing Harry’s conspiracy theory.

Harry exhaled, frustrated. Then he lit up. “Look, did you ever see popular comedy movie Yikes, That’s My Mom?”

“Oh, gawd, yeah,” I said. “A few years ago. All bathroom humor and dick jokes.”

“You know that Yikes, That’s My Mom was import? From my homeland?”

“I knew it was dubbed,” I said. “It felt like that movie took over the world for a few weeks. Somebody got rich off that one!”

“A very serious film in my country,” Harry said.

I thought on it. My face must have contorted some.

“For true,” Harry said. “It was deep love story about, what do you call it, spring and winter romance, but with the typical roles reversed. They called it, um, in your language, it would be Mother’s Lonely Heart.”

“May-December romance,” I said, correcting him. “That can’t be,” I said. I thought about it. Especially the scene where the guy caught his mother blowing his buddy under the dining room table, and played it off as if everything was a-ok. It was kind of hilarious; was it supposed to be … tender? “Really?” I asked.

“No,” said Harry. “It was actually called Spread Them, Mama, and all toilet stories and penis jokes, like you say. But you see? You had to think about it!”

My sister and I had never been close and this phone call, like all recent ones, was intended to further hash out details of our parents’ estate, frankly too modest for all the recent hashing. Darlene lost me when she went off-topic, telling me about Philip’s late nights at the office in such a way that I was supposed to volunteer that he wasn’t screwing around, but I just okay’d and ahem’d her until she finally took a breath.

“So, they say war isn’t happening,” she said, thankfully realizing how little I cared about her crumbling marriage.

“Um,” I said. “That’s what they say.”

“You sound skeptical?”

“You ever see, Yikes, That’s My Mom?” I asked.

“Ugh, no,” she said.

“Awfully disgusted for never having seen it.”

“I mean, I know what it is. Not my cup of tea.”

“It’s a very serious movie back where it came from. A guy from work told me so.”

“Then they’re a country filled with idiots.”

“Um,” I said. “Do you trust translators?” 

“What? Like in the movies?”

“Sure, the movies,” I said. “Or on the news?” 

Darlene laughed. “I used to,” she said. “Before Sarah.” Darlene and Phillip’s youngest child, Sarah, now four, was born deaf. “Now, no. Not in the least.”

“Why’s that?” I asked. “What’s Sarah have to do with it?”

“The signing? All those interpreters who show up for the politicians? They add a touch of their own spin sometimes, sure, but if it’s nothing too serious some will outright lie or even clown at the politician’s expense.”

“No way!”

“I’ve seen it, Alex. That tainted meat scandal a couple months back? There was no whistleblower—the interpreter spilled it when they were supposed to be explaining bridge tolls.”

I ended the call unsure as to whether Darlene was messing with me, or just wasn’t as skilled at sign language as she believed. Either way, I’d have to look into that tainted meat story, possibly toss the contents of my freezer. 

Another lunch hour, another sandwich (composed of newly purchased luncheon meats), another late afternoon, and just Harry and I in the break room. The news was bleak, though mostly I was thinking about how I needed to shift to an earlier slot for lunch, so I could enjoy eating my sandwiches without Harry around to make me choke on them. 

I do not matter. You do not matter. Bool-sheet.

But it wasn’t Harry who caused me to gag over my lunch that afternoon.

One of our own top generals came on the television (I didn’t know what any of his medals meant either) and announced that tensions with Harry’s old country had taken a poor turn. Our plans for imminent attack were uncovered and that foreign bastard responded by having one of his allies launch an attack towards our southern coast. The missiles were intercepted, but after we returned fire, they launched more, and the northwest corner of our nation had eight minutes to kiss their asses goodbye.

My sandwich froze in front of my face, my jaw went agape.

All hell had broken loose, but the news station abruptly left the General’s presser and shifted to a half-dozen slick talking heads discussing strategies towards peace in the region. They did not mention war, weapons, or enemies, just potential partners. I hadn’t heard the translator mention trade, but trade was all these people were talking about!

“What the hell?” I said, slamming down my sandwich and wiping the side of my mouth with the back of my hand.

“I think I get it,” Harry said. He casually slurped from whatever was steaming from his bowl. Its obnoxious odor seemed a necessary ingredient to my obliging anticipation of further explanation. Harry teased a little more. “Having lived under that bastard for so long, I think I understand.”

“Please, Harry. Enlighten me?” Pretty sure I had gone bug-eyed at that moment.

“They are not bothering with fake translations any longer. They are laying it all out there. The truth. But then they are acting like it was never said.”

“But I heard it. I saw it,” I said. Whined? Argued?

“You cannot trust your own eyes and ears, Alex. It never happened they are telling you.”

“But what if we lived in the northwest corner.” I proffered my wrist in his direction even though I hadn’t worn a watch since I was twelve. “We’d have like three minutes left!”

Harry sighed and put down his sandwich. “For all you know, even that was a big lie. We could be the target. Maybe even there is no target, they just say the northwest is gone, and respond as they please. Why would any of them give us true information?”

The sky went dark, and I shivered at what was surely coming, but what had come was just a thick cloud crawling past our window. My heart ticked with the imaginary second-hand of my imaginary watch as I sat, waited, and prayed that northwest corner was not bool-sheet-speak for right on top of our heads.

I don’t know if it was just me, I don’t think it was, but it definitely felt as though something had shifted. Mood, definitely, but more. Something beyond us, beyond humanity. But well and hell, lunch hour was over.

I paused on the way back to my desk and tapped on my boss’s door, not at all in any rush to return to my cube when it and I might be smithereens any moment.

“Headed out for some fresh air,” I said.

Frank nodded without looking up from his paperwork. “You’re one lazy bastard,” he said, “I really wish the big boss would give me an assistant who was worth a damn.”

I was stunned. “What’s that, Frank?”

“Hmm, nothing,” he said, meeting my dumb gaze. “Hurry back.”

I ran into Celeste from accounting, who had been with the company forever, and her assistant Leslie at the elevator. They both nodded and forced smiles, and we stepped onto the elevator together.

“I wish this filthy pig would keep his eyes to himself,” Leslie said.

My eyes bulged, wondering who she was talking about.

“Alec? Alex, is it?” Celeste said. I turned and met her eye, but she quickly looked away. “Whatever, the boy sure is put together. I’d give him—”

I turned once more to Celeste, who reddened and looked to the floor. 

I would have been insulted—oh, let’s not lie, flattered—had Leslie not chimed in, “Ugh, stop looking at us, you frigging perv!”

I got the hell off the elevator, paused, and allowed Celeste and Leslie to depart the building. Leslie peered back with a dirty look and told me to stop checking out her ass. I shook off this scolding and stopped by Victor the doorman’s post, where by way of greeting I tapped at the lectern he sat behind with his newspaper.

“What’s news, Victor?” I said, trying to be cute.

“Same old, same old,” Victor said. It wasn’t until he glanced back to the paper that he added, “We’re at war you dumb son-of-a-bitch, what do you think the fucking news is?”

“Sorry, Victor?”

“Eh, just all this war talk, you know.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Oh well, headed out for some air.”

“With any luck they’ll draft your ass and you’ll get aired out for good on some godforsaken battlefield.”

I glanced at Victor until he looked up at me. He shrugged his shoulders. I headed outside.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, raising my arm towards a passing stranger.

The businessman stopped and looked right through me. He took a deep drag of his cigarette. “What the hell do you want?”

“Um, would you happen to have a spare cigarette?” I’d quit three years ago, but figured I may as well let my lungs go down in a blaze of glory.

The man grumbled curses at me as he shook a cigarette loose from his opened pack and proffered it in my direction. I took the cigarette and thanked him.

“Plenty of bums around here without guys like you putting the touch on me.”

“Light, sir?”

He wished me to burn in the fires of hell as he held the lighter under my nose.

I thanked him again, and he told me to go fuck myself before walking away as though I didn’t exist.

I froze against the brick wall in response to a sudden clap of thunder. This is it, I thought, though I must have actually declared it, because the people passing me on the street were looking at me as though I had lost it.

One pretty woman clacked past in high heels and smiled at me, a situation I would normally appreciate, but then she turned and said, “It’s just thunder, mama’s boy. You’ll survive.”

I nodded and took a deep drag from my cigarette.

Suddenly, Harry the IT guy burst from the building, looked right, then left, smiling once he spotted me. “Thank God, Alex, here you are.”

“Having my final smoke,” I said with all the solemnity of a man facing the firing squad.

“Congratulations on quitting,” Harry said.

“We’re all quitting,” I remarked, gesturing towards the darkening sky.

“You haven’t heard about the peace then?” Harry asked.

“Piece of what?”

“No, world peace. It has happened. The next wave of bombs was never fired. My stupid bastard stood down. Your stupid bastard said this was the act of a responsible leader, and he looks forward to making the world a better place with my stupid bastard.”

I sucked down the last of my smoke and flicked it into the street. I exhaled and I sighed. “Poor Harry,” I said. “You believed them?”

“Yes, it was just on television. Everybody’s words matched!” Harry grabbed me by both shoulders and shook. “The world is now beautiful, Alex!

“Oh, Harry. You really believed them? You can’t believe your own eyes and ears, Harry.”

Harry let go of my shoulders and dropped his hands to his side. He bowed his head, turned, and walked back inside. I had gotten through to him. Or maybe he had totally lost me. It began to rain.

In the aftermath, mere moments later, I wound up with some scratches, a shiner, and a lump on my forehead, but the rubble mostly avoided me. 

Somehow the broadcast news appeared on the networks as normal that night. I sat at attention when they reported that a water main had burst at the cross-street nearby my work address, closing the area for the next several days. Nobody had been hurt. Even that wasn’t true; look at me. And that was all they said about it. 

I didn’t believe a goddamn word.

“I matter,” I say aloud to myself, to the world. “We matter!”

Cliff Aliperti is a fiction writer from Long Island, New York. He’s had stories appear in After Dinner Conversation, The Razor, Fiction on the Web, Nude Bruce Review, and elsewhere. Previously, Cliff ran the classic movie website Immortal Ephemera, a project that culminated with his book, “Helen Twelvetrees, Perfect Ingenue.” You can find more about Cliff at cliffaliperti.com. Bluesky & Twitter/X: @IEphemera.

(features/top of pop image by sasan at afp)