The Amish Spaceman

By Stephen Colegrove

A comical road trip across the U.S. with a cast of surreal characters including a failed motivational speaker, a Kamchatkan runaway bride, a sock-crazed mafia boss, and cross-dressing parents.

Unsatisfied with the daily grind of a Silicon Valley “business coach and life consultant,” Dean Cook weasels his way into a once-in-a-lifetime chance for fame and fortune: a speaking slot at the National Motivational Speaker’s Conference in West Virginia. Three days before the conference, Dean’s girlfriend breaks up with him and destroys his passport and identification cards. Dean’s flight plans are now scrapped, and he’s forced to steal a second hand ambulance. On the high-speed drive across the country he meets a Russian girl on the run from her fiancé, a brutal and eccentric collector of women’s hosiery. Dean and the girl escape from a series of catastrophes including a shotgun wedding in Reno, Sea MonkeysTM in the Great Salt Lake, and parachuting from a B-25 bomber over Kentucky.

Scrambling to catch up to Dean are his gender-bending parents, who see this as the last chance to throw their son a party that doesn’t end in complete disaster. Because, after all, it’s Dean’s birthday.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Colegrove
• Release date: Sep 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310182921

Stephen Colegrove

Wanted on twelve systems for a crime he didn't commit, the author grew up watching anything and everything sci-fi: Battlestar Galactica, Doctor Who, Star Trek, Space: 1999, Star Wars, and The A-Team. Oh, and Airwolf. Author is elbowing me in the ribs painfully--I am to emphasize his love for Airwolf, and not screw it up by making it sarcastic or hipster-ironic like I always do. Author wishes he could fly a secret government helicopter with Ernest Borgnine behind him in the dickie seat? (That's what he said, trust me.)Author's early years were spent running from wastelanders in the hills of southern Ohio. After college he turned away glittering job offers in food service and insurance and worked for the post office. He taught Bad English in China and Germany, became a Master of Teaching English Thing, joined an internet startup for the free lunches, learned about the science of fire (this can't be a real thing), and worked on a 911 ambulance (he's still working there, trust me). In author's free time he stays one foot ahead of the federales and gives his assistant a raise of 20,000 kopecks and a car and Diner's Club.Author says to tell you his literary influences are Hemingway and Raymond Carver but I can see him through the basement window and he only reads garbage Star Trek fan-fic and that Alan Partridge biography over and over.Hobbies:Listening to the beachWalking on Phil CollinsFavorite Books:I'm Alan PartridgeStar Trek #23 - Ishmael (Spock goes back in time to the Gold Rush and you've stopped reading this already)Bart Simpson's Guide to Life: A Wee Handbook for the PerplexedBest Movie I Have Been Allowed to Stay Up and Watch:Jessie Season TwoFavorite Documentary:Dumb & DumberWhat I'm Doing Now:Nothing what are you doing

Book preview

The Amish Spaceman

by

Stephen Colegrove

Copyright Information

THE AMISH SPACEMAN

Copyright 2014 Stephen Colegrove

First Edition: January 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Holder. Requests for permission should be directed to Stephen Colegrove via e-mail at [e-mail].

Cover design by Stephen Colegrove, Paul Colegrove, Jerry Farris

Editing by Alice Dragan (alicedit.com)

Soundtrack by Stephen Colegrove and Alice Dragan

Find out more about the author and upcoming books at the links below:

amishspaceman.com

Facebook

Twitter @stevecolegrove

Also by the author:

A Girl Called Badger

The Dream Widow

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright Information

Author’s Note

Not A Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

1985

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

1988

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

1991

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Spurious Footnotes

Full Soundtrack

Coming Soon

Author’s Note

At the beginning of each chapter is a selection of three musical tracks, intended to complement the reading experience like a box of wine complements a Mars bar. Speaking of which, a box of wine (any flavor) and a chocolate snack would be a perfect addition to the enjoyment of this novel. I’m not saying it’s required, but it would certainly be appropriate and definitely ironic to read the book half-drunk and with a belly full of sugary sweets, as this was the same state as the author when he wrote it.

Since my legal team advised against hand-delivering a mix CD to the home address of everyone who purchases the book, I have created a soundtrack on Spotify. The full tracklist is also included after Chapter Twenty.

The Amish Spaceman on Spotify

Alternate link

I wanted to dedicate this book to several individuals important to the creation of this work and to whom I paid vast sums of treasure, but like my therapist, they were adamant that no form of public acknowledgment was necessary or even desired. In any case, you know who you are, and if you don’t, here’s mud in your eye!

S.C.

Not A Foreword

Against the advice of my editor, publicist, agent, lawyer, and gardening team, I’ve decided not to include a foreword. I find them tacky, offensive, and a waste of time. For me, not the reader. The twelve minutes I’d need to write and edit a proper foreword is twelve minutes taken from my life. That’s twelve minutes when I could be pulling the cat from the crawlspace, teaching the children musketry, or farming virtual trading cards on Steam. I think everyone who’s still reading and hasn’t skipped this bit will agree that those activities are a far better way to spend the currency of life.

My editor has just informed me that just because I say this isn’t a foreword doesn’t make it not a foreword, and that I should stop typing everything she says and grow up this isn’t the way adults discuss things anyway Steve and you know, right, that you’re not getting paid by the word like I am. Of course I knew that.

Enjoy the book!

S.C.

Amish spaceman |ˈämiSH ˈspāsˌmaen, -mən|

compound noun ( pl. Amish spacemen )

(offensive) a person, usually male, focused on a single hobby or occupation to the detriment of a personal life (see otaku, Japanese)

a dork

Tracklist:

Moi Je Joue - Brigitte Bardot, Alain Goraguer

Saturday In The Park - Chicago

Computer Games - Mi-Sex

1

The book flew from the hand of the publishing executive, bounced off Dean’s face, and hurtled out the open window. The spinning, half-pound snowflake of doom fell ten stories and struck a girl from Kamchatka who would later become Dean’s wife.

Dean rubbed the sting from his forehead. Ignoring the screams from outside, he pointed a trembling finger at the pants-suited executive.

Listen––that’s no way to treat a semi-athletic Caucasian man of average height in his mid-thirties!

The woman tapped fingernails on her desk and Dean began to sweat, as if the sound was the drumroll of his literary execution. After having his novel chucked in his face, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she reached into a drawer for a double-bladed axe. Any tool of wood-choppery or medieval off-head-putting, in fact, would have complemented her severe bun of blonde hair and tailored black suit.

Mr. Cook, there’s nothing average about you, she said. ‘Below average’ is the word I would use, with ‘shockingly’ as the preceding modifier. Modifiers, of course, are something with which you’re intimately familiar. I haven’t seen this much purple prose and overuse of adjectives since high school, and don’t get me started on the bad grammar, shifting perspective between chapters, and the sexist cover!

How dare you, said Dean. How absolutely ... dare you. The goldmine of your publishing career lands in your ample lap and this is the response I receive. Is this America or was I suddenly transported to a Gestapo colony on the Moon? A man who is legally confirmed to have spent a third of his life in college, thank you very much, writes the story of his formative years beneath an abandoned Mercury Grand Marquis on the banks of the Ohio with nothing but a stick called Pickle to sing him to sleep and you have the absolute nerve to call it rubbish?

The editor slowly removed horn-rimmed glasses from her face and rubbed her eyes.

I apologize, Mr. Cook. Before our relationship on this Earth––or, as you allege, the Moon––has ended, allow me to say one thing: SHUT UP AND GET OUT!

Dean brushed a hand through his feathered chestnut hair. That’s two things.

I can’t sell a book with a mud-covered, naked woman on the cover! sputtered the executive. Not to mention the title, which is ‘Space Clothes.’ Are you on medication ... yet?

Dean held up his hands. I know, I know, but that wasn’t me, that was the marketing guy––I mean team, marketing team. A naked girl cannot fail to attract the male demographic, and that’s not mud, it’s chocolate. We all know women go crazy for the stuff. ‘Space Clothes’ to attract both nerds and women who don’t fancy chocolate. They like fashion. And shopping, but that’s just common sense, a bonus when you’re doing business with Dean Cook and Kiss the Cook Productions. When I slide up to the publishing table, you don’t get an author. Well, you DO get that, but you also get a marketing genius. I’ve got one finger on the carotid artery of the American consumer, and the other four sort of near the artery but not pressing too hard. I don’t want anyone to pass out.

The editor gave Dean a shockingly dour look, one that would have fit in perfectly behind the reception desk of Nazi Moonbase Ein.

I’m calling security, she said.

WITH AS MUCH HASTE as a middle-aged man can muster when he is the one upon whom security has been called, Dean took the steps two at a time. Behind him clattered an Asian woman in sensible heels, cardigan, and denim skirt.

Dean, slow down!

No time, he gasped between breaths, wondering if the tai chi classes he’d taken for five years at the community college had finally shown their value.

Soaked in sweat, he stopped at the steel door to the lobby, and the Asian woman collided into his lower back like a tiny linebacker. Dean slammed painfully into the steel surface and both crashed to the floor.

Lin!

Sorry! I’m sorry.

She scrambled to her feet and tugged on Dean’s left arm like the butter-churning queen of Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

Bad arm! That’s the bad arm, yelled Dean.

Sorry! I forgot.

Dean stood up and rubbed his shoulder.

Lin Alice Anderson, how could you forget? Your personal assistant star has been hitched to my rising motivational speaker star long enough to remember it was your fault I dislocated the thing.

But––

Shouts and a thunder of galloping shoes came from the stairs above.

Never mind that!

Dean pushed the door into the lobby and narrowly avoided another thundering herd, this one dressed in tuxedos. He flattened against the wall of the lobby as a stream of elegantly dressed men rushed by, words of a strange language on their lips and concerned looks on their pale faces, as if they were missing a really good sale.

Dean raised his voice to be heard over the slap of dress shoes on marble.

See anyone you recognize?

Just because I was born in San Jose doesn’t mean I know everyone, said Lin. This isn’t Ohio.

Dean shrugged and surveyed the black-tie marathon. Even in a strange state like California these dapper dandies dressed too well to be security. He suspected something incomprehensible such as a charity 5K for sacrificing young ladies to Mitsubishi the Cat-God or to prevent such horrors, but this chaotic gathering was most likely the funeral for a reality-TV star, or a retirement party for a member of the state senate.

The herd had thinned to a few cardio-challenged stragglers, when the glass doors of the lobby slammed open and a female Golden Horde burst inside, their high heels tapping a staccato below dresses as tight as garden hoses. The babbling stream of embroidered tubes clicked over the marble, seemingly propelled by 747-sized contrails of Chanel No. 5. The women were of all ages and pale of skin like their male vanguard. Strange, frantic words burbled from their red-lipsticked mouths, while their dark eyes looked Dean up and down and quickly discarded his existence. They were definitely searching for someone, but like most women he’d met between the ages of sixteen and sixty, it was definitely not Dean.

A burly, gray-uniformed guard erupted from the stairwell with a slam of metal.

There he is! Get him!

Dean certainly did not want to be got and immediately became as panic-stricken as the worst of the finely dressed women. He grabbed Lin and pushed into the protective eye of the female hurricane, shouting words he thought sounded foreign. The crowd exited the building through the west entrance, startling twelve passers-by and one pigeon. With Lin right behind, Dean squeezed free of the packed women like a melon seed and ran to the street. He waved at a green-and-white taxi and it stopped next to the curb.

Where to? asked the cabbie.

Foolappa lippa loppa––sorry, I mean Sunnyvale, said Dean.

DEAN GREW UP ON A FARM in Ohio so distant from anything that the Amish came there to get away from it all. Even people from Cincinnati thought he lived in the sticks. The general opinion in the countryside was that if you could hit your neighbor’s door with a .22 rifle then you were boxed-in and might as well move to the city and wear pantyhose, as Dean’s mother used to say.

For reasons not unrelated to women’s hosiery, his parents eventually moved to northern California. After his graduation from college, Dean chose to live in Sunnyvale, the safest splotch in the vast and violent sprawl of the Santa Clara Valley. The fact that the firefighters of this enterprising municipality were all sworn police officers and carried firearms was the prime reason for the security, in Dean’s opinion. Even more critical than that critical fact, it was where Dean’s roommate slash girlfriend lived, and that meant he slash lived there slash had his mail slashed open there too.

Dean had the cab pull over a few blocks from the house in case he was still being followed by security from the publisher. He attempted a rakish posture by leaning inside the cab to speak to Lin. This was futile, since every second-grader knows it is impossible to look ‘hip’ or ‘cool’ or ‘sick’ with your upper body inside anything.

Head to Michael’s and buy some card stock and red food coloring, said Dean. When you get back, I’ll dictate a letter to that Nazi editor.

Nazi who?

Never mind that, just get going!

Lin nodded and the cab zoomed away, almost garroting Dean around the neck with the door frame.

The morning was bright, and even though he’d just experienced a triple negative of rejection by a publisher, tramplation by strange foreign ladies, and almost-head-removation by a cab window, Dean was happy. Somehow he obtained a delightful contentment from the bland panorama of California suburbia: the well-sprinkled lawns, the waves of whispering leaves on the branches of oldish-growth trees, the streets full of beautiful houses in a perpetual state of refurbishment, refinance, and resale. He knew the book would sell once he found an agent, but in many ways it didn’t matter––the conference was next week and who was a keynote speaker? He was! Due to persistent, unsolicited, and anonymous emails from Dean, Robert Timmins was guaranteed to attend, guaranteed to hear Dean’s words of wisdom, and guaranteed to have the razor-sharp message of Dean’s motivational spear chucked through his forward-thinking brain. He’d have no option but to hire Dean Cook as opening act for the spring tour of Timmination.

Dean marched confidently up the walkway of his house with the stride of a conquering hero, opened the front door, and Joanie punched him in the face.

What the flip! he said, as he sprawled backwards into the flower garden, trying and failing to avoid the camellias.

You bastard, said Joanie. Who is she? How long has this been going on?

What are you talking about?

Joanie shook her head. Say something less predictable, please. How about: ‘Ooo, look at me. I’m Dean Cook, a princess like my father and clean as the wind-driven snow.’ Yellow snow is more like it!

Dean waved at the elderly man peering over the fence next door. Yes, hello, we’re fine, Mr. Gunderson.

I never let those college boys come to the house, said Joanie, in a matter-of-fact tone. And when they wanted to invite the rest of their friends, I put my foot down. I have some decency about me, not like you––I went over to the frat house instead.

I don’t understand.

Shut up and listen, former ex-boyfriend.

Joanie turned, and her blonde hair fanned in a flat, golden circle: the mirror image of Dean’s favorite Pantene commercial. This never failed to disrupt the electrical impulses in Dean’s sinoatrial node, and she knew it.

Dean clutched his chest and gasped. Former ... and ex ... That’s a double negative.

Quiet. I’m trying to explain why I never brought the three lumberjacks that I met at the Blue Onion back here: we got a room at Quality Inn like decent human beings. Everything stays out of the home, Dean. Do you think the eye exams I had every week with Dr. Goldhammer were real? That all the police johnnies use my first name because I clean the department every Friday? Isn’t it strange that our phone goes out at night and the repairman needs me to go out to his truck and help fix it? You can’t be that dumb. Or are you?

I ... uh ... I thought you were just being nice.

No, I sleep around. What I don’t do is have sex where I sleep. You broke that rule, Dean, and I want you out.

But I didn’t do anything! Honestly, I have no idea what on earth is going on.

Joanie crossed her arms. Dean tried to keep her gaze and not catch a last glance of her tight yoga pants. Intuition told him that he wouldn’t be seeing much of her toned thighs in the future. Not that he saw them frequently, anyway.

A girl left five minutes ago, she said. Chirping and burbling with a strange accent. She was crying, literally kneeling at my feet and begging for something. Do you know what that something was? She touched Dean’s nose with her index finger. You. Dean Cook.

I swear I don’t know her!

Then this fat woman pushes inside like a tank roaring up Omaha Beach. She tells me you owe them money, that you have to marry the girl. Joanie spread her arms. Is that what it’s come down to, Dean? Giving money to underage whores who can’t tell a soul about the horrible things you do to them? My mother was right. She may have thought squirrels were messengers from God and that beer kept the body hydrated, but she was right about you.

Joanie, this is all a big misunderstanding.

I’m sure it was. I’m sure the poor girl didn’t realize how little you were planning to pay for a private show of ‘Superman Meets Batgirl.’ When the fun was over and the yelling started, Dean, did you hit the girl? Or did you simply jump out her bedroom window?

It’s nothing like that!

Joanie touched his nose again. I’m only going to say one thing––

Dean sighed. Okay, I’m leaving.

JOANIE GAVE HIM five minutes to pack. Dean threw clothes and as many books and promotional materials as he could into a suitcase. Joanie offered to drive him somewhere like the Quality Inn, but a breeze blew through the last shreds of his pride and Dean refused.

He walked toward the nearest intersection, grimly holding a giant sombrero onto his head as a breeze tried to blow it straight to the bay. The hat was a reminder of the trip to Cabo with Joanie, the best trip he’d ever had in his life, and he’d be damned if it was going to stay on her wall or be filled with nacho chips by the next football team in her life. On Maude Avenue he waved down a cab and took it to Lin’s house in Palo Alto.

The high branches of old-growth trees covered a street resplendent in faux neo-Edwardian, faux neo-Italianate, and faux neo-modern design. Lin owned a nice enough faux post-Eichler ranch house with a well-tended hedge and lawn. The only problem was the pink ambulance in the driveway. Gray primer spots covered the battered vehicle and a white racing stripe slashed diagonally across the left side.

Dean held his sombrero in one hand and pushed the doorbell with the other. A speaker crackled with a young man’s voice.

Go away. I’m working.

Chip, it’s Dean. I need to speak to your mother.

About your horrible fashion choices?

Dean sighed. No, Chip.

About Chip? That’s me!

Stop acting like a teenager and open up.

A mechanism clacked inside the lock and Dean pushed the door open. He stepped into an environment of stark contrasts, an extreme battle zone of cultures. Framed prints from Target gave a slight impression of Impressionist flowers, while paintings of Parisian trolleys faced a variety of wrinkled posters of bikini-clad girls, all unbelievably ecstatic while holding a bottle of beer, showering in beer, or both. Discarded cans of Mountain Dew and empty fast-food boxes were scattered across the furniture and competed with carefully tended orchids for breathing room.

A squishy noise and synthesized screams of horror came from upstairs. Dean left his suitcase in the living room and walked up the steps to the second floor. A female mannequin with a giant bust and equally massive assault rifle blocked the stairwell. Dean squeezed past the extremely large lady-parts and climbed the rest of the way to Chip’s room.

If downstairs had been a battle zone, Chip’s bedroom had lost the war. Movie and game posters covered the walls and darkened the windows. Green and black video game boxes cluttered the floor along with empty cans of Diet Pepsi. A man-sized Godzilla costume stood in one corner.

Chip sat in front of a widescreen monitor larger than the last television Dean had owned, and which unfortunately for him, now belonged to Joanie. On the huge screen in front of Chip a cartoonish man on a bicycle pedaled furiously across a bridge of steadily falling bottles. He didn’t pedal fast enough and fell into a pit of spikes with a horrific splat and shower of blood. Chip sighed. He clicked a button and the screen refreshed, with the cartoon man and his bicycle at the starting line.

That’s completely unrealistic, said Dean. The human body doesn’t contain that much blood. Out of anyone, I should know.

The gimbals in Chip’s office chair squealed as he turned to glance at Dean.

And here’s the pizza boy. Say hello to everyone, Dean!

Everyone?

Chip waved at a camera clamped above the monitor. You! I’m recording.

Oh. Hello, everyone. It’s a bit odd not knowing who I’m talking to. I hope they’re not bloodthirsty aliens watching us from orbit. Exterminate, exterminate, we need the bodies of your women for fuel, ha ha. I’m sorry, that’s sexist.

Girls and aliens don’t watch gaming videos on YouTube, Dean. Mom’s not here?

I sent her out for some supplies.

Not for a ‘red-light special,’ I hope. You said you wouldn’t make her do that anymore.

Dean flushed. I didn’t! She’s shopping for craft supplies.

I don’t know what’s more embarrassing for you, Dean––needing my mom to pick up hookers, or needing my Mom to pick up craft supplies.

That was just one time!

It’s a joke, boss. Don’t have a stroke. Wave goodbye to the PewPew Party.

Dean left without acknowledging the unseen party behind the camera; a severe violation of several interstellar protocols if they had been extraterrestrials who preferred confectionary of a human female nature. He leaned his sombrero against a wall of the living room and cleared off the sofa to relax. He wanted to lie down for only a moment but fell into a deep sleep, even with the plethora of squishes and screams emanating from upstairs.

A hand touched his shoulder. Since he had retained from birth that not-quite-peculiar trait of waking instantly upon being touched, Dean woke instantly.

Mother! he yelled.

Lin stood over him, a shopping bag in her hand.

I’m sorry, it’s me. Here’s the food coloring and the craft paper you wanted.

Dean sat up. I’m glad you’re back, Lin, but we’ve got more important problems. Kiss The Cook Productions has been forced to vacate.

Lin touched his forehead with a cold hand. Are you feeling okay?

I’m fine. Well, not really. Joanie kicked me out.

Why?

"It doesn’t matter, I just need to stay here tonight. Obviously not HERE here, because Holy Space Cats look at the stains on this sofa, but ‘here’ in general, by which I mean