COMMITTED

by A.R. Kirby

Episode 30
Tal, two neighbors, and Toby

W
ith Liv and the girls safely on their way
to obtain the finest locally grown, fairly
traded, organically wholesome and
obscenely expensive groceries available
in the metropolitan Birmingham area, Tal was able to
turn his attention to the front yard. The mower and his
body followed quickly thereafter, and soon he was criss-
crossing the front yard in neat lines, starting alongside
the front of the house and slowly moving back and forth
toward the curb along the street.
While he would have liked nothing better than to
breeze across the front in the same rapid manner in which
he completed and improved the back yard, Tal was quite
mindfully taking his time with the front. His caution was
understandable. Liv’s reproach -- slight though it was, he
readily admitted -- was still fresh in his mind and adding
to his motivation to keep his powers in check were the
two elderly gentlemen monitoring his progress from
across the street and two yards up.
In order to keep up the facade. Tal plodded behind
 Committed by A.R. Kirby

the mower, grunting from time to time and occasionally

wiping nonexistent sweat from his brow. Less noticeable
was the care he took to avoid rearranging the geography
of the lawn. Tal tried very hard not to think about how
he wanted the lawn to look in its finished form; he was
afraid that if he did, the earth would jump with his
thoughts and the lawn would be transformed immediately
for all and sundry to see. The task was more difficult than
he thought, and occasionally small patches of lawn would
rearrange themselves as he passed. Fortunately, the action
was almost unnoticeable, especially from any kind of
distance.
When he reached the edge of the lawn closest to
the drive, Tal threw up a hand in greeting towards his
spectators. The men -- one tall and gaunt, the other short
and stubby -- gave barely noticeable nods in return. Tal
nodded back, then returned his attention to about-face he
was making with the mower.
The two men were Merle Cusimano (the tall one) and
Homer Johnson (the tubby one), the elder statesmen of
Hambry Lane. Both men were in their late seventies,
retired, widowers, and (literally) the last, oldest men
standing following the most recent round of gentrification
in the neighborhood. The similarities between them
ended there, with one exception. Cusimano was the final
-- and most successful -- link of a long line of proud
Italian immigrants who worked in the steel mills when
Birmingham was a much younger city. Johnson was
originally a Yankee who moved to Birmingham from
upstate New York to live with his new wife following his
service in the Korean War. The two men had lived in neat
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split-level houses across the street from each other for the
better part of fifty years, and their friendship was based
more on proximity and longevity than anything else.
They did share a love, however, of criticizing the lawn
care methods of all the other men in the neighborhood.
They could often be seen at the end of one of their
driveways, blathering on and on to each other about
subjects as diverse and interesting as who was using the
wrong type of fertilizer or who had a terrible time trying
to get zoysia grass to grow in this neighborhood. It was
the elderly male version of gossiping over the back fence,
and Cusimano and Johnson lived for it.
“Who’da thunk it -- Hooper mowing before the
Independence Day,” Merle said, then spat into the grass.
“Yup,” Homer agreed. “Almost seems like he’s
enjoying it. Never seen him like that before. And I say
it’s about time, too.”
Both men nodded silently as they continued to watch
Tal’s efforts. It was such a rare sight that both men
were completely engrossed. After a space of almost two
minutes, Merle broke the uncommon silence.
“So whatcha know about Hooper down there?”
“Not a lot,” Homer replied, watching as Tal muscled
the mower around a small tree toward the curb side
of the yard. “His mowing technique ain’t for crap, but
that’s understandable, since he only mows about four
times a summer. Other than that, he seems like a decent
fella. Teaches history down at the university, I think. His
wife made me a real nice casserole after Mabel passed a

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couple of years ago.”

“Hmph,” Merle grunted, and spat again. “Teaches at
the university, huh?”
“Yup.” Homer paused and scratched at the stubble on
his cheek. “Nice enough guy, but something just ain’t
quite right about him.”
“He’s one of them brainy types, that’s what it is,”
Merle answered with a sneer. He leaned in closer to
Homer. “Bet he smokes that dope, too,” he hissed.
Both men straightened and nodded at each other in
silent agreement. Tal toiled along, paying no attention to
his neighbors and wishing he was inside, reading a book
and drinking a beer.
At this point, anyone standing on the Hooper’s front
porch watching this exchange would quite likely become
incredibly bored and start looking at something else. If
they looked about fifty feet directly above where the old
men stood, they would have seen a small area where
-- through pure botanical chance -- the thick, leafy oaks
and pecan trees that provided a shady canopy for the
subdivision parted slightly. Through this parting, if it
was a clear day and the person on the porch had good
eyesight, the statue of Vulcan could be glimpsed on
its pedestal atop Red Mountain. Since much of what
happens later to Tal and Liv concerns this iron goliath,
some history is in order.
The statue of Vulcan, Roman god of the forge, is the
largest cast iron statue in the world, standing 56 feet
tall and weighing more than 50 tons. It stands atop a
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130-odd-foot-tall pedestal and observation tower which

is the centerpiece of its namesake park on Red Mountain
near downtown Birmingham. The statue depicts the
ancient god in work mode, standing at an anvil with a
hammer in his left hand while inspecting a newly-forged
spear in his right. One of the more interesting (some
might claim disgusting, but there are no judgments
here) aspects of the statue is the adornment the sculptor
chose for his creation. On his front, Vulcan wears a
blacksmith’s apron as he inspects his handiwork. The
backside of the apron stands open, however, resulting in
a permanent moon hanging over Birmingham’s southern
suburbs.
It is an exceptionally odd type of monument for a
city to claim as it’s defining landmark. Not that a statue
is such an odd thing; many cities have impressive
sculptures of founding fathers or brave war heroes.
But outside of Italy or Greece there is very little reason
for a city to erect a massive sculpture of a pagan deity.
When said city is in the “buckle” of the Bible belt, there
would seem to be even less cause. Nonetheless, Vulcan
is arguably the landmark for which Birmingham is best
known.
There is, of course, a story behind the creation of this
iron giant and its relationship with Birmingham. At the
dawn of the twentieth century, Birmingham was a young,
eager city, flush with industrial accomplishment. The
iron and steel industry upon which the city’s economy
was based created such incredibly rapid growth that the
area became known as the “Magic City,” as it seemingly
popped up out of the Alabama woods overnight.
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Birmingham steel was being used around the world, and

residents were proud of what was happening in their fair
city.
At the time, there was a general feeling among the
populace that the city deserved some sort of grand
display to celebrate the progression and achievement
occurring in central Alabama. An exhibit at the upcoming
1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis would provide the perfect
stage. But what kind of display would do the region
justice and bring attention and interest to the fledgling
metropolis?
The then-manager of the Alabama State Fair, a Mr.
James MacKnight, came up with the idea of Vulcan,
thinking that the god of the forge would be an exemplary
symbol of Birmingham’s industrial prowess. A massive
statue, made of local iron and cast by the area’s skilled
craftsmen, would be a supreme showcase for the city.
The idea caught on like wildfire, and soon afterward
Italian sculptor Giuseppe Moretti was commissioned to
make the vision a heavy metal reality. As it turned out,
the exhibit was a hit, Birmingham was on the map, and
Vulcan became an enduring symbol of the “Pittsburgh of
the South”.
Of course, none of this was on Tal’s mind as he hit
the kill switch and reviewed what he had done. Across
the street and two yards up, Merle and Homer watched
as Tal pushed the mower around the side of the house.
With begrudging acknowledgement that their neighbor
had, indeed, done a great job with the yard, the two men
parted ways and headed back to their own homes.
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----------
Showered, shaved, and neatly dressed in a pair of black
cargo shorts and a tan island shirt with a parrot motif, Tal
sat on the sofa in the cool of the living room and fidgeted.
The old issue of Mother Jones he had open in his lap
failed to hold his attention for more than a sentence or
two at a time, his glance drawn across the living room
and through the kitchen toward the back door and the
deck. A cold Sweetwater 420 beer bottle stood open and
untouched on the coffee table, condensation dripping
down its sides.
Screw it, he thought, and stood up, the magazine falling
to the floor as he did. I can’t just sit here, for God’s sake.
This is just way too cool.
He made his way quickly to the bedroom and opened
one of the windows, then moved a pair of speakers from
the floor onto the windowsill so that they pointed outside.
He rummaged through a small stack of CDs, smiled
when he pulled out R.E.M.’s Life’s Rich Pageant, popped
it into the CD player, and hit play. Bobbing his head to
“Begin the Begin”, he moved to the dresser and opened
his sock drawer, dug around for a moment and then
pulled out a small wooden box.
After wrangling around a bit getting his beer, the box,
and a chaise lounge from the deck all positioned correctly
in the yard (this was more difficult that it would seem, as
Tal made a definite point of avoiding the area of the large
door/table), Tal finally settled himself in a perfect vantage
point for him to sit and observe his earlier handiwork.
With the beer on the ground next to the chaise, Tal
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carefully placed the box on the ever-so-slight roll of his

stomach, and glanced around to ensure that no one had
joined him in the yard. He slowly opened the box, pulled
out a pack of rolling papers and a small plastic baggie
of marijuana, and carefully began the process of rolling
a joint. A few minutes later, he was preparing to seal his
hand-rolled prize by licking the gummed edge of the
paper closed.
“So what’s going on here?”
Tal jumped at the now-familiar high-pitched rasp,
knocking the box onto the grass beside the chair and
almost dumping the contents of the joint all over Tal’s
gaudy shirt.
“Just trying to relax a little bit and enjoy some of the
fruits of my labor,” Tal said as he settled and inspected
the minor damage to the joint. He was a bit surprised
to see the Toby make an appearance, and not a little bit
irritated. Ignoring the intrusion, Tal set about repairing
the joint, and Toby walked around to the front of the
chaise so he could see Tal’s face.
“That doesn’t look like any kind of fruit to me,” the cat
said, a hint of a sneer in his voice.
“Well, it is a plant,” Tal replied, finishing the joint and
putting it behind his ear. He paused and glanced at the
ground to the left of his chair, and then to the right, and
was relieved to see that his box had landed right-side
up, and none of the contents of his bag had spilled. After
retrieving a small disposable lighter from the box, he
closed the lid and placed it carefully under the chair, then

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turned back to Toby. “Haven’t you heard of marijuana?”

“Marijuana? Do you mean pot? Weed? Cannabis? Kind
bud? The icky sticky? Green? Da Chronic? Mary Jane?
Yes, I might have heard of it,” Toby said, his forelegs
crossed across his chest. “I studied a lot of human culture
before I came to your planet, and I know much about
many things. But I haven’t seen you with pot before,
and I must admit I’m a little surprised at you, Hooper. I
suppose I should have known, what with all your hippie
ways, but...”
“I’m not surprised that you’re surprised,” Tal
interrupted. “It’s not something that we do often, and
we’re pretty discreet, too. Oh, don’t look so shocked -- I
did say ‘we’, and yes, Liv smokes a little from time to
time. It’s something I think we both started in college
and just never stopped, I guess. Personally, I like it better
than drinking; no hangovers, you know? I keep a little
bit around for occasions... well, I was going to say ‘for
occasions just like these’, but that doesn’t really apply,
does it? I mean, I can honestly say I never expected to get
powers or go to the moon, so I certainly wasn’t saving
it for that. I guess you could say I save it for special
occasions. And this is certainly something special.”
With that, Tal pulled the joint from behind his ear and
stuck the end of it into his mouth, flicked the lighter
to life and touched the flame to the end of the crinkled
paper. He inhaled deeply, smoke rising from the glowing
tip of the joint.
Toby watched with bemusement as Tal leaned back
onto the chaise, held his breath for a moment, and then
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slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Wanna hit?” Tal asked, proffering the smoldering joint
toward the fuzzy alien.
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Toby said, waving a paw
in front of his face to shoo away the remnants of Tal’s
hit. “I’m not certain what that might do to my Empyrean
physiology.”
“What Empyrean physiology? You’re a cat.”
“Nonetheless, I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh, come on,” Tal said, pulling the joint back to his
own lips and taking a deep drag. “It might settle you out
some. You need to be more mellow,” he said, his voice
hoarse and quiet as he held in the smoke.
“What would I do?”
“Oh, it’s easy,” Tal said with a huff as he blew out the
last of the smoke. “You just hold the end that’s not lit to
your lips and inhale. Watch,” he said, and drew in a giant
hit to emphasize his point. Almost immediately, he began
an incredible hacking and coughing fit, failing miserably
in his attempt to demonstrate the proper method by which
one should smoke pot.
“Well done,” Toby said dryly as Tal sputtered to a halt
and wiped his eyes.
“No problem,” Tal said, and cleared his throat.. “Yeah,
I think that was the one. So. You ready?” Tal once again
proffered the joint to Toby, who looked at the human
impatiently.

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“If I’m going to do this, you’ll have to hold it for me,”

Toby said, holding his forepaws so Tal could see them.
“No thumbs.”
“All right,” Tal said, and leaned forward toward the
end of the chaise, positioning the joint directly in front of
Toby’s face. The cat viewed it suspiciously for a moment,
and then with a look of resignation, put his lips to the end
and sucked. He dragged deeply and held in the smoke for
a number of seconds before exhaling a steady stream of
smoke toward Tal’s intrigued face.
“Hey, that’s not so bad,” Toby said. “Tastes a little
funny, but not bad. Think I’ll have another.” He did, as
did Tal.
“So what brings you out here, Hooper?” Toby asked as
he laid on his back on the lawn, his paws behind his head.
“I thought I was going to sit in the living room and
read, but I just couldn’t do it,” Tal said. “I’m too worked
up about all this..” -- Tal made a sweeping gesture to
indicate the now-verdant landscape of the back yard --
“to pay attention to a magazine.”
“I’ll bet. It’s been quite a couple of days for you two.
But you seem to be handling it pretty well.”
“Man, I don’t know about that. I mean, this is
obviously the coolest thing ever to happen to me. Just
look at me... I’m a super hero! Well, I may not look like
it, and I don’t have a freakin’ clue what I’m doing, but
hey! I’ve got powers! So what do we need to do with
them? And what about everything else? Do we need a
hideout? What about costumes? Do we tell the girls?
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Should we get a helicopter? Where would we get a

helicopter, anyway? Do we need to set up a hotline to the
police? Do we...”
“Wow, you ask a lot of questions,” Toby said, leaning
back and looking at the clouds.
“Of course I’ve got questions; someone tells you
you have to save the world, you’re going to have some
questions. But I think Liv and I are going to have to come
up with the answers ourselves.”
“That’s a good way to think, Hooper.”
“Well, it’s not like we’ve got someone we can call to
help us with this. But I think we’ll do all right. Just look
at what I did here in the yard. Hell, I bet Liv and I could
transform the Sahara if we wanted to.”
“Dreaming big is nice,” Toby snickered.
“Just look, Toby,” Tal said, sitting up in the chaise.
“There is so much we can do! Seriously! If Liv would
just chill out for a minute and quite worrying all the
time... she just keeps going on and on, all worried about
whether we’re doing the right thing, and completely
freaking out about what exactly it is we’re supposed to
save the world from... we’ll do what we need to do when
we need to do it. I know it, and she’ll see that we can do
this, too.”
Tal stopped abruptly. Silence hung in the air.
“Or maybe I’m just stoned,” Tal said after a moment,
and flopped back into the chair. “Do you think we can do
this?”
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“Believe it or not, I do,” Toby said. “You’re good

people. I think you’ll do all right.”
Tal gave a dismissive wave. “Eh, you’re high, too.”
“You know, I’m not really feeling anything,” Toby
said, and stretched. “Maybe I should try again.” He
motioned for Tal to hold the joint for him, and Tal
obliged.
“Nothing,” Toby said as he exhaled. “I guess my
advanced alien constitution is too evolved to be affected
by such a lowly human pastime as ‘getting high’...hrrk!”
As soon as he said the word ‘high’, Toby’s face
contorted into a grotesque mask, and it looked to Tal as if
the cat’s arms had frozen in a spastic, Frankenstein-like
lurch.
“Toby?” Tal asked concernedly. “You okay?”
Toby made no sound. His body jerked erratically two
or three times, and then the cat took off, running at top
speed around the perimeter of the privacy fence. Tal
watched in amazement as Toby made three laps around
the fence, a fuzzy blur tearing silently around the yard
as he ran. Halfway through his fourth lap, Toby made a
ninety-degree turn directly toward at Tal. In a flash, he
was at the chaise, and leaped over Tal’s head at the last
possible moment. He bounced off the deck railing above
the yard like a shot, and finally landed with a solid thud
in a heap at the foot of the chaise lounge.
“Toby!” Tal leaped from the chaise and knelt over
Toby’s still body. He put his hand on the scruff of Toby’s

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neck and rubbed gently, trying to get a response from the

cat. “Toby? Hey, Toby,” he crooned, but to no avail.
What the hell have I done? he thought, looking at the
motionless cat. I got an alien cat high and killed it, that’s
what. Shit. What can I do?
Tal recalled seeing an animal rescue program on the
National Geographic channel where a woman gave
mouth-to-mouth to a chimpanzee. With a sigh, he rolled
Toby onto his back and leaned his face into Toby’s. Just
as he was about to put his lips to Toby’s snout, the cat’s
eyes opened wide, and Toby wriggled out of Tal’s grasp
with a surprising strength and quickness.
“Sucker,” Toby said, standing in front of a shocked
Tal and making a reeling-in motion with his paws. “You
humans really are softies, aren’t you?”
Tal leaned back on his haunches and stared at Toby.
The human’s face was a study in resigned aggravation.
Toby’s face, on the other hand, expressed a smugness
and arrogance that would have looked at home on Marie
Antoinette.
“Is there a particular reason you’re such a dick?” Tal
asked as he regained his seat on the chaise and found
his beer. “Is there something in the Galactic Handbook
that dictates when members of an advanced civilization
encounter less-advanced species that they have to be
asses? Have we insulted you in some way? Please, go
ahead and tell me so we can get this out of the way and
move ahead.”
“Oh, don’t be such a pansy,” Toby replied. “That was
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funny, and you know it. You should have seen your face
when I started having my ‘seizure’. Plus, I’m quite proud
of my ricochet off the deck railing -- not many beings
could nail that landing like I did. Besides, for the most
part I’m just ‘yanking your chain’, as you humans put it.
There are far worse ways for someone to screw around
with your lives. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m baked
and I’ve got the munchies in a bad way. I’m off for
some kibble and a nap. Thank you for the buzz and the
entertainment.”
With that, Toby weaved his way up the stairs, bumped
into the door frame, muttered under his breath and made
his way back into the house.
To be continued...

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