The basis for this story came to me in a dream following a telephone conversation with a former colleague who was undergoing chemotherapy. The dream, however, contained what appears to be a technical flaw, since chemotherapy usually causes sterility in males. For the purposes of the story, I pretended that this was not the case and followed the dream explicitly.

Hairless at the Diner

Eager to get back to reality after four months in a cancer ward, I was sitting like a child in the middle of a large front seat, between my driver and my mechanic, in a pickup truck pulling a flatbed trailer. We were transporting my racing car to the race track. My two-man crew and I were on the interstate, moving at high speed. I was so anxious to get going again that I refused to wait until my body hair, temporarily destroyed by the chemotherapy and radiation, grew out again.

Then just as we approached a rest area, the engine started to sputter, and we glided into the rest area and stopped. The mechanic and driver poked around until they discovered the problem, which they said they could fix on the spot, but it would take about four hours.

While the repairs were taking place, I decided to explore the area. Several hundred yards past the rest area was an off ramp and a sign that read "Happyville, 1 mile." After chemotherapy, I considered that "Happyville" might be a good contrast to the trauma I had endured in the cancer ward.

As I walked along the road, I was struck by how fresh and beautiful everything looked. It was Spring, and still early in the morning. The fruit trees were in full bloom. Spider webs were covered with dew, glistening like diamonds sparkling in the morning sun.

Passing a sign that read "Happyville, pop. 1500," I found myself in a charming, old-fashion town. The Happyville Diner seemed to be the nerve center of the entire town. Stepping on the front porch past a row of rocking chairs, I entered the diner and ordered breakfast. My waitress, I soon gathered, was the proprietor of the diner.

"What brings you to this neck of the woods?" she asked, taking my order.

I said "My vehicle is down and my crew are attending to the repairs."

"I can't help noticing," the waitress commented, "that you have no hair, not even eyebrows or eyelashes."

"Where I came from," I said, "no one has any body hair at all."

Having finished breakfast, I started walking back to.the interstate. As I left the diner, I noticed a teenage boy standing on the porch, with that look of lust, longing, and pain that characterizes the adolescent experience. I reflected that when I was his age, I suffered just that way also. The difference, I mused, was that in a little town like Happyville it must be nearly impossible to do anything about it.

At my back I heard the sound of running feet. It was the waitress from the Happyville Diner. She caught up with me, and we chatted as we walked along. Pointing out a neat little white frame house, she invited me in. Since it would probably take several more hours to complete the repairs to the pickup truck, I accepted her invitation. Before long we had our clothes off and were making love. She never told me her name, or asked me for mine. The only thing we really talked about was the fact that I was hairless, as though her maneuvering me out of my clothes were mainly to make sure that I was truly hairless all over.

Afterwards, heading back to the rest area to rejoin my crew, I remember thinking that Happyville had lived up to its name, for my several hours there had been a distinctly pleasant contrast to the horrors of chemotherapy.

One weekend about 15 years later I once again found myself in the vicinity of Happyville. Remembering the fun I had last time I was there, I decided to stop in Happyville for lunch. By now, of course, I was all haired out and looked just like a normal person.

The Happyville Diner looked just as it had 15 years previously. This time I was served by a young girl who was the spitting image of my own sister at age 14. The likeness was such that I could hardly take my eyes off this young lady as she flitted between the kitchen and the various tables.

As I was leaving the Happyville Diner, I paused on the porch as I mulled over the startling likeness between this girl and my sister, as if caught by some strange juxtaposiiton of time and space.

An old man sitting in one of the rockers said "Mister, I couldn't help noticing that you seemed quite taken by the girl who waited on your table."

I said, "Yes, there was something extraordinary about her, but I can't exactly put my finger on it."

"You know, this girl is a starchild."

"What do you mean by starchild?"

"The girl's father was an extra-terrestrial, from outer space."

"How do you figure that?"

"The being who fathered her suddenly appeared in town one day about 15 years ago while repairs were being made to his flying saucer."

"Did anyone see the saucer?"

"No," said the man, "that wasn't necessary."

"Then what made you decide the man was an extra-terrestrial?"

"The alien didn't have a hair on his body, not even eyebrows or eyelashes. It was obvious to everyone that this was no earthling."

"What is the girl, this starchild, like?"

"It's like she has access to the sum total of the wisdom of humankind. In fact," he said, "she has healer's hands. All she has to do to cure a tumor or an injury is lay on her hands, and presto, the sick person is immediately restored to health."

"So she's well thought of in town?"

"She's more than just well thought of! Around here she's considered royalty. Some think she's divine. Even so," the old man added, "she's modest and cooperative, and helps out by waiting on tables in her mother's diner after school and on weekends."

Not wanting to destroy the illusion of this child's specialness, I climbed into my car and drove off. At first I wanted to laugh out loud at the hilarious cosmic joke that I had inadvertently perpetrated in the vicinity of the Happyville Diner some 15 years ago. Then, gradually, I became aware that there are some secrets which one is honor-bound to carry to the grave.

For me, to suggest that I might be the starchild's father was unthinkable. For this 14-year-old girl and her relatives and friends who readily accept her as a near divinity, to reveal myself would be cruel. Were I to cast doubt on the true origin of Happyville's precious starchild, I would destroy the myth that seemed to give profound meaning to the people of Happyville, transforming what might have been drab, uneventful lives into a drama of the sort that sometimes changes human history.