I have a vision of a story that has been floating in my head for a long time. Elvis, aliens, 70s rock and roll, and David Bowie and Blondie leading an interstellar rescue mission. This is an early chapter. Enjoy
Chapter Three
July, 1977 New York City
A dented yellow taxi made its way east on 42nd street before turning north on First Avenue under the dark shadows of the United Nations building. Protesters marched along the sidewalk, chanting for peace and hurling obscenities at the same time. They paid no attention to the dodge coronet driving past them or the passenger it carried.
“Protesters are always outside the UN whenever someone big is in there,” the cab driver laughed. “They’re a big pain in the ass, if you ask me.” He glanced into the rearview mirror, hoping for a response from the young woman with the dark sunglasses. He had fallen in love with her the moment he saw her bleach blond hair and blue jean shorts that left very li/le to the imagination. His mind had already thought of multiple things he would like to say, and do, to her. Nearly twenty-four hours straight of driving his cab around New York had made the sight of a beautiful woman an excessively big deal. When she didn’t respond he muttered an insult under his breath and kept driving.
“Excuse me?” his passenger responded in a tone that let him know she had heard him. She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, catching the cabbieʼs eye in the rearview mirror long enough for him to shrink in his seat.
“Nothing,” he responded obediently.
“Turn left on 45th and pull over.”
“Are you sure?” the cabbie asked. “Thereʼs nothing there but abandoned buildings.” His passenger said nothing, again, so he did what he was told. She blew a cloud of smoke into his face as he turned to collect the fare.
“Thanks for the ride,” she teased and exited the vehicle. Her long legs taunted the cabbie as she walked away, almost making him forget that she had not paid.
“Hey!” he yelled and turned to open his door, only to be met by the sight of a very large, very strong looking man in a black suit standing at his window. The man in the suit gave the international sign for “roll down your window” and the cabbie thought of just driving away. Reluctantly he did what he was told, and the man handed him a wad of cash.
“This should cover the fare.” Not one to question a large ball of money wrapped in a solid gold clip, the cab driver took the cash and sped off. The man in the suit stared at the woman for a moment as she took the last drag on her cigarette. “Ready to go?” he asked.
“Why not?” she rolled her eyes. The man in the suit walked to an abandoned bakery on the corner of the street and disappeared inside. The woman threw her cigarette down, rolled her eyes and followed the man into the dark. Inside, everything was covered in a thick coat of dust. She was led through the kitchen past rusting machinery and empty display cases. A single light bulb showed the way as she walked down a flight of stairs into the basement. the woman thought, for someone so new to this world. The man stood next to an old, broken oven and stared at her. “Cooking class?” she asked, her only sign of nervousness. The man cracked a smile and pulled a lever. The oven rumbled and whined as invisible gears pulled the oven from the wall, revealing a hidden tunnel.
“Down the rabbit hole, Alice” the man said, and his smile got bigger.
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John F. Kennedy sat in his leather chair and rubbed his eyes. His assistant had been speaking non-stop for nearly five minutes, recapping two days of meetings that ranged from the mundane to the absolutely boring. There were many things JFK liked about being Secretary General of the United Nations, but this was not one of them. Give him a press conference or a top-secret meeting among world powers any day of the week. But daily briefs were exhausting and annoying. Just when he could not take anymore, something caught his attention. “What did you just say?” he asked. His assistant read back the last three things he had said. Nothing seemed out of place, so when JFK stood up and walked to his liquor cabinet, his assistant grew curious. He waited as a long glass of scotch was poured, sipped, then chugged. “Sir?” he finally asked. JFK poured another glass and dropped into his chair.
“That’ll be all, Dan. You can go” Dan knew he wouldn’t get any more information, so he nodded and walked out of the room. JFK took another sip of his drink and picked up the phone. “Get me my brother,” he said and waited for the call to go through. Moments later his brother came on the line. “Bobby, did you get a copy of the classified brief yet?” The shouting that came from the other end of the phone proved he had. JFK tried to get in a word, but Bobby had a lot to say. “I know,” JFK finally was able to interject. “I know, it’s a huge problem. Well obviously, it didn’t go as planned.” Bobby was now yelling. “Bobby? Bobby? Bobby!” JFK yelled into the phone. “Need I remind you that you green lit this mission against my objections. I told you this could happen. We need to prepare for consequences.” JFK now pulled the phone away from his ear as his brother yelled. “Hey, hey, don’t be mad at me. My end is locked up. You need to send out an alert.” Bobby’s yelling was now angering JFK. “Because you’re the President, Bobby!” he snapped. “You’re in charge. You need to be the one to do it.” Bobby told him where he could go and what he could do with himself when he got there. “Love you too, Bobby.” He hung up the phone and finished his scotch. Maybe it will all just blow over, he thought. A knock on the door allowed him to divert his attention. “Come in!” he yelled and smiled as a young, pretty secretary walked through the door.
“She’s here, sir,” his secretary informed. A spring came back into JFK’s seventy-year old frame. He stood up and adjusted his tie.
“Send her in,” he said and smiled as the woman from the taxi entered the room. He crossed the floor, walking over the shag carpet with the United Nations emblem stitched in. He held out his arm and shook the woman’s hand. “Welcome, I’m glad to finally meet you,” he said. “Debbie? Or should I call you Blondie? Great name, by the way.”
“Deborah,” she replied, glancing around the room.
“Deborah, OK. It’s good to separate the two halves. Yin and Yang. Any trouble finding the place?”
She smiled at his lame attempt at small talk. “No, it’s pretty simple instructions. Take a cab past the giant UN building to the old, abandoned bakery. Walk to the basement and behind the oven and down the secret tunnel.” JFK laughed out loud. He liked her instantly.
“Care for a drink before we hit the party?” he said as he poured her a drink.
“Party?” she asked as she took the drink. “I thought I was just meeting a few people.”
“You are. At the party.” JFK smirked. Deborah Harry had a glare that could cut through a brick wall. Secretary General of the United Nations John F. Kennedy was feeling that glare right now. “OK, OK, I get it, you don’t like surprises,” he surrendered, his hands in the air. “We scheduled this first meeting on the same day as one of our annual parties for agents like yourself.”
“One of your annual parties?” Deborah asked wondering if Mr. Kennedy’s math was off.
“Well you know musicians; they never turn down a party in their honor. We started with just one during the General Assembly, but the agents that couldn’t attend complained so we added more. Now it seems like we have a party any time anything happens here. Costs a fortune but the kids love it.”
JFK set down his drink and pressed a button hiding on the wall. A panel slid to the side revealing another tunnel. He held out his hand, inviting his guest through. Deborah snickered, took another sip of her drink, and walked through the door. Up until a short while ago, Deborah thought this whole thing was a joke. Some elaborate hoax designed by her band mates. Now as she stood in an elevator, dropping rapidly into the unknown, and standing next to one of the most powerful men in the world, she thought she was dreaming. She could hear the music before the doors opened. Loud, powerful thumping entwined with the piercing screech of an electric guitar. She didn’t even notice the smile on her face as the doors slid open revealing the orgy of rock star fantasies. Fire spinners swung from trapeze bars. Tigers in diamond studded collars climbed along the walls in a hamster cage of death. Candy girls wearing nothing but the trays they carried made their way through the room. Circus midgets ran across the floor balancing on giant beach balls and contortionists showed off their talents wherever they pleased. Deborah didn’t pay attention to any of that as her eyes were locked on the occupants of the party. As JFK led her through the crowd she watched Rod Stewart and Stevie Wonder trading shots, the Gibb brothers trying to turn their charm on in front of Lindsay Buckingham and Stevie Nicks snickering about it in the corner with Don Henley.
Errol Brown was in the middle of a high-stakes poker match with Freddie Mercury and Johnny Rotten where more obscenities were being thrown than cards played.
“Fuck me,” was the only thing she could say as the stage came into view.
There was nothing special about the design or appearance of the stage. It was the sight of Lemmy standing in his own world, tearing away at his guitar like no one was watching while Phil Taylor destroyed a set of drums that turned her vocabulary on its head.
“There’s been some great shows on that stage,” JFK said. “Some amazing combinations of performers have performed up there. I once saw Johnny Cash and Jimi Hendrix sing a lullaby just for the fun of it.”
“Who’s that on bass?” Deborah asked pointing to a skinny, dirty rocker in the corner, lost in his own world and stumbling along with the others.
“That’s Sid Vicious, Sex Pistols new guy. Like you,” JFK replied.
Deborah cringed at a sour note. “He’s terrible,” she groaned.
“Yeah we didn’t hire him for his guitar skills,” laughed JFK. He grabbed two champagne glasses from a passing waiter and handed one to Deborah. “So, you hire musicians to be double agents,” she said matter of fact.
“And actors,” JFK corrected. “Anyone who is well traveled and can hide behind their persona.” Deborah looked around the room.
“No actors here, separate parties?” she wondered.
“No, they’re invited to this one. Most have just left already. Can’t hang with the musicians,” he answered.
“Already?” she asked. “I’m surprised you have musicians here at all. It’s pretty early for us.” JFK chuckled as he sipped a drink. “What?” she asked.
“Deborah my dear, this party started two days ago.” JFK smiled as he watched her reaction. A loud crash echoed through the room, a tray of glasses falling to the floor. JFK looked off in the distance and frowned. He signaled to someone and turned back to Deborah. “I need to take care of something, but Bing here will show you the ropes,” he said as he nodded to someone.
“Bing?” Deborah asked.
“Yes ma’am,” replied a soft voice from behind her. She turned to find herself staring at Bing Crosby, advanced in his years but still as handsome as ever. “Watch out for this one, Bing.” JFK joked. He gave a nod to Bing, a smile to Deborah and walked off among the crowd. Bing held out his arm, a playful yet calming gesture for Deborah to follow. She smiled, unable to continue her “bad girl” persona, and wrapped her arm in his. “Now,” Bing began, “let’s see what trouble we can get into.”
On the other side of the room a waitress wiped up the last of the spilled wine from the floor as a houseman tossed broken shards of glass into a trash bin. She looked up to see the Secretary General staring down at her. “Which way did he go?” JFK sighed. She rolled her eyes, growing tired of the same thing happening every time he was here, and pointed at a staff door. JFK walked off without another word. The sterile light of the service hallway made him squint and he paused long enough to be shown the way. A loud bang followed by obscenities pointed him in the right direction. Moments later he was staring at the backside of Elvis Presley, on hands and knees reaching under a chef’s prep table. His pants were a few sizes too small, revealing more than JFK wanted to see. “You know, if you wanted bacon so badly, you could have just asked,” JFK joked, knowing this conversation was not going to be fun. Elvis stopped what he was doing, groaned loudly, and forced himself to his feet. The smell of booze accompanied him up and was now wafting in JFK’s direction. His sparkling white jumpsuit, many sizes too small, was stained with ketchup and grease. “Jack,” Elvis said, trying to be polite but also trying not to fall over or puke. Both of which he wanted to do.
“Elvis,” came the reply. This back and forth had happened so many times over the years that they stopped playing it all the way out. Elvis was drunk. He knew it, JFK knew it. Why waste time and effort pointing that fact out. Now their argument had evolved from JFK trying to control Elvis to trying to keep him alive. Elvis grabbed a half empty beer can and walked back towards the party, JFK by his side. “Nice to see you all dressed up,” JFK jabbed.
“Anything for you, sweetheart,” Elvis replied through a burp which was as foul as one would imagine and preceded the vomit that Elvis was hoping to avoid. JFK stopped as Elvis tried to save face, waving his arms in one of his signature moves that had driven women crazy so many years ago, puke dripping to the floor. “Thank you, thank you very much,” was all he could say. JFK set Elvis’ drink on a table and grabbed a towel. He said nothing, not wanting to embarrass his friend any further. Elvis tried to pull away but dropped his hands to the side and dropped his head to his chin, a dog with his tail between the legs. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
JFK said nothing in return. Not many people saw Elvis this way, broken and humble. His fall from grace had been epic and JFK wondered how much he had contributed to it. After a moment JFK threw the towel on the table and stood silently in front of his friend. He leaned forward and kissed the top of the King’s head. “You stay here for a few minutes, collect yourself. I’ll send Janine in to help. I’m sure we’ve got more than a few Elvis jumpsuits lying around,” JFK cared deeply for his friend but feared where this was going. As JFK walked out of sight, he heard a soft whisper coming from Elvis. “Thank you,” was all it said.
A few moments later he was back in the ballroom, far away from the cold, bright service hallway. Freddie Mercury and Meat Loaf had taken over the stage, seemingly having a rock ballet of voices. JFK spoke into the ear of a security guard posted at the door. A slight nod was the response. He scanned the room for his new recruit and smiled when he saw her. “That didn’t take long,” he said to no one and walked to the center of the room where Deborah was arm wrestling Sid Vicious.
Johnny Rotten led the cheers for Sid while Stevie Nicks chanted for Deborah. The whole room was drawn into the match, money being thrown down and odds being given on the winner. JFK realized the vocal battle on stage was actually a musical play by play of the arm-wrestling tournament. “She’s blending in quite well,” JFK yelled into Bing’s ear. “How’d this match get started?”
“She complimented Sid on his bass abilities,” Bing smirked. “I guess he could sense her sarcasm.” Sid yelled deep from within and leaned into the table, willing his arm to win. Meat Loaf’s voice tore the roof off the building as he sang for his horse to win. Sid grunted and moaned, terrified that he would lose to a woman and angry that it was taking him so long to beat her. Sweat dripped from his nose and he opened his clenched eyes to see the new girl smiling at him, seemingly not struggling at all. She winked and chugged from a bottle of whiskey with her free hand. It was when she blew him a kiss that Sid lost his mind. In a flash, faster than most had seen in a long time, the table was flying through the air, money and alcohol spiraling everywhere. Before JFK could even blink, Sid’s hand was around Deborah’s throat and a switchblade pointing at her eye.
The room fell silent as the spotlight was given to the wild rocker. “Think you’re real funny, don’t ya?” he snarled through his thick cockney accent. “Think you’re better than me?” Deborah said nothing. She didn’t move. She only stared at her attacker, the fire in her eyes burning bright. It was enough to make Sid pause long enough to take in the crowd. The most famous musicians in the world, all speechless, frozen, and staring at him. He almost laughed at that power until he saw the smirk on Lemmy’s face. The smirk confused him. Sid’s eyebrow jumped a little, giving Lemmy more reason to smile. What was so funny, Sid thought.
Then he felt it. A sharp, uncomfortable sensation. He flinched just enough to make Lemmy laugh. And then someone else laughed. Sid loosened the grip on Deborah’s throat, trying to figure out what was happening. More laughter. He looked at Deborah one more time. She was smiling and motioning him to look down. The room lost it as Sid followed Deborah’s gaze to his crotch where a similar switchblade had pierced through his tight jeans and was resting in a position that a knife should never be. His grip loosened completely from Deborah’s throat and he looked in wonder at the woman who was as fast, if not faster than him. “I think I love you,” he whimpered.
“Cute,” she replied and smashed her forehead onto the bridge of his nose. Sid crumbled to the floor as the room exploded with cheers and laughter. Freddie and Meat Loaf launched into an epic song dedicated to the newest member of the club and everyone wanted to congratulate her. In a world with multiple suns, she was the center of it all.
