Copyright 2023 by B. Watson
I'm a big fan of long introductions, but I'm going to keep this one short...largely because I don't want to ruin anything for you, dear reader. Suffice to say, when blackRandI1958 mentioned the
Surfing with the Alien
event, my mind immediately went to one of my all-time favorite TV shows—and favorite writers.
Whether this is homage or larceny is, of course, in the eye of the beholder.
*
Be they family or stranger, friend or foe, when people talked about Edward Dingle, they always used the same word: Average.
His detractors might add that he was "mediocre" or "basic," while his friends might enhance the description with "reliable" or "classic," but it all boiled down to the same thing: In almost every way, Edward Dingle landed close to the mean, luxuriated in the median, and clustered with the mode.
There was his height: 5'9", spot-on average for an American man. And his build, which was neither skinny nor fat, overly-muscled nor particularly weak. Then there were his clothes: Slacks or shorts for the weekend and suits for the week, in a selection of fabrics that would have felt right at home covering the couch in a dentist's waiting room. As for his children, Edward Jr. was 19 and Jeannie was 20. Both were B students enrolled at the second-best state university.
Mr. Dingle's home was a lovely clapboard, of a sensible size, painted a sensible gray, with a white picket fence and a flower garden that took up far too much of his time. His job was a perfectly satisfying and acceptable position as a senior loan officer at the First National Bank of Centerville. On the way to and from work, he could often be heard whistling one of his favorite songs. The works of Nickelback were on regular repeat, as were several other ditties distilled from the top 40 lists of years gone by.
On average, American families have 2.5 children; in the case of the Dingles, the .5 was taken up by Ruffsy, a slightly spoiled gray mixed breed who looked exactly like the third picture that comes up when one types the word "mutt" into Google. The dog was beloved by Dingle and his wife, Jane.
Ah, Jane Dingle.
She, too, was average: 5'4" inches from the soles of her sensible shoes to the top of her brunette tresses, which benefitted from regular—but not excessive!—visits to the hairdressers. She had a common (if not actually average) 34C chest, and a perfectly normal height-to-weight ratio. And, like her husband, she had a pleasant, if garden-variety, job: She was the number two agent at "World on a String," the best travel agency in town.
If there was anything notable—although, perhaps, still average—about the Dingles, it was the love they shared. Married 22 years, they went out to dinner once a week and cuddled every night on the couch. Mrs. Dingle was not the biggest fan of Nickelback—her tastes tended more to Kelly Clarkson and (occasionally) Weezer—but if pressed, she had to admit that few things sounded better than "If Today Was Your Last Day" when heard from within the safe circle of her husband's arms.
The Dingles showed their love in thoroughly normal ways: For him, it was carnations once a week and roses once a month, hand-delivered to her office. Dinner out at one of their favorite restaurants every Friday and movies and dancing with fair regularity. He was already saving for their 25th anniversary, a trip to—where else?—Hawaii.
As for Mrs. Dingle, she also showed her love in ways that clung closely to the mean. Baked goods delivered to his desk every Monday—usually chocolate chip cookies or brownies, although she'd once ventured into blondies with walnuts, an event that she later chalked up to a mid-life crisis. And she often endeavored to spice up their sex lives, though the spices admittedly tended toward cinnamon and nutmeg. Lingerie from Victoria's Secret—in pink, of course—and tricks that she'd heard about from her girlfriends, like welcoming him home from work clad in nothing but Saran Wrap.
Needless to say, she looked through the peephole before opening the door!
The Dingles' 22-year love affair did not pass without note. In fact, critiquing their unimaginative, run-of-the-mill expressions of affection was a popular pastime at both their offices.
"Chocolate chip cookies again?" groused Ian Peterson, an accountant in Mr. Dingle's section. "She sent those over last week, too."
"No, last week was brownies," countered Joe Staley, a marketing associate who regularly wandered over for the free snacks. "Geez, these cookies taste like my grandma's."
"Yeah, she puts extra vanilla in them," Ian said. "My mom did that, too."
"I think my mom was the last person to bake cookies for me," Joe mused.
"It's been a while," agreed Ian, thinking of that girl in college who used to make red velvet cupcakes.
Across town, a similar discussion was underway at World on a String:
"Red roses? Again?" snarked Christine Hausman, who sat two desks over from Jane Dingle. "Seriously, does he get all his dating ideas from a book?"
"I know!" said her friend Bernice Kay, who sat at the next desk over. "Maybe something like 50 Romantic Gestures That Were Boring When Your Grandparents Were Kids?"
Christine chuckled. "It's so sweet, I need insulin. And what about those carnations every week? Could you get more generic?"
"And don't get me started on Valentine's Day!" groaned Bernice. "A heart-shaped sampler and a pink bear that says 'I wuv you.' And, of course-"
"A dozen red roses!" they chorused together.
A moment later:
"I don't know the last time someone bought me chocolates," Christine mused.
"I think my dad was the last guy to give me a stuffed animal," Bernice added. "And I had to get my tonsils out first."
And so the Dingles lived their thoroughly average life, with their thoroughly normal love and the occasional ribbing from their colleagues. And it might have gone on like that for the rest of their days...if the Venusians hadn't come to town.
*
The morning the visitors arrived began like any other, with Mr. Dingle curled around his wife. When his alarm went off, he silenced it and spent another moment holding Jane, breathing in her scent and luxuriating in her warmth, before releasing himself from the tangle of sheets, wife, and Ruffsy. Afterward came the usual shower, shave, and breakfast, and it was barely a half hour before he was out the door, clad in his favorite suit and ready to face the day.
It was a sunny morning, and Mr. Dingle decided to walk to work. He'd barely gotten to the corner of Oak and Elm, less than a block from his home, when he felt a weird vibration in the general area of his left shoulder. He dismissed it as a muscle spasm and turned down Oak Street.
Mrs. Collins, the widow in the large Tudor at the intersection of Oak and Elm, happened to be in her garden that morning and noticed Mr. Dingle walking by. It was not an unusual occurrence—he walked to work about three times a week, on average—but there was something about him this morning. Something impressive in his stride, a firmness and determination that brought to mind memories of her Herbert. "Silly old woman," she chided herself. "Five years he's been dead, and you still think of him every day."
But the widow Collins wasn't the only one who noticed something different about Mr. Dingle. Mrs. Bondar at number 22 thought it might be a new hat, while Mrs. Maxson at number 34 was sure it must be a new suit. Ms. Wade thought it had something to do with his smile, and Mrs. Cisse at number 46 couldn't put a finger on it, but was sure that she'd never seen a more appealing man.
At the First National Bank, it also did not go unnoticed that Mr. Dingle had changed. Angela Hortik thought it might be a new cologne, while Ann McDermott wondered if he might be working out. Marcia Lenchner noticed that his eyes were a particularly entrancing hazel, while Lauren Soncini found herself spellbound by the delicate hair on his wrist. Julie Ruleman realized he reminded her of her father, the finest man she'd ever known.
Ian Peterson and Joe Staley, it should be noted, detected nothing different, though both mourned the lack of fresh baked goods that day.
Perhaps the most surprising person to notice Mr. Dingle was Ms. Durney. Nicknamed "Burton" by her colleagues, she had entered the world as Albertine, and often thought that her odd nickname was perhaps a poor attempt to pronounce "Bertine." It was, she told herself, further evidence of the failing American educational system.
Regardless, Ms. Durney fashioned herself a social justice warrior, and had long since dismissed Mr. Dingle as yet another patriarchal white man who took his unearned privilege for granted. That morning, however, she found him especially compelling. Her single, thick eyebrow wrinkled as she tried to put her finger on it—was it his ramrod posture, which seemed ready to storm the barricades? His cool, commanding eye that seemed unafraid to face down the guns of the establishment? His scent, a manly musk with indescribably delicious notes of teargas and patchouli?
While she tried to track down her attraction and sort out her feelings, Ms. Durney found herself rearranging the ribbons on her canvas backpack. This activity was normally reserved for Sundays, when she would choose her priorities for the week and line up her ribbons accordingly. But today she noticed that her purple animal abuse ribbon looked especially fetching next to her white child exploitation one. The peach uterine cancer really set off the blue short bowel syndrome.
Maybe not every man is a tool of the patriarchy, she mused—a thought quickly followed by What the hell is wrong with me?
For his part, Mr. Dingle was unaware of the heightened emotions and startling sensations that were flowing through his office. His first appointment, at 9:30, was Mr. Futterberg, who was applying for a loan to expand his sporting goods store. He was followed at 10:15 by Mr. Taylor, who was looking for a home equity loan to build a pool. Both were normal, average interviews—Mr. Futterberg was an easy yes, and while Mr. Taylor seemed disturbingly unconcerned that he would probably never recoup his pool investment, his application sailed through as well.
Then, at 10:45, Ms. Doris Cranch strode into the room.
Ms. Cranch, who prided herself on being a scrupulous businesswoman, had all her paperwork in order. As she reached across the desk to hand Mr. Dingle her last three tax returns, however, she found herself leaning over further than usual, giving him a long look down the top of her blouse.
What am I doing? she wondered, appalled at her behavior.
He's married!
What is she doing? Mr. Dingle echoed in his own head, slightly embarrassed.
I'm married!
Ms. Cranch sat up sharply, her back as straight as she could make it against the firm office chair. She avoided Mr. Dingle's glance and breathed a sigh of relief as he looked down to consider her application. But then, despite her best intentions, she felt her knees opening. Then closing. Then opening again, a little wider.
Stop it!
