Klingon Love

by Ryan McBride

Part I: At The Window

I was walking home from the 137th weekly meeting of the Euhemris heights Star Trek club when I first saw her. It must’ve been about three o’clock, I guess. You sort of lose track of time. But anyway this car pulled up, a Toyota minivan, and she stepped out, and then the minivan drove off. I only saw her walk up the path, open the front door, and go in. The house was right next door to mine. Now, I don’t really know how this happened. I don’t pay much attention to things, usually. I guess they must have sold the house, and her family bought it, or was renting it, or something. I never talked to the people who used to live there. It was a really old lady and her white-haired, AMC pacer-driving son, I think. I don’t really notice people, usually.

She was different, though. When she stepped out of the van I almost stopped; I had to take a step back or something — I was just struck. She had these... I don’t know how to say it — Rain cloud eyes, and her nose was the perfect upside down seven. And her lips, so small but yet still lip-like... like, I don’t know, folded lilies maybe. Her skin was so white you could see the network of capillaries on her neck and down her chest. I don’t think she noticed me, but I quickly ran into my house and just sat on my TV chair breathing deep breaths. Then I got a bag of potato chips, some mayonnaise, and worked on my Klingon poetry. I’m one of the most renowned poets working in Klingon today, though you wouldn’t know it to look at me. Honestly, though, I couldn’t even concentrate on eating my potato chips, so stricken was I by what I had just seen.

No matter what I did I couldn’t keep my hands from shaking with giddy excitement. She lived next door to me! The most beautiful anything I had ever seen.... was barely 20 feet away right now. I got light headed, started laughing for no reason. Eventually I went into my room, put on my favorite Rush CD, and tried to calm down by signing on and playing some Everquest. In Everquest, I’m a 3rd level warrior-mage knight, and right now, I have 5,284 life points and my magic bar is at 77%! Oh yeah!

My sweet Warrior (Translated from the Klingon by Arthur E. Meyers.) The battlefields do reek with cloying sweetness When you are there, My double-handled blade carves only for you, My darling warrior. For you the bodies of the Romulans Gorge the gullets of the giant voles, All for you, My lily of vengeful love-making.

I suppose I should tell you a little bit about myself, while I’m at it, dear reader. I’m almost twenty-eight, 5’6”, 240 pounds, I worked for a fantasy novel company for a little while, and now I’m living on a combination of my meager inheritance and unemployment. I love science fiction and fantasy, and I don’t really have any friends, except for the guys at the Star Trek club, but they never call me. Oh yeah, and I’m still a virgin. (Though not for the lack of trying, natch.)

My life really wasn’t the same after that revelation of a Friday afternoon, when I first saw her. Through careful listening of a night I learned her name was Mary-Beth, and that she was old enough to drive, or at least to get a learner’s permit. I would whisper the name to myself, or write it down repeatedly on sheets of white paper, for inspiration. Suddenly, everything took on this extra, almost magical, significance. It’s like how, in the twilight of the morning, even dumb ordinary objects like trashcans and brooms have this mysteriousness to them. When I played online, I was more fierce, more chivalrous, a better warrior in every way. On Saturday I killed a hundred trolls. When I went to the club and read my poetry, it was as if Mary Beth herself were there, in the audience (which was three guys and a lizard.) I felt like gasping out the secrets of my soul, felt as if, should I sing hard enough, Mary would appear, like a dream vision, and realize that we were perfect for each other.

Sunday night, I couldn’t sleep. I knew Mary Beth had school on Monday, and that she would be leaving the house around 7:40. I sure as hell wasn’t going to miss that. So I kept waking up and looking over and it would always be 3:15 or 5:15, and each time I was sure I had missed her departure. Finally I sprang out of bed, full of eager energy, though my eyes felt heavy and painful. I realized that morning what a perfect view my kitchen window gave. I pulled up a chair, cracked the curtains just enough, and stuck my binoculars out, and waited, like a master bird watcher. After a couple of long minutes I heard her mom’s voice. I didn’t see her dad. I saw the door start to swing open before I saw her, and when I did it felt as though my heart was becoming its own organism, taking on life. I almost fainted. It was a good thirty seconds, thirty beautiful seconds, I kept the binoculars trained on her as she walked to the car, stopped as if she’d forgotten something, seem to look straight at me, and then joined her mom in the minivan.

This was the first time I’d felt it, the insane desire, the mad need to reveal myself, to confess the depths of my longing in some roundabout way — so that she’d eventually find out, and come to me... !

As a lotus, blossoming in the valley of mists, As a white egret, picking in the still water, My solitary love, I would fly Around the four quadrants, yea, even unto The far reaches of the crab nebula, For your love. For your love, there is nowhere I would not Navigate to, not the zone of endless destruction Nor the space inhabited by the dangerous Cyborgs For you, I would venture, even to the region Of pulsars, most distant of beautiful things.

After the lovely sight had passed I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t control myself, was going wild, so I turned on the TV to try to take my mind off things. I tried all the channels, but unfortunately all I could find were Reality shows, High school football, and the News. God, three things I hate. High school football — I mean, really: the obsessive pastime of a diseased, moribund society — it’s really nothing more than ritualized buggerey and homosexual rape. Yeah, thanks, but I’ll leave my end zone out of this. And reality shows! God, Elimidate was on. Not only does this kind of programming have no artistic merit, but those trashy sluts fawning over muscle-bound ignoramuses only served to sully the beautiful images I’d collected in the morning. And the news was some kind of political discussion. I hate politics. Neither Democrats nor Republicans have the faintest grasp of the basic concepts. They ignore the Prime Directive and have no respect for the Organian Peace Treaty. They make me sick.

So, with the failure of my television plan, I took a box of chocolate chip cookies into my room with me and signed on to the internet. Ah the internet: metaphysical connection among machines and human souls that has its own hybrid sentience. And most important medium for publishing my poetry. So I let my deep, seething vengeful fury take the form of a campaign against the Kingdom of the one-eyed centaurs. As Sir Kahless, knight of Everquest, I was ruthless, terrible that day. One thousand dwarves fell to my pixilated blade, dripping with blood. I secured the magical ring of Endor, conquered the deadly Exuberdron, (boss of the thirty third level) and made it all the way to the forest of dark sorcery. All in all, a satisfying afternoon. So much so, in fact, that I failed to notice the clock in the corner of my computer screen until it was too late! I happened to glance over, and found to my horror that it was 3: 15! With nearly superhuman speed I dashed downstairs to my lookout point, and readied my binoculars. But it was no use — I waited, but she’d come and gone.

I felt horrible. I knelt down and stared at the linoleum floor for a long time, praying to the love gods, wondering if I might be allowed to perform some kind of penance to make up for my hideous desertion. I realized, or perhaps, to put it more metaphorically, was told by the gods, that I would need to learn more — more about the haunting Mary Beth. I began to devise a scheme through which I could devote myself to learning about my love. I toyed with many options, even thought of a hopeless declaration of love, a brutal confession upon her very doorstep! But I thought better of it. I would have to earn her love.

The backyard of my house abutted the side of theirs, and so, that afternoon, I found it possible to trace the activities from two thirds of their windows by peering over my small fence, ostensibly gardening. It was marvelous. Apparently, Mary’s mother was not big on the idea of curtains, and so I could trace her whereabouts quite easily. Mary’s room was on the second story, almost directly across from mine, and she often had the blinds open and the light on, so that she was as well-lit as a wildlife diorama at the history museum. It felt like peering into a doll’s house — beautiful, but, of course, only permissible in the context of true and abiding love.

Now, I had in my possession a directional microphone with amplifier disc ($119.99 from spyworks.com) from the days when I’d tried my hand at crime-fighting. To my surprise and delight, I was able to hear the room’s every utterance. I credit the shoddy construction of the tract-houses in my neighborhood. Yes, and I learned the all-important detail of her family name, “Mary Beth Ferguson, you get down here right this minute!” was impossible to miss. Of course, being able to see into Mary’s room greatly expanded the scope of my responsibilities. That night, as soon as it was dark, I climbed upstairs to my own bedroom, and skillfully pointed my binoculars in the direction of Mary’s window.

I saw her. I saw her and for the second time my heart fluttered and pulsed like a Klingon bird of prey. She was wearing a light blue beanie, which failed to obfuscate her wavy, brown hair. She was sitting at her computer, and since the glare from the window prevented my seeing what was on the screen, I was left free to imagine. Perhaps she was off in the faraway dimension of Everquest, living as a warrior queen. The future consort, perhaps, of Sir Kahless the Unforgettable. O what a beautiful thing how life imitates art!

There is something, my darling, in the set of your eyes They change color like Praxis, the second moon of Ragna’ros, In the fertile season, when clouds flying like warbirds bring autumn rain, And the men with their sharp sickles do the threshing. Those eyes are expansive and clear like the mist-surrounded sea. What would I not give up for the sight of those eyes? And your small fleshy lips, like the fruit of the pomegranate. there is something in the way your lips fold, when you bite the lower one, having come across something difficult in your Geometry homework. Something familiar, familiar as the blazing hearth-stone of my father’s house, named ‘Defensible,’ girded with bronze pillars. Yea, there is something, even, in the single mole on the left side of your nose, Something that, to think on the bliss its presence invokes within me, Makes my weak heart thrash at its bonds like a giant boar, When mighty hunters have confounded it in their strong nets. O gods of love, O far-shooting Sharra and scheme-devising Kythri, ‘Thou pluckest me out,’ I say, ‘Thou pluckest.’ ‘Burning’

Part II: Pink Sparkles Where You Least Want Them.

Late that night, by the light of Mary Beth’s face on my desktop, I came across a brilliant idea. I got on the Internet and “googled” her name. That’s a figure of speech. In fact, I used many different search engines — cross-referencing the results using a program I’d acquired as part of my experiment in superheroism.

Ah-hah! What a wealth of information was to be found! Studiously sifting through the results, I learned the exact age of my darling, as well as the name of her school, the call-number of her recently acquired driver’s license, and the number of times she had appeared in her school’s newspaper. What a thrill! Of course, I confirmed that she was quite of honorable age to marry, being post pubescent. Also, I learned she was a junior at local Hayes high school, where she participated in the drama club, dance-team, school newspaper, and student literary magazine. I was unsurprised to learn she was a woman of much metis, or clever intelligence. Also, the web-page of a local theater arts group provided several pictures of my shining star, which I promptly printed out and glued to my wall, just above my model of the starship Enterprise, NCC-1701-A, across from my bed.

I was absolutely thrilled at the genius of my Internet gambit, whose fruits looked out at me now. And even these pictures, pale shadows of their earthly counterpart, were enough to send my heart wildly pulsating, and to stir the very depths of my being with manic glee.

Who is it that whispers to me in the darkness, like the sighing of summer breezes in the forests of Ma’keth? Who is it that illuminates the path forward for my wandering soul? It is you, my darling Mary Beth, only you, you forever!

As an update, during this time, as Sir Kahless the Unforgettable, I had advanced to the fifty-forth level and the forest of the Great Dragon Tyroneous, where I went on a quest for the seven sacred seals of the elf-people and fought the grisly Hag-Ogre. A daring adventure, I must say, but a worthwhile one.

Alas, I began to grow anxious and weary of the endless distance between my love-object and myself. I began to wonder if she were somehow aware of my existence, and of my love. Perhaps through telepathy she had already deduced my activities and was only waiting for me to come out and declare myself, so that we could love each other at last! I was looking for small signs, anything, that might indicate she felt something for me. As it chanced, I came across the text of a poem Mary Beth had written on the web-page for her school’s literary magazine. Kansas’ ‘Dust in the Wind’ was playing on repeat on my cd-player. Apparently Mary Beth’s had won the award for best poem written at her high-school.

the grass is green. the flowers are floating on the wind, but my soul is dark. my soul is dark, my life is an endless featureless plain of dark depression. I miss the days of flowers and balloons and sleepovers. now there is only the searing fire of oblivion, and high-school. sometimes at night, I wish the black fire would claim me. the world is not perfect, my darkness goes on forever, and there are no perfect men. so I cry and I cry and.

--My Darkness, by Mary Beth Ferguson.

Of course, the poem showed the seeds of nascent genius, was a beautiful expression of the bud-like flower that was Mary Beth. It was enough to renew my sense of unbearable love.

After printing out several copies of the poem and writing her name repeatedly on them, in what I imagined her script looked like, I went downstairs to catch the Thundercats. The Thundercats is my third favorite show, after, of course, Star Trek, and also ‘Pirates of Dark Water.’ With a bag of Doritos on one side and twin cans of Pringles on the other, I settled in to watch the mighty Lion-o defend Thundera with his shining Lion sword.

Later that week, I made a shocking discovery. It was at the close of a meeting of the Star Trek club, and I had just read a particularly striking Klingon war-song. My fellow club member, one Aaron Finkelstein, said to me,

“Hey, you live on Cemeteries street, right?”

“Indeed,” I responded.

“Yeah. That’s funny; I think the girl I tutor in math lives on your street.”

“Indeed?” I felt the blood rush to my face.

“Yeah. Mary-Beth’s her name. I get 30 bucks an hour to help her with SAT math, but I think she’s hopeless. She keeps telling me how instead of going to college she wants to go live with some older man as an insane poet/ housewife.”

“She tells you all that?” I felt feverish.

“Yeah. She tells me everything. I guess she just doesn’t care. She tells me about her love life, and I’m like, ‘you’re sixteen; I don’t wanna hear about it.’”

“Well, she’s an excellent poet.” I couldn’t help myself from saying. I felt again that mad uncontrollable desire to confess.

“Ha. She read you her poetry too?”

“Something like that.” And then I hastily made my exit. I felt like I was going to faint at any moment.

I rushed home and tried to decide what was to be done with this new knowledge. It seemed as if everything was going exactly the way the stories of courtly love in Klingon legend did. Always in such tales there was an envoy of some kind. And Aaron’s reports provided the perfect segue into my window duty that night. Oh what an aching, painful pleasure it was, to watch her, so perfect so beloved, with fifteen feet of air between us. I was eating potato chips (dipping them into a cup of ranch dressing, of course), and found myself munching with a feverish, lycanthropic gusto.

After she retired for the night I logged onto the computer to see with what else I could entertain myself. Mary Beth in her dance outfit was my desktop background, of course, and I had set my home-page to the search engine I had devised. It was from her school website that I found out something interesting: the Hayes-high prom was in less than a week. From what I remember, the prom tradition is not unlike the Klingon Ma’ka’coop’ba’ka, or festival of the courtly peacock. It’s when young men and women of all social classes can pretend to be wealthy royalty for a night. Suddenly, like the light of the second moon, it dawned on me: This was a perfect opportunity to honorably propose marriage to the lovely Mary-Beth.

O beloved, for you I cry as the reeds along the river Ma’ koon when a north-west wind whistles through their monocot stems. O beloved, how much I long for the sight of you. I wish your cellular form, made of proteins and nucleic acids, held together by a structure of calcium carbonate, were here beside me as I sit like the elder Makless, maker of laws, in deep contemplation of your heaven-created beauty. O show me, O love, your proteins. Show me your nucleic acids. Open up to me as the lily of the night spreads its white petals for the summer moon. Your epicanthic folds are dazzling like the aegis of Sharra, the god of love with his swift striking spear.

The next day, something strange happened. I watched Mary Beth leave for school, as usual, noted her appearance, body language, etc. (She was in a good mood, although her gait showed signs of anxiety.) Nothing out of the ordinary. However, come three o’ clock, there was not a sight of her. I knew full well she did not have drama rehearsals on Wednesdays, so there was no reason she would not be home. I waited for an hour but still nothing. I paced around the house nervously, ate a bar of Hagen Daas, and then it was time for the Star Trek club. Of course, it would be dishonorable to shirk my duty as a warrior poet, so I grabbed my green cap, put my ‘Best of Rush’ in my walkman, and started walking.

At the club meeting, I learned something from my Pandarus. I was preparing for my oratory when he casually remarked, half to me and half to his friend Phil,

“Yeah, so the girl I was supposed to be tutoring ran away from home today.”

“Eh.” Suddenly the rest of the world lost all meaning, and there were only Aaron’s words, like watch fires in the wilderness. “What...” I stuttered.

Oblivious, he continued, “Yeah, I went over there and her mom says she’s gone. Says she ran away, probably to her friend Judy’s house.”

“Hmmff. Is she worried?” Phil asked.

“Well she figures Mary Beth’ll show up before prom. I mean, her mom’s not the kind of mother who goes crazy worrying. Actually she’s more the kind of mother who thinks of everything as somebody else’s problem. They’ve got a kind of fucked-up family. The girl’s dad’s in Taiwan or something.”

All I could think at that point was how exhilaratingly well reality was corresponding to the schema of the courtly legend. I felt buoyed, lifted up by the pride of being part of such an ancient, universal, ongoing story. I delivered a searingly beautiful poem that day, which I’m sure held my audience in raptures. Khan, especially. (Khan is Phil’s Iguana; a beast of noble character if ever there was one.)

As I trotted home, it became clear that there was no more time to waste — I would rescue Mary Beth from whatever foul entanglements had befallen her, and use the opportunity to declare my love, once and for all. There simply was no longer any choice. Thus, it took very little thought, once I got home, for me to prepare what I needed for a daring rescue. I figured that, after the epic battle, we could use the prom as the opportunity to show our glorious love to the world. Once home, I quickly got on the computer and used AOL instant messenger to contact one of Mary’s “Buddies” (one Hivesgirl555.) in order to ascertain Mary’s whereabouts. In order to pull this off I electronically impersonated another buddy, “Coldplayisgreat999”. Ah, the intellectual prowess of a true crime-fighter.

Once I learned where Mary was staying, the next thing I had to do was prepare for a likely physical confrontation (If for no other reason, then because honor demanded it.) And while I may no longer possess the superhuman agility I once had; thanks to my natural talents I am still as fast and lithe as an athletic normal human, despite my largely horizontal lifestyle of the last several years. I was also more than a bit excited to dust off my old costume and crime fighting accouterments. There they were, my purple and yellow spandex bodysuit with United Federation of Planets insignia, my honor swords (from the finest blacksmiths of Chinatown), and my grappling hook set, which cost me nearly $1,000 back in the day. I quickly ascertained the readiness of my gizmos, which proved satisfactory. Then I modified the old costume to fit my now-significantly more impressive physique and I was ready.

Concurritur: Horae momento cita mors venit aut victoria laetia! I gird myself in preparation for battle in your name, my love! I clasp my strong bronze shield, on it grim terror in green adamantium, ringed by the heaven-shaking battle of the centaurs and Lapiths, emblazoned with frightening Ker and hideous Gorgones. I ready myself for battle, for you! In seeking out the protoplasm of your love I arm myself for glory-or honorable doom. The battle commences: now in a moment comes swift death or joyful victory!

Suit on under civilian clothes, and my gadgets in a backpack, I took the bus toward Mary’s friend Anna’s house, which was the bus of destiny. I got off two blocks away, and then walked nonchalantly past the house to scope out the situation. My heart leapt like a joyful rabbit when I caught a glimpse of Mary Beth in one of the windows. Now I felt I had the courage to do anything — for the one I loved so well, I would challenge a whole herd of carnivorous giant voles.

I got of the bus, then hid behind a dumpster to change into my costume. My next step was to determine who my enemies were, her captors, and how to go about challenging them. This was interrupted by a loud masculine shout from the direction of Anna’s home. I had read something on her AIM about having an “insane” father who was not a fan of Mary Beth’s presence. This then, would be my first challenger. I crouched in the shade of a tall cypress tree and waited.

The door cracked open. I leapt. I burst through the portal and appeared, huge, in the well-lit living room. The father, a corpulent, pony-tailed white man, was silent, backed up a few steps. Mary Beth turned pale (I assume with the heart-flutter of love). Anna doubled over and burst into a fury of what looked like uncontrollable giggling. I assume she was so awed by my majestic presence that her body didn’t know what else to do. (I doubt she would have noticed the pink glitter which had become confused with my costume in the changing process behind the dumpster.)

After a couple of seconds the father screamed, “What! The! Fuck! Is! This?!” He then prepared to lunge at me, at which point I honorably declared,

“Halt! I challenge you to a duel! My name is Martin Poindexter and I am here to rescue Mary-Beth Ferguson.”

“What the fuck is this shit? Get outta my fuckin face, fag!”

After which, as honor dictated, I drew my blade. He quivered. “Do you stand down? Do you surrender, or do you wish to fight for your life?” I offered him the other blade.

“D — d don’t fuckin touch me man. I don’t want none a’ this shit.” I took this as a dishonorable surrender, which prevented me from striking him.

Instead I raised my sword high like Lion-O, and bellowed, “Come with me, Mary Beth! I will lead you to freedom!”

During the battle she had held silence, but now Mary Beth intoned, in her beautiful voice, “Fuck this. Whatever. I’m going.” And then she ran out the door, which I held open for her. I turned to follow and at the same time she said, “C’mon. Let’s both get out of here, before your dad calls the cops.

“I have a place we can go.” I said.

“Alright. I don’t know who you are or anything or what kind of joke this is, but you’re better than Anna’s dad and you’re better than my mom, so let’s go.”

I started walking towards the bus-stop.

“Well,” she broke in, “Where’s your car?”

It was then that I heard the sirens, whining orgiastically off in the distance, and coming closer, ever closer as the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.