Buddy Holly is Alive and Well on Ganymede by Bradley Denton (my reading book .txt) 📕

Sunday, March 19, 1989. I never did make it to Lubbock, but that’s okay. Lubbock is eternal.

After the events at SkyVue, the Authorities questioned my companions and released them. I, however, was kept in “protective custody” for ten days, first in Wichita and then in Washington, during which time representatives of the KBI, FCC, FBI, SEC, BIB, NSC, CIA (probably), DIA (possibly), and various other sets of initials took turns interrogating me. I was X-rayed, CAT-scanned, HTLV-tested, probed, poked, and prodded. They no doubt would have kept me forever if not for two things: I had become famous (network news crews pounced every time I was moved), and I was the client of one of the most obnoxious attorneys in the history of the profession. Not an evening passed that Bruce’s face didn’t appear on the tube, yammering that I had committed no crime (other than Resisting Arrest, Interstate Flight, Attempted Kidnapping, Trespassing, and Disorderly Conduct, none of which he mentioned), that there was no evidence to suggest that I had, and that the Authorities had better brace themselves for one humongous monster daddy of a lawsuit.

Eventually, they had to kick me, but they made it clear that I had better be willing to cooperate if they should need me for anything. They didn’t specify what “anything” might be, and so far, I haven’t had to find out.

Bruce and Sharon brought me home on February 18, and I found my mother’s house in a shambles (although in better shape than it would have been if Boog hadn’t stayed there while I was in Washington). The pieces of my SkyVue dish were strewn across the backyard; shingles were missing from the roof; records and CDs were jumbled on the floors; and my black Stratocaster was smashed.

Beyond refiling the music, I did little to repair the damage. This was because Sharon told me that she detected signs of stress in my behavior, and that in order to avoid “problems” (i.e., a trip to the state hospital), I should take steps to purge myself. Such action might also help me, she said, to “integrate” my recent experiences with the rest of my life. I found it amusing that she assumed I would want to do that.

Nevertheless, I took her advice, and for the past thirty days I’ve been constructing what amounts to my own Volume I. Frankly, I don’t feel much better; but it seems to have made Sharon happy.

All of my new friends, plus Boog’s seventeen-year-old son, “Spud,” arrived this past Friday to spend the weekend helping me put the house back together. Even better, Boog has completed the restoration of Peggy Sue. In fact, my knee is so much improved that I even rode the bike to Topeka yesterday to fetch some parts Laura needed for the earth station. The road felt as smooth as blue sky.

From here in my bedroom, I can hear Laura and “Spud” working on the SkyVue… Gretchen and Mike arguing about the Strategic Defense Initiative… Boog and Pete hammering shingles… Bruce and Sharon struggling to make lunch in the Meltdown Machine… and Buddy singing “Listen to Me” on the livingroom stereo. Ringo is lying on the floor beside my chair, chewing on an old railroad spike.

I have gained a family, with all of the mingled love and squabbling implied therein. It seems a miracle that they all joined me at SkyVue when I needed them, and it seems an even greater miracle that they still haven’t abandoned me. If I believed in Mother’s “other world,” I would say that somebody up there was taking care of me.

However, despite all that I’ve seen and heard, I am unwilling to follow in her footsteps that far. I have decided that my former neighbors, Cathy and Jeremy, were crazy. The Spirit Land, where warriors go after death, exists only in the movies.

But when a thirty-years-gone Texan appeared on TV and his grave was found empty, “death” became a relative term….

My Volume I is ending with good omens, I think:

Bruce has turned out to be likable despite his annoying personality and repulsive eyebrows, and he and Sharon seem stronger in their Relationship. (Sharon, by the way, is embarking on research into the mass psychological effects of the Holly broadcast, and she claims to have already discovered one startling worldwide statistic. Despite the angry mobs, she says, there were actually fewer deaths by violence during that four-day period than during any comparable period throughout the preceding year.)

Pete and Gretchen became engaged while repairing the Kamikaze. They have yet to have a fight, although that may be because Gretchen does all of her arguing with Mike.

Mike and his New Radicals are driving their local school board berserk. By May, they hope to have extended their influence north to Oklahoma City and west to Amarillo.

Laura has gotten over her crush on me and is making googoo eyes with “Spud.” It will be interesting to see what develops, because she’s going to MIT in the fall, and he’s going to Baja to eat peyote.

Ringo is happy with his blue eye again.

As for me, I’ve received a letter from Julie “Eat shit and die, Oliver” Calloway. She hadn’t been able to find my new, unlisted telephone number, and she wanted to know if I was all right. I called her, and she’s coming for supper tonight. It probably won’t work out this time either, but it’ll be nice while it lasts. I miss her.

The unlisted phone became necessary because my answering machine was about to explode with crank calls. While my fame helped me regain my freedom, it does have a down side.

Then again, as Bruce has explained, fame also means power.

So I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided what to do.

I’m going to campaign for manned bases on the Moon and Mars. A space station. Orbital industrialization. L-5 colonies. All of that leaving-the-terrestrial-cradle stuff that the wild-eyed rocket boys claim is coded into our DNA.

Between you and me, though, I have an ulterior motive. Screw human destiny; I just want to get to Ganymede.

And it isn’t as if I’m alone in that. After all, no one can forget that something once usurped and replaced every TV program in the world. No one can forget, you see, because there’s still one channel—one obscure, satellite-fed broadcast—that displays a tableau from another part of the solar system twenty-four hours a day.

It can’t be turned off. It can’t be changed. No one has to watch it, but everyone knows it’s there.

I’ve already made one public announcement relative to my upcoming campaign:

I have dibs on the guitar.

Laura has just informed me that although she and “Spud” have reassembled my earth station, they can’t make it work. Clearly, this is a job for me and my magic crescent wrench.

One last thing—I finally decided that I was sick of contact lenses, so I’m wearing my trusty black-framed glasses again. True, there’s a slight loss of peripheral vision… but as my Ariel and I have discovered, you don’t miss peripheral vision when you’re running flat out. You can see straight and clear, forever and always, on down the line to the Spirit Land. See you there, Mom.

See you there, Buddy.

Copyright © 1991 by Bradley Denton

Cover illustration by Tim O’Brien

ISBN: 0-380-71876-6