The Telltale Traits

“But how can you tell?”

“Well, you can’t,” Rob said, running a hand through his hair. It stuck up on end like he’d been electrocuted. It made him look just as crazy as he sounded. “That’s the whole point, that you can’t. Unless they mess up. Justin Bieber messed up. Justin Bieber transformed into a lizard in front of thousands of people in Australia.”

“Hundreds,” Quentin said, “and he didn’t.”

“You weren’t there. How would you know?”

Rather than pointing out Rob’s deep logical error, he sat in silence with his eyebrows raised. Rob looked away first.

“Okay, fine,” Rob said.

“Their only source was a ‘local skater,’” Quentin went on, forming air quotes with his fingers. “A skater, Rob. Come on. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

Rob had always been a conspiracy nut — it was one of his defining features. So was his penchant for gefilte fish, which despite not being Jewish, he bought in bulk. At any given time there were multiple open jars of them, and sometimes he forgot to put the lid back on and the whole fridge reeked of it. Quentin would take bleach to the shelves, and he swore it did nothing. Rob ate so much gefilte fish and left the jars with the lid askew so often that Quentin and his then-girlfriend Lauren had demanded he pay extra in rent, five bucks per jar per month. Rob said it was extortion, but cheerfully paid up, storing the money in an empty gefilte fish jar to make a point. In the end, Lauren left anyway.

When Quentin first met Rob, he’d thought that perhaps Rob smoked too much weed or drank too much absinthe, but Rob was straight edge. He just happened to be naturally off his rocker.

Quentin was not off his rocker, not even a little bit — at least, that’s what he’d always thought, but Rob didn’t consider himself crazy, either, so that didn’t mean anything. Rob saw symbols of the Illuminati everywhere (Quentin didn’t). Rob scoffed at the footage of the moon landing, pointing out the flag waving in a nonexistent breeze (Quentin had read Buzz Aldrin’s memoir twice and given it five stars on Goodreads). Rob was convinced of the existence of aliens (okay, Quentin did maybe agree on that), and believed that all those sightings of Bigfoot were true (Quentin absolutely did not).

He was Rob’s opposite. He romanticized politics. As a child, Quentin could be found belting the lyrics to Schoolhouse Rock’s “The Preamble” rather than Disney tunes. As a teen he’d binged The West Wing which left him with both an enormous crush on Elizabeth Moss and a deep respect for the American political system. He majored in Political Science and met Rob in his very first American Government class, where Rob made his opinions very known. Back then, Quentin had admired his moxie. Back when he thought Rob was kidding.

“The thing is, you aren’t one,” Rob went on.

“One what?” Quentin was pulled back to the present. “A skater?”

“A Reptilian.” He said the word like it had a capital letter at the beginning, which maybe it did. “You’re too nice to be one. You have ideals, dude. Lizard people don’t care about the human race. Plus you don’t have the telltale traits.”

Quentin knew it was futile to remind Rob that six hundred words ago he’d said that it was impossible to tell, so he didn’t. He walked to the fridge and grabbed a Miller Lite for himself and a Dr. Pepper for Rob. He gave the three jars of gefilte fish a wide berth, side-eying them mistrustfully. They opened the cans at the same time and the simultaneous pop satisfied him greatly.

Rob wanted him to ask. So Quentin dutifully, resignedly, did so.

“What are the telltale traits, Rob?” He sighed.

Rob’s eyes were bright. “One, acting fake and almost plastic, kinda like they’re mimicking human mannerisms. Two, piercing green eyes—“

“Hillary doesn’t have green eyes,” he interrupted. “Neither of the Clintons do.”

“It’s not a hard and fast rule, Quentin. Reptilians shapeshift. Sometimes they can have blue eyes. ”

“Justin Bieber’s eyes aren’t green or blue.”

“Gay,” Rob said. “It’s gay that you know that.”

“I’m not gay, I’m observant,” Quentin said. Not that there was anything wrong with being gay. “Anyway, Hillary isn’t a lizard. She cares about the country.”

There they were, back at the beginning. The whole reason they’d even started the conversation: Quentin, hater of gefilte fish and roommate of an avid conspiracy theorist, was working for none other than former New York Senator Hillary Clinton. It was his dream job, one he had coveted for over a decade. Despite his excitement, he hadn’t wanted to tell Rob, especially seeing as how he reacted to his volunteer work with dinky local elections. He loved the job very much. He did not love hiding it from Rob.

Now he’d been invited to one of Hillary’s biggest fundraising events of the year. And tonight, Quentin, who had never been blessed with a sense of good timing, had spilled the beans mere hours before.

So here they were, with Rob being Rob, and Quentin being Quentin.

Rob rolled his eyes. “You haven’t even met her.”

“Neither have you.”

Rob looked disappointed in him. He shook his head.

“It’s not your fault, man. They’re tricky motherfuckers. That’s how they got where they are. And it’s not like she’s alone. It’s not just the Clintons — it’s the Bush family too. A lot of powerful people.” He saw Quentin’s mouth open and beat him to the chase. “Yeah, like Justin Bieber.”

“So Hillary Clinton is a lizard person,” Quentin intoned. He felt dead inside and also outside. He wished he had thirty more beers. And a shotgun. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to shoot himself or Rob, but at this point either would do. He would miss the party tonight, but really, it would be a small price to pay.

“And Obama, and Madonna, and definitely the whole royal family. So it’s not, like, a partisan thing. It’s not just an American thing. Well, I mean, how could it be? They’re trying to take over the whole planet.”

The alarm labeled SHOWER TIME!!! on Quentin’s phone buzzed, reminding him to start his pre-party ablutions. It played to the tune of Darude’s “Sandstorm” so they both took a five second pause to do a little shimmy, which neither did well. Then he clicked snooze.

He’d never really wanted to talk about the election even though they talked about everything else. They’d discussed things that Quentin was certain he’d never shared with anyone else. Like the time he and Lauren had tried to have sex and he couldn’t get it up. Or the time they thought she was pregnant and bought twelve pregnancy tests and she peed on all of them just to be safe. Rob was happy to tell Quentin everything that happened in his life, too. Like the time he tried to seduce his sixty-year-old geometry teacher, or the time he posted a dick pic on 4chan because he couldn’t tell if he was circumcised or not (4chan didn’t know either). But in the three years they’d known each other, there had never been a political event big enough for him to bother slogging through a conversation like this. He was sure Rob would do the right thing and vote for the only reasonable, sane person in the race. But he had to know for sure.

“Fine. Let’s just say, hypothetically, that she’s a lizard person,” he said slowly, hating every word that came out of his mouth. “How do you choose between two lizard people? You do vote, right?” It occurred to him that maybe Rob didn’t.

He shot him a withering glance. “Obviously. I have a responsibility, Quentin. How else do you stop a slow but steady Reptilian takeover?” He put the soda can on the coffee table without using a coaster. Quentin’s yearning for death intensified.

“So who do you pick?”

“The one who isn’t a lizard,” said Rob.

It took Quentin a good ten seconds to realize what that meant. “You can’t be serious.”

“He just isn’t, Quentin.”

“How?”

“He doesn’t have any of the telltale—“

“There are no telltale traits, Rob! What the fuck? You think Hillary’s a lizard but Trump isn’t? He’s a terrible person! He’s selfish! I know people want someone to disrupt the status quo blah blah blah, but come the fuck on. He’s not some everyman — he’s just another millionaire. Another millionaire that wants the best for the one percent. The difference is he doesn’t know the first thing about politics or the government or how to even make a law. I bet he doesn’t even know where to start. He could single-handedly demolish the institution of American democracy.” His voice had risen an octave.

“Yeah. He’s a terrible person,” Rob said. Quentin recognized the tone as the one he used to try to soothe Trashton Kutcher, the raccoon that lived in their dumpster. “But he is a person.”

It was getting out of hand, this talk about lizard people. Quentin felt dizzy, breathless. He tried to calm himself, but he could almost hear the cartoon steam pouring out of his ears.

He could handle Rob’s conspiracies when they pertained to Bieber, or 9/11, or JFK’s assassination. But this was something else. This was real world stuff. This was the kind of thing that had consequences — real, honest-to-goodness consequences. Rob had to snap out of it.

Quentin kept going. “He exaggerates everything. He lies through his teeth. Hell, he can’t even talk in complete sentences. He doesn’t know how to run a country, let alone how to run a business. All his stupid companies went bankrupt.”

“Yeah.”

“Even New Jersey hates him,” Quentin said. “New Jersey is terrible.”

“I’m from New Jersey,” Rob said mildly. “But yeah, it is.”

SHOWER TIME!!! went off again. He pulled his phone from his pocket and aggressively swiped the alert away. How could he care about showering at a time like this? Rob wiggled to the first few notes, even though Quentin didn’t.

“He hates black people. And hispanic people. And gay people. And women. And he hates the Jews — you love the Jews,” he pleaded. “They make gefilte fish. If Trump destroys the Jews where will you get gefilte fish?”

Rob leaned forward in his chair. He stared up at Quentin, his dark eyes wide and earnest. Quentin stared back, heart in his throat. When Rob spoke, he still did so in that same, gentle lilting voice, as if to lull him into a false sense of security. “Oh, Q,” he sighed. “If they win, there’ll be a lot more to worry about than gefilte fish. The fate of the world is at stake. We can’t let them win. What choice do we have?”

“Not Donald Trump!” Quentin snapped.

Rob shook his head sadly, absent-mindedly playing with the tab on his soda, which broke off in his fingers.

“I love you, man,” Rob said. “And I wish I could make you see the truth. You’re a smart guy, but if you keep on this path they’ll gobble you up in the end. They’ll use you as a blood sacrifice, or worse, turn you into one of their puppets. I want you to be safe. I don’t want them to win. So, yeah. Trump 2016: Better than Lizards.” He smiled, but it was as weak and diluted as badly brewed tea.

Quentin could almost envision the campaign slogan. And maybe a few months ago, a few years ago, he would’ve laughed it off, maybe even photoshopped a Trump campaign sign just for fun. But now it crossed a line he never wanted to draw.

He looked at Rob. Rob looked back. He was still smiling hopefully, but Quentin couldn’t even really see him as anything but a conspiracy freak missing his tinfoil hat. SHOWER TIME!!! went off again, but this time neither of them danced.

“I think,” said Quentin over the repetitive, tinny beat, “I think I need to move out.”

He texted Lauren in the Lyft to tell her the news and she called him back immediately.

“You’re making the right choice,” she assured him, which made him feel validated. He was glad they’d stayed friends. He could use a friend. “Rob’s gone bananas. Or, more bananas than he ever used to be. Maybe you can see him once every three years for coffee or something."

He wanted to ask if this meant they would get back together, but he didn’t want to push his luck. Right now he was feeling okay. He’d stood up for himself. He’d stopped listening to the madness. Later he might be sad. But Rob or no Rob, he wasn’t going to let this big night be ruined.

He met Joe, the campaign manager, in the hotel lobby. The party was already in full swing and Joe shoved a glass of champagne in his hand. “QUENTIN,” he shouted. “Thought you’d never make it! Kris told me about the awesome job you’ve been doing with those memes. That Twitter campaign killed it. It was…” he brought his hands to his mouth, pantomiming a chef’s kiss. “Mwah! She’s been trending for days. We’ve had donations pouring in!”

All the stress of the evening melted away. Quentin heaved a big sigh of relief, the feeling of a job well done and well recognized lifting him to a happier place. “Thanks, Joe, that means a lot.”

“I told her she has to meet you,” he said, dragging Quentin through the crowd by his elbow. “C’mon, c’mon.”

The crowd parted for them like the red sea parted for Moses. A few big-shot Senators nodded in his direction, senior campaign staff greeted him by name, and he snatched canapés off trays as they spun by him. And suddenly, there she was, right in front of him in a crisp ivory pantsuit and a perfectly styled bob. Her eyes landed on him, and she smiled. Quentin looked absolutely starry-eyed.

“Hi there,” said Hillary Clinton. “You must be Quentin. I’ve heard so much about you. Thank you for getting our message out. It’s made a big difference.”

She stuck out her hand. He hesitantly took it, soaking up her praise. Her hand was chillier than expected .

“It was my pleasure,” he stammered. “I just hope it’s enough. I want to do everything I can to help. I want to see us succeed.”

“Oh you absolutely will, Quentin. You’re one of us now.” Hillary said. She blinked and her eyes went from blue to void-black then back to blue. He felt cool dry scales against his palm. Her grin became sharp. And then, like a system glitch, she returned to her polished pantsuit-wearing self.

“Oh,” Quentin said aloud. He wished he could tell Rob. “Well, fuck.”