Dubi Du Bois
I.
Less than twelve million light-years from here is a habitable planet in the elliptical galaxy of Maffei 1. Not only is it habitable, but also, it is in fact, inhabited.
Inhabited by biological beings of fairly advanced intelligence, although some of them still adhere to baser instincts, which leads them to murder, rob and maim their fellows. The worst part is that their leaders are still able to cajole them into total war with neighboring nations that share their globe, to fulfill their own personal ambitions.
But these were matters above the average man's head, thought Dubi Du Bois as he laboriously awoke to the melodious alarm of the clock radio. Yet Dubi couldn't help but to ponder the inconsistencies of live. He was always asking himself as to the how and why, concerning the important issues of live, but also, even the trivial.
So when the traffic reporter said there was a pile-up near the Boom off-ramp, he wondered when they were going to fix up that particular section of the highway. Likewise, when the oversexed morning show couple started spouting their lewd jokes, he wondered if there was a particular mould off college dolt from which Radio personalities were so carefully picked.
He went downstairs and kissed his better half good morning. Her name was Smarge. She served him coffee and something supposing to be breakfast, but well disguised as a small heap of shit. He wondered why, but ate without passing comment. He wondered why.
He got the auto out of the auto port. He noticed a bad scratch on the door he hadn't noticed before, but didn't wonder how it happened, he knew the answer to this one; Smarge.
II.
He made the office on good time and got onto the escalating conveyer, which took him the second floor where his office was. He had no secretary, he wasn't that high up, about this to he didn't wonder either; life was unfair, that was all there was to that.
Midmorning his boss asked to see him. He went to his office. He did have a secretary. She was pretty, she had to be, she was an executive secretary. She bade him to sit down and wait. He did, and she continuing furiously with work (although what work he couldn't imagine since the huge slump in the company shares had ruined them) didn't notice his fixed stare at her ample bosom.
She wore low-cut blouses and the reasons for that also didn't need pondering, although they were plenty. She called his name, well actually his surname, and he languidly adjusted his gaze from her bosom to her face. "Mr. Hobscotch will see you now." She oozed with a mixture of honey and venom.
Mr Hobscotch acknowledged him with abstract and plastered concern. "Business isn't going well DuBois therefore we" (meaning you)" have to..." the rest he didn't really follow. He didn't have to. You either have a job or you don't. Was there a time when employment meant something, he wondered? "Thank you DuBois you can go." What so soon. "Thank you Mr. Hobscotch, and I will do my utmost concerning this matter, I assure you." He lied without blinking and wondered about it only a little, as was his custom when it came to blatant dishonesty.
Back in his office he didn't do any actual work, because there wasn't any to do, and nothing was really expected of him. He whiled away the remaining working hours playing solitaire on his computer. He was perplexed as to why he almost always lost.
III.
He got home and after he had washed and changed, he and Smarge and their two little brats sat down for the evening meal. On his plate lay a choice cut of a harmless vegetarian bovine. He climbed into it with relish, hardly caring whether it had once been a carefree plant eater.
He noticed that this particular piece of ex-bovine was particularly tough on the teeth; Smarges way of preparing it. He contemplated the mysteries of this phenomenon, steadied his resolve, and prepared to attempt to devour his meal with as much haste as possible.
The kids were quiet during dinner as they were taught. Spare the rod and spoil the child. The providence of the Good Book.
Supper done, it was time to watch the seven o clock news.
IV.
He switched on the glass fronted visual entertainment unit. A well-known politician was on, lying through his teeth, as they usually do. He wondered why one of them didn't tell the truth for once in a while and confuse everybody. "Yes, I categorically confess to shagging miss B'onkski." "No, I didn't embezzle funds to aid a needy cause, I did it for my own personal benefit." That would be news.
The Green People's Movement had marched on city hall to protest the infringement of some, previously anonymous and obscure, green person's rights. They were waving misspellt placards and shouting "Green Power! Green Power! in unison. He wondered why everybody couldn't just get along.
The football results were out, his team had lost again. He wondered if they would ever recover to their former glory...of long ago. There was rain predicted on the weather forecast, he wondered if global warming was really the cause of the increased precipitation they were experiencing.
The first comedy of the comedy hour came on. The characters were imitating a family of ludicrous and contrary fools. They were succeeding far better than they ever could have expected to, or, no doubt, realized.
After the show he switched of the screen with the remote and sent the little ones off to bed. Then he went outside to relax in his own fashion at the end of the day.
He walked onto his porch and put a smoke to his lips. It was not just any smoke, but contained a mild intoxicating agent, and was green in color. A little vice he allowed himself each night before going to bed.
He sat slightly zonked and stared at the stars. He wondered about things all modern stargazers do; was there other intelligent beings out there, if so, what were they like. Why was there no sign or sound from them? Surely they must be infinitely more advanced than us and easily capable of reaching us, he reasoned to himself.
Where are they, why aren't they here, when are they coming? Why can't we find signs of them? What are they like? What are they like?
V.
Similarly I sit on my porch tonight, I look at the stars, slightly zonked. I think about the same things as Dubi, but more than that, I think of him. I think of him, and I wonder, if he realizes what I just realized.
