Apple Strudel

Outside of the windows, Scod Driktax, watched the view change from a field of stars to blue skies as he shifted the Z56 Cruiser out of propulsion drive and into cruising speed. He activated the spaceship’s stealth mode, so no one on the planet below could see him.

Mister Baaxer, Scod’s wealthy and eccentric employer, had sent him on another crazy assignment – go to Earth and acquire an apple strudel recipe. While listening to the Traveling Toota podcast, “Eating Your Way Through the Planetary System,” Mister Baaxer heard a review of the apple strudel pastry made at a Miss Nellie’s Diner in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin.

“Each bite is like a party in your mouth,” promised Traveling Toota.

“I must get the recipe and have my food-preparers make it for me,” Mister Baaxer told Scod in a rapid, clipped voice as he paced back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back.

Scod had never been to Earth, so he studied the popular Dru’mad’s “It’s a Big Nebula – Have an Adventure” travel guide during the ride. The Bermuda Triangle Hotel and Spa, an underwater resort, was the top-rated guesthouse.

While traveling, Scod told his brain implant to fast-forward through Earth television shows so he could better understand the culture. Other than having pointed ears and large, plump lips, Scod looked human. He would wear a hat to cover the pointy ears – like Spock did in Star Trek, a television show his implant played.

Finding an isolated area close to Miss Nellie’s, Scod landed in a grove of trees. The sporty Z56 Cruiser was one of five spaceships owned by Mister Baaxer. Scod could not purchase a vessel like this on his salary. Back home on Vore Guliv, he drove a fourteen-year-old Poto sedan.

A light-orange orb grew on the trees. Curious, Scod took an image, and used his communicator to enter it into the search box of the “It’s a Big Nebula – Have an Adventure” media site.

“This is an edible fruit that the natives have named peach,” the site answered in the voice of May’lon Atta, a popular horticulturist on his home world. “Have an adventure and taste one. Be sure to take a digestive organ pill, so you don’t get Xikroin’s Revenge.”

With his digestive organ pills on the ship, Scod passed on trying a peach.

Walking to the settlement, Scod wondered if the town would be like Mayberry, another of the shows his implant played. Maybe he would meet Sheriff Taylor, Gomer, Aunt Bea, Opie, or his favorite, Barney Fife. The ship’s 3D printer made him a long-sleeve, button-down white, collared shirt, dress pants, and bow tie – like Barney wore when he went on a date with Thelma Lou. He also wore a straw hat like Otis the Drunk because he thought it made him look good.

Big red letters over the front door identified a building as Miss Nellie’s. A sign in the window proclaimed the diner served breakfast twenty-four hours. Writing on a chalkboard announced a meatloaf platter as the special of the day.

Before going in, Scod adjusted the straw hat in the glass door’s reflection, making sure it sat on his head correctly. He tilted a bit to the right side. Selecting American English on his throat box language translator, he went in, stepping over a checkerboard floor, past ten booths against the windows, to a stool at the counter. He thought it would be easier to talk to Miss Nellie there. A robot probably would deliver the food to the booths.

A middle-age, short, and thin female with a pencil stuck in her bobby-pinned-up red hair took orders and chatted with diners. She wore a knee-length tan tunic-like uniform with side pockets. Scod zoomed in on a nametag pinned to the tunic that identified her as Gladys.

Nellie must be in the back counting the money, Scod thought.

Gladys saw Scod and came over.

“Helô,” he said in a singsong voice. “Sut wyt ti?”

“I don’t know what that means, hun,” she answered.

“What is wrong?” Scod silently asked his brain implant. “She is not understanding the translator.”

“It is because when you set the language, you were more concerned about whether you looked cool in your new hat than paying attention to the translator interface. You selected Wales instead of Wisconsin, which is down one in the drop box. You are talking with a Welsh brogue,” a robotic voice inside his head voiced.

“You didn’t think of mentioning this to me earlier? Will you please change the language to English,” Scod told the implant.

“Done.”

Gladys stood looking at him with a questioning expression. “Are you new in town, sweetie?”

“Do I have to answer that?”

“No.”

“She knows I’m an alien,” Scod told his implant.

“You must wait two minutes before aborting the assignment, per alien encounter protocol,” the implant stated.

“Would you like to order something?” Gladys asked.

“Mission can continue,” the implant voiced.

“I am not sure,” Scod answered. The translator now worked fine, although his voice sounded higher than usual.

“Want to look at a menu?”

“Menu?” He activated the brain implant’s dictionary function.

“Menu - a list of dishes available in a restaurant.” the dictionary answered.

“Yes. I would like you to give me a menu.”

Gladys pulled a laminated menu out of a holder on the counter and rubbed the front clean with her sleeve. Next to the menus were napkins in a stainless-steel dispenser, then a small-scale wooden picnic table, with bottles of ketchup and mustard, and salt and pepper shakers stuck into holes. She set the menu in front of him. “Yell when you are ready to order.”

Gladys moved away, picked up a coffee pot, and filled a man’s cup a few seats to his right.

The man, wearing a Grazing Gabby’s Dairy delivery uniform, motioned his head to Scod, and asked, “Who’s that guy, Gladys? Never seen him before.”

“Probably from Milwaukee. A big city fella.”

With his advanced hearing, Scod could hear both of them clearly and thought he had better hurry up in case the male called law enforcement, but the aromas of food made him hungry. Before I go, I might as well get something to eat and bill it to old man Baaxer.

He noticed a sign on the wall reading “Everything Goes Better with Cheese.”

“What is this thing called cheese?” he asked his implant.

“Coagulation of the animal milk protein casein forms cheese in a range of flavors. Limburger cheese smells like sweaty gym socks.”

Yuck, Scod thought. He didn’t recognize any of the edibles on the menu, so he ordered the special.

“I am ready to order!” he yelled as loud as he could, as the female human instructed him to do.

Everyone in the diner looked at him.

Gladys returned. “Cool your oatmeal, hun. What would you like?”

“I shall consume the meatloaf special.”

“Anything to drink?”

Scod looked at her and said nothing.

Gladys made a motion with her hand as if she was drinking, then said, “Coffee, iced tea, soda - a home-made malt?”

“Pepsi Cola, please.” He read about the beverage in one of Traveling Toota’s reviews.

“We have Jolly Good Cola. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” Scod had no idea what Jolly Good Cola was.

Gladys took a pad from a side pocket in the tunic, pulled the pencil from her hair bun, and wrote out the order. She clipped it to a stainless-steel wheel in front of a male cooking on a long, flat griddle.

Scod wondered why the female didn’t have her brain implant transfer the information to the male’s implant.

Gladys stepped to the back counter and filled a glass from a fountain next to a malted milk maker. She returned with a green tapered glass that had the imprint of Coca-Cola.

“I would like to talk to Miss Nellie. The owner of this food establishment,” Scod said.

Gladys’s eyebrows went up. “That will be tough. Miss Nellie has been dead for twenty years.”

“If she is dead, how can I speak to her?”

“You can’t.”

“I do not comprehend. She owns this diner, and her name is on it.”

“She owned it a long time ago, sweetie.” Gladys waved a hand to the cook. “Manny owns it now.”

Scod questioned. “But I came here to get Miss Nellie’s recipe for apple strudel.”

“She gave Manny all her recipes when he bought the diner.”

“For what reason did he not change the name to Mister Manny’s Diner?”

“He didn’t want to pay for a new sign.”

“Could you ask Manny to write down his recipe for apple strudel? I would like to take it home with me when I finish my nourishment.”

“Manny does not give out his recipes. If he did, everyone would make the food at home and not come in. Or they might use the cooking instructions and open their own restaurant.”

Thinking, Scod pulled on his bottom lip, stretching it out. It was something he did when nervous. The Suuhlin race’s lips were elastic-like.

The eyes of the man wearing the Grazing Gabby’s Dairy delivery uniform became wide when Scod’s lip pulled out four inches.

Gladys said, “Stop that.”

He let the lip snap back in place, making a loud clap sound.

Gladys and the man stared at him.

“And Manny is the only one who knows the apple strudel recipe?” Scod questioned.

“I bake the strudel in the mornings on the days Manny makes sausage, so I know it,” Gladys boastfully stated.

“Please recite the recipe so I can duplicate it. It is for my boss Mister Baaxer.”

“Sorry, I can’t give it to you either. Do a Google search for strudel recipes and try one of them.”

“Order up,” Manny yelled.

“If you need anything else, let me know.” Gladys started to go to the pickup window, stopped, and turned back. “You don’t have to yell.”

While considering what to do next, Scod observed a heavyset female wearing a red checkered flannel shirt and bib overalls two stools to his left. She dipped cooked bread in a runny egg yolk on her crowded plate.

Eggs, Scod thought. Have humans ever seen where they come from? “You have a large amount of food,” he told the woman.

“It’s not a meal to me if any part of the plate shows,” she answered.

He asked, “What is a Google search?”

She bit off a hunk of bread, took a drink of brown liquid from a cup, chewed, and held up a finger.

She knows I’m from another planet, Scod thought.

After the female swallowed, she answered, “Google is what people use to search on the internet. They have free Wi-Fi here. The password is dumpling.” She shoved a forkful of hash-browned potatoes in her mouth.

“Do you know the recipe for the apple strudel they make here?” he asked her.

With her mouth full, the female shook her head no and continued eating.

Scod used his implant to learn how to log into the local communication network, entered dumpling, and searched for apple strudel recipes. None was Miss Nellie’s. On many posts, you had to scroll through the cook’s life stories and thoughts before getting to a recipe.

Scod decided to use flattery to soften the food server up. When Gladys stepped by, he declared, “Your hair color is appealing.”

“You can thank Clairol for that,” Gladys answered.

“Will you give me the apple strudel recipe?”

“No.” She went to a customer with his hand raised.

Scod let out a quiet, woeful sigh. This meant he would have to use his Plan B. Plan B involved dressing up in the Momphid costume he wore at a Loovka Day masquerade party last year. The costume was from the then-popular cinematic movie “Attack of the Killer Momphids.” A Momphid looked like a giant hehill bug without wings.

He would beam Gladys up to the ship, pretend to be a scary alien, hold up his food thermometer, and act as if he were going to probe her. If that didn’t scare her enough to give him the recipe, Scod would have to go to the trouble of setting up the mind-read machine to extract the formula from her brain.

Scod returned to the Z56 Cruiser, lifted off, and hovered above Miss Nellie’s. The meatloaf platter had been tasty. It included a pile of fluffy white glop, and small green mushy pellets. The heavyset woman told him they were mashed potatoes and peas.

Before starting the spaceship, he changed into his Momphid costume but had not put on the giant head. With limited sight through the eye holes, it made it hard to drive.

The video screen from the ship’s outside camera showed Miss Nellie’s. When Gladys came outside, he would beam her up, get the recipe, and then send her back. In no time, she walked out of the back door, stood by the back trash containers, put something in her mouth, and lit it with a fire stick.

“What is she doing?” he asked his implant.

“She is smoking a cigarette. It is something humans do.”

He activated the capture beam, put the Momphid head on, and transported Gladys up to the ship. Her body quickly reassembled from the top down into a solid form.

She looked around. “What the hell?”

“Hello,” Scod said, using the voice-lowering level in the bug’s mouthpiece to make it sound scary. “Please extinguish your burning stick.”

Gladys threw the cigarette on the ground and stomped it out with her foot.

“I would have given you a receptacle to put that in,” Scod the Momphid scolded.

“What are you? A giant potato beetle? Am I going to be your dinner? Did you make those crop circles in the O’Connor’s corn pasture? Will you make me have one of your babies?”

Gladys asked questions so fast that his language translator was having trouble keeping up.

“I am only here to ask you a few questions. Nothing more,” Scod answered.

She got into an old-time bare-knuckle boxer’s stance. “You’re not going to do any of your freaky experiments on me. I was the Turtle Lake Women’s Club boxing champion in nineteen-ninety-eight.”

Scod stepped back and held up his hands, palms out. He was not a fighter. The last fight he had been in was in first school when Irqols Qhikket got him in a headlock and made him cry.

“As I said, I only want to ask you a few questions, then I will send you back home.”

Gladys put her fist down. “Okay then. What do you want to know? I’ll let you know in advance that I don’t know where the nuclear bombs are located.”

“Please tell me the recipe for Miss Nellie’s apple strudel.”

“Some other weird guy asked in the diner asked me for that today.”

Weird guy, Scod thought. I am not weird.

“Like I told the man. I can’t give out the recipe. It is a secret.”

“Look, once I get it, I’ll be taking it to another planet. No one on Earth will even know you gave it to me.”

She vigorously shook her head. “Nope.”

Scod let out a long breath.

“My name is Gladys Fasenbruder. Divers license number M470675831.”

“You are not a prisoner of war,” Scod said. “Would you like a refreshing beverage?”

“Yes. I usually have a drink of water after a smoke.”

Scod took a small bottle of tubio juice out of the small cooler box behind him. Previously, he put in a packet of Shriknead knock-out powder and added a dash of memory loss concentrate. “This tastes similar to the Tang powdered orange drink on your planet. The one the astronauts drink.”

“Thank you.” Gladys opened it and took a drink. “You’re not so bad.”

Scod stood watching. His nose itched under the Momphid head, and he was trying not to sneeze.

“What are you looking at?” Gladys questioned.

Before he could answer, her legs bent, and she fell to the floor.

Gladys woke up smelling spoiled food, and sitting outside Miss Nellie’s with her back against the dumpster. “What the?” She stood and brushed herself off. “I must have fainted.”

Manny opened the back door. “How long of a break are you going to take, girl? We got customers waiting.”

She looked up at the clouds while walking back to the diner. The image of a potato beetle showed in her thoughts.

The End