Too Small For Tall Read online

  “So what happened?” I prompt Tall when he doesn’t pick up the story again after a few seconds. “Things were good and back to normal—normal for a shadowy, semi-official, quasi-government agency, anyway, I’m guessing, which probably leaves a lot of room for interpretation—and now you’re moping around being a Gloomy Gus. What gives?”

  He grumbles something in response, but he must be chewing on marbles again because I can’t quite make it out. “What? You hate your work? That was fast—you used to love that job! Especially the cheap suits and the sharp ties!” I’m not kidding about the ties, either—one time we were playing Varsuvian Ping Pong, which is just like regular Earth Ping Pong except the ball moves on its own and you’ve gotta browbeat it into standing still and letting you hit it with the paddle—and Tall’d just come from work so he was still in full MiB getup and he shucked his tie and coat and I picked them up off the couch so I could sit afterward and I got a paper cut from the damn tie! Right on my thumb, too—stung like a mother!

  He’s shaking his head, though. “Paperwork,” he corrects. “I said ‘paperwork.’”

  “Oh, well that makes more sense. Only, no, not really.” Yeah, I tend to think out loud. I like it better than thinking and then speaking. Saves time.

  “New orders from the top,” Tall explains with a deep sigh, the kind you usually only make when you’ve just found out someone shot your truck and totaled your wife and ran off with your dog, or some iteration thereof. “Changed our operating procedures. Now we’ve got to fill out all this extra paperwork every time we do anything—in triplicate.”

  “Oh, I hate those,” I agree. “Those carbons always leave ink all over my fingertips, and do you have any idea how hard it is to get that stuff off feathers? It stains, man! I’ve had to bleach my fingers before!”

  “We don’t use carbons,” he told me. “And we can’t photocopy them, either, or just print out three copies. We have to fill out each form three times, from scratch.” I must be making a face because Tall cracks just the barest hint of a smile. “There are times,” he says slowly, “when the Men in Black are a little . . . old-fashioned.”

  “I’ll say!” I can’t imagine having to do a whole heap of reports on who knows what—and then having to do them all over again. And then a third time! “Well, yeah, no wonder you’re in a bad mood, then! Sorry, dude.”

  He slaps me on the back, and suddenly I know how those Varsuvian Ping Pong balls feel! “Don’t worry about it,” he says then. “It’s not a big deal.”

  But he won’t look me in the eye, and he’s shuffling his feet a little bit. I’m a pretty good judge of when somebody’s telling the truth—hey, I’ve got brothers and sisters! “Talk to me, man,” I urge him. “You need to let it out, whatever it is.”

  He hesitates again, then nods. “There is something else,” he says slowly, like he’s gotta drag the words up from the vault himself. “Something that just started recently.” I lean in—this is the good stuff! “It seems,” he whispers, “that they’ve decided, that we should—” he looks around “—start admitting”—the suspense is killing me, or at least mildly spraining the one arm where it’s still tender from playing the Horseshoe Nebula version of Guitar Hero, which involves playing this thing that looks a lot like a guitar but also intercepting small poisonous throwing stars at the same time—“girls.”

  I stare at him. I can’t help it. And after a minute or two, when it’s clear he’s not going to elaborate, I practically squawk at him: “That’s it? That’s what’s got your panties in a twist, that they might let women join the MiB?”

  “You don’t understand.” He looked a little shell-shocked, maybe from the recent meetings and paperwork and whatever but also presumably because he’s flown, what, two or three times to the Core and back. I wonder sometimes if that’s dangerous—not just to him, but the universe in general. I don’t even know what it’d do if he somehow met himself while traveling, but I feel like that’s possible because of the time change and relative speeds and all that other good stuff. And while it might be nice to gab with somebody who understood all your in-jokes, and to get a little advance warning about what’s going down next Tuesday or whatever, I’m pretty sure it’d still wind up being a bad thing for the universe in general.

  He’s right, though, and I tell him so: “You’re right. I don’t understand. So explain it to me.” And I lean back into the couch. I have the feeling this is going to take a while.

  Chapter Three

  WiB just sounds wrong

  “What we do,” Tall starts, “it’s dangerous. Really dangerous. We’re facing aliens all the time that’re bigger than we are, stronger than we are, faster than we are, smarter than we are, and a lot of ’em have way better tech than we do—and much bigger guns. We’re putting ourselves at risk every day, in order to protect the American people and their way of life.”

  I’m now picturing aliens that look just like Tall, only bigger and stronger and faster and with oversized brains and carrying huge guns. “What do they do, most of these aliens?” I ask after gulping a few times because my throat’s gone dry all of a sudden. “Are they all trying to take over the world? Man, I’m glad I moved away!”

  Tall looks down at his hands, which’re now clasped in front of him. “Take pictures, mostly,” he admits after a second. “And try to steal stuff for souvenirs. We get a lot of tourists.”

  I suppose that makes sense—Earth’s a pretty hip place, for a backwater, or so I’ve gathered over the three months I’ve been out here. “What’s this got to do with letting women join?” I ask. “Or are you trying to tell me that it’s too dangerous for ‘the fairer sex’? Because if so, I dare you to repeat that in front of Mary.” Mary’s ridiculously hot—I often have to pinch her to make sure I’m not dreaming, which she says isn’t how you’re supposed to do it but she seems to like it so what the hell—and incredibly smart, but she’s also tough as nails and Tall visibly quails at the idea of pissing her off.

  “No, women can handle it,” he says quickly, shrinking back into the couch a little, which is always a bad idea because it decides he wants to get past and flows out of his way, turning itself into two corner chairs with me on one, the other on Tall’s far side, and him flat on his butt on the floor. Yeah, it’s Trasgamine modular furniture, responds to your movement and some vocal commands. I’m trying to figure out how to turn it into a pup tent but I keep getting a doggie bed instead. I did get a Papasan once, though, so I have hope.

  “So, what then?”

  He picks himself up, glares at the couch, and claims one of the actual wooden chairs over near the side table instead. “Look, it’s a dangerous job, okay?” he tries again.

  “Yeah, yeah, you already said that.”

  “Right, and we’re putting our lives on the line.”

  “Uh huh. And if there were women MiBs—would they be WiBs? Because that just sounds wrong—then you’d worry about them getting hurt and that’d get you all distracted and probably killed by these oh-so-dangerous alien tourists.” I shake my head, accidentally knocking over a nearby lamp. “That’s really 1950s of you, man.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying!” he claims. “The problem isn’t them getting hurt, or us worrying about them getting hurt, or anything like that!”

  “Oh, so you wouldn’t care if they got hurt, just because they’re women? Wow, that’s really low.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, either!” He’s got that look again, the one where his face goes red and his eyes bulge and his jaw juts out and it looks like he’s gonna breathe fire any second. I’m really good at getting him to make that face. Or almost anybody, actually.

  “Okay, so talk sense, buddy. What, exactly, is the deal?”

  “The deal,” he says slowly, spacing out each word, “is that men in my line of work don’t have a lot of time for . . . socializing.”

  I scratch at my bill. “Um, okay, so you need to get out more?”

  “We don’t have muc
h opportunity to mingle . . . with members of the opposite sex.” He’s slowing down still more, dragging each word along until it’s stretched like taffy—and that image brings back bad memories.

  I’m still confused, though. “So, what, you guys wanna hold a coed dance?”

  There’s that grinding sound again, which I hear a lot around Tall. Poor guy’s gonna need new teeth before he’s forty, at this rate. “We don’t see many women.” He’s switched tacks and now he’s practically hurling each word at me like a dagger. I saw a game show like that once, but this one guy basically cheated and used compound words—it was like those old French cannon that fired two cannonballs linked by a chain. It wasn’t pretty. He did get full points for taking down a dozen targets at once with “multi-inter-bi-dimensional,” though. “Not women who can hold their own. So when we do, it can be . . . distracting.”

  And finally I get it: “So you’re saying having WiBs would be a problem because all the MiBs would fall all over them?”

  I must have gotten it right, because he actually nods. “There was a female MiB once,” he explains softly, but at least he’s working his jaw again, so it’s a lot easier to understand him—and less hazardous to my health. “Her name was Mercer or Messer or Miezer, something like that—most of the records have been expunged. She was only with the organization for a month, back in the early seventies.”

  “What happened?” I wish I had some popcorn—this is better than the game by far!

  “She indirectly caused the death of twelve other agents,” Tall tells me. “They were all so busy trying to impress her they did stupid things to get her attention, and it got them killed. Damn near got the planet taken over or blown up or strip-mined or mind-controlled several times, too.” He shakes his head. “The higher-ups finally had to let her go—it was just too dangerous to everyone else.”

  “Huh.” I think about that. “I didn’t even realize you could fire a MiB. How does that work, exactly? Do you get a letter of reference for your next job? ‘Such and such was an exemplary member of something we can’t tell you about, and during the course of his employment for a period we can’t reveal, he took care of several responsibilities we can’t divulge’?”

  The smile he manages looks a bit sad, and maybe a tad guilty as well. “When a MiB leaves, his memory is erased all the way back to when he first joined. He’s given false memories to fill in that period, and a cover story to explain away any gaps and discrepancies, and then he’s set up with a new life somewhere.”

  “So somewhere, the former Agent Mercer-Messer-Miezer may still be out there, never realizing she was once the world’s only Woman in Black?”

  “Precisely. But after her they decided not to let in any more women, just to avoid another situation like that.”

  Something else occurs to me. “Was she hot?”

  Tall gets a dreamy look on his face, which is a little creepy, if you ask me. “Yeah, she was,” he almost whispers. “I ran across a picture, once, where she was in the background—apparently whoever did the cleanup hadn’t noticed and pulled the image. But she was tall and busty, with long blond hair she kept up in a tight bun. Very hot, very capable, and very distracting.” I’m getting this horrible mental image of the other MiBs getting mowed down not just because they’re trying to show off in front of her but because they’re busy covering their crotches, and I wish I had some of that mental bleach I saw advertised the other day: “Scrub bad memories away!”

  Then I have an idea: “So just hire ugly women.” He stares at me like I’ve gone crazy, but I really think I’m onto something here. “No, seriously. Just don’t allow any of them to be attractive at all, and you’re safe, right? Nobody’ll lust after them, nobody’ll get distracted by them, nobody’ll die because of them, you’re all set!” I try to pat myself on the back but I’m not a big fan of touchy-feely (except with Mary) and keep twisting away, so in the end I have to settle for a supportive hand on the shoulder instead. I don’t think I’m getting the recognition I deserve.

  Tall doesn’t seem as impressed by my revelation—good thing he’s not in charge of back pats! “This isn’t a beauty contest!” he snaps, then adds, “or an anti-beauty contest, or whatever! MiBs are very carefully selected—we’re the best of the best! And if they decide to let a woman in, she’ll be the best of the best, too!”

  “And you’re betting that means she’ll be another Amazon, dangerously hot in a black tie and shades.” I don’t know whether to laugh at his naiveté, cry at his stupidity, or applaud his optimism. I’d do all three at once but that’d just get messy and it’d look and sound like a drenched seal with a head cold. “Tall, man, you do know how the process actually works, right? At my old job I was stuck in the cube right next to HR—trust me, genuine ability has nothing to do with it. It’s all about who you know, how you look, what you can do for them, and whether you’re willing to take a little less money than advertised, and a cut in benefits, while doing as much or more work. Don’t worry about the Amazons—you’re a lot more likely to get some mousy little chick who’s real good at typing and filing but sucks at everything else, or one of those super-friendly types who makes a mess of everything but who’s so nice no one wants to tell her.” I tried that last strategy myself at one point, but I must’ve been doing it wrong, because it backfired—everybody liked me and wanted to be my friend, but that just made them feel they could be honest with me about my own shortcomings, and owed it to me to be as blunt as possible when telling me what I did wrong. I tried not to have any friends after that.

  Tall laughs, which is at least an improvement over the moping and the glaring. “Maybe you’re right,” he tells me, which might just be a first, or at least a second. “I’m probably blowing this all out of proportion.” He turns toward the TV and switches it back on, intent now upon the game. “Aw, man, the Yarmoths just scored again!” he complains. “Come on, Ma-bin-yo, let’s lick their little fluffy asses!” Okay, that might have been “kick,” but either works, right? Regardless, he’s back to shouting curses and death threats at the screen like it’s done something to personally insult him, his mother, and his puppy.

  Good to see he’s feeling better about his life.

  Chapter Four

  One Choco-Mint is never enough

  “Look what I got!” I practically shout the next time Tall shows up, two weeks later. I’m sitting out in the Matrix Chamber, as I like to call the football field-sized room that houses the thing, and I’ve got my feet in my latest acquisition.

  He stops short just the other side of it, and stares. I bet he took courses on staring in college—he’s real good at them. You can actually catalog Tall’s stares. I’m up to nineteen so far. This is good ol’ number three, “what the hell is that, exactly, and should I be drawing my gun?” Which is a lot nicer than number one, “are you a complete flippin’ moron?” or number two, “remind me why I don’t just shoot you and incinerate the body?” Sometimes I practice those two myself, just me and the mirror. I figure they’ll be useful if I ever have kids and they try to bring home their dates.

  Finally he says, “Is that what I think it is?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “What do you think it is?” Hey, I’m not a mind reader!

  “It looks like a kiddie pool,” he tells me. “But shaped like the Milky Way.”

  “Man, you’re good!” I admire it again, splashing my feet about and almost drenching his feet. He must’ve had time to go home and change this time, because instead of his usual MiB suit Tall’s wearing worn blue jeans, a Texas A&M jersey-style T-shirt, and cowboy boots. I should’ve known.

  “Why do you have a kiddie pool in the Matrix Chamber?” See, I’ve got everybody calling it that! Now if I could just train them to refer to the bathroom as “the shrine to the porcelain god” I’d be all set!

  “Because a real pool wouldn’t fit,” I answer. “Duh!”

  He’s just staring at me again, and it’s starting to shade from three to one—you
can tell by the way his left eye is twitching. So I stand up, still in the kiddie pool. “Look.” I walk around the central part and then out along one of the spiral arms, then turn—carefully, because my feet’re a lot bigger than most adults, let alone kids or small elephants, and I don’t have a lot of extra room here—and make my way back to the center. “See, it’s exercise! And the water creates resistance, which means it’s more of a workout than walking the same distance on dry ground!”

  I’m all pleased with myself, but Tall looks like he’s trying not to cry, or sneeze, or spit out curse words like they were sunflower seed shells. “You only walked about ten feet,” he points out.

  “So? At least it’s something!” I stop and face him, hands on my hips. “Look, you were the one who suggested swimming, remember? Well, it turns out full-sized pools aren’t exactly cheap, even out here—plus there’s the delivery fee to consider.” Somehow, the Matrix isn’t in anybody else’s galactic zip code, which makes it really easy for mail to reach me but really hard on delivery charges. “I couldn’t afford one. But then I saw this baby on the Interstellar Shopping Network—they’ve got everything on there!—so I ordered one. I thought you’d be impressed!”

  He’s shaking his head like this’s all a bad dream, or at least like he’s hoping that’s the case. “I am glad to see you’re taking exercising seriously,” he says finally, though I can tell that was hard to get out from the way he’s breathing like he just did the power walk instead of me. “And yes, walking through water adds some resistance.” He glances down at the pool again, and at my feet in it. The water’s lapping against my ankles. Feels nice. “But it’s best if the water comes up to at least your waist,” he continues slowly. “Not your ankles. Plus”—he sighs—“if you were willing to walk all the way around this chamber a few times a day? That’d be a whole lot better for you in the long run.”