A Visit From The Sociological Department

     Oswald Belcher was a man on a mission. It was dark. He was behind the wheel of his company car, a 1913 Ford Model T Runabout, and he was steadily cruising through the pools of light cast by the street lamps on Charles Street in Detroit. The gentle rocking of the suspension as it passed over bumps and ruts was calming to Oswald as was the rattle of the four cylinder motor. He had made this same drive over different streets to different houses hundreds of times over the last year: cruising through the darkness of winter and the soft  light of summer nights, to drop in unannounced on a Ford Motor Company employee.

Oswald had the power. He worked for the Sociological Department of the Henry Ford Motor Company. The sociological Department investigated the homes of Ford Motor Company employees to see if they met the standards set down by Mr. Ford. Belcher’s reports would decide who would get a raise, who would get help, and who would be fired from the Ford Motor Company. He could read and interpret the signs. An American flag outside of the home was a good first step. Then there was the state of the domicile. Was it clean or in need of a broom and a mop? Were there signs of vermin? Did it seem that the family ate good, nutritious meals? Was there a bible that displayed evidence of being read? Were the children polite and well-behaved, or were they noisy little rapscallions ? Was the head of house sober or engaged in counting pink elephants? Were there any unrelated adult males living in the home with the man’s children? Was the yard dirt or grass? Was there livestock wandering about? Oswald could take it all in with a glance and jot it down for his report to the Sociological Department.

From Charles Street, Oswald turned north on Mount Elliot. His destination, 6999 Palmetto Street, was directly ahead, but the area was bisected by the massive rail yards between Mount Elliot and Forest Lawn cemetery. So Oswald had to proceed north on Mount Elliot, then east on 7 Mile Road to Van Dyke, then south to Palmetto. It was good to cruise a bit and gather his thoughts. 

This family he was to visit was headed by one Buxtehude Cowbell. By all accounts, this Cowbell was a real hail-fellow well-met. He was tall, almost 6’5”, with a head that seemed too large for his rail-thin body. Jovial, smart, and a good worker who learned quickly, he seemed to have some odd habits and Oswald Belcher’s suspicions were raised. Cowbell had been observed off in a dark corner drinking an iridescent liquid. When questioned, he said his stomach was out of sorts and he was drinking some sort of patent medicine. 

No one had ever seen this Cowbell fellow ever use the facilities in the men’s washroom. Belcher had heard rumors of men who were obsessed by the notion of peeing outside, marking their territory like dogs. Oswald Belcher had his doubts that some patent medicine-drinking, pee-marking deviant could work at Ford Motor Company. 

Cowbell worked on the rear axle assembly line, but he was often seen poking around other areas of the plant. When questioned, he said he was just curious about the other processes that went into assembling Model T automobiles. He seemed harmless, but he had been warned not to wander around the plant. It was dangerous and a man could get seriously injured or even killed if he was in a place where he didn’t belong.

     Oswald was also wary that Cowbell might be a spy for those upstart Dodge Brothers. He  suspected that the Dodge Brothers were Jews, what with that Star of David in their logo. They had just set up shop in Detroit, manufacturing the Model 30. But everyone in the motor trade was interested in the new chain-driven assembly line that Mr. Henry Ford had installed at his plant in Highland Park. Productivity had skyrocketed, and consulting firms that specialized in motion studies were springing up like dandelions in May. It would not have been unexpected that Mr. Ford’s competitors would plant a spy in the Ford factory to steal secrets. Oswald Belcher was a parser of men’s deeds, a reader of men’s souls. If this Cowbell was a spy, Belcher would suss him out.

Going south on Van Dyke, Forest Lawn Cemetery passed by on the right, dark, sucking up the ambient light of the city like a photonic sponge. Mausoleums shone faintly in the moonlight like the miniaturized ghosts of classic Greek and Roman temples. Palmetto Street would be the first street to the south of the cemetery, laid out east to west. The back yards of the houses on the north side of Palmetto bordered the well-tended final resting places of the dead.

The houses on Palmetto were modest wood frame structures, most of them a single story. But the Cowbell residence, at the very end of the street, towered above the others. Three stories tall, an elaborate Mansard-style Victorian home with a wide porch, bay windows, and four story towers capped by turrets on both sides of the structure. It seemed totally out of place among the more modest homes of the neighborhood. While the other homes on the block seemed to be dimly lit, with light visible in only one or two windows, the Cowbell home was lit up as if entertaining a crowd of holiday guests. Light shone from every window.

Oswald parked the Runabout in front of the house and observed before he approached. He could see figures occasionally moving about behind the curtains. There were occasional shouts, and the sound of heavy boxes being moved across the floor. Oswald stepped onto the front porch, raised the heavy knocker and let it bang against the front door.

All sound from inside the house ceased. Belcher stood in a small pool of light and listened. He heard someone walking about upstairs, then heard feet upon the stairs, and a shadow loomed over the door as someone very tall yanked aside a curtain across the transom window and looked out onto the porch. The door opened and there stood…Mrs. Cowbell?

Towering over Belcher, she must have been over six feet tall. Dressed in a light blue linen skirt, and fronted with a spotless apron, her head was very large, with a sharp nose and pointed chin. She was rail thin. 

“May I helll…p you?” she asked. She seemed to have trouble speaking.

Belcher quickly extended a business card in his right hand. “Oswald Belcher, ma’am. Ford Motor Company Sociological Department. I am here to see Bux…ta…hooda? Cowbell? I’m sorry if I’m mispronouncing the name.”

“PPhh.lease come in,” she motioned and stepped aside. “Hoody? Hoody you have a visitor.”

Buxtehude Cowbell descended the stairs and extended his hand. 

“I’m Buxtehude. And to whom have I the pleasure?” 

“Oswald Belcher, Ford Motor Company Sociological Department.” and he extended the card to Buxtehude who took the card and gave it a cursory glance.

“Excellent. This means I am to be considered for a raise to five dollars a day! Splendid! Come inside! Would you like some tea or coffee? Or perhaps some whiskey or wine.” Buxtehude motioned for Oswald to follow him into what Oswald assumed would be a sitting room.

The room was dazzlingly bright, lit by numerous orbs across the high ceiling that were  too bright to gaze upon with Belcher’s unshielded eyes. Oswald was stunned to see a complete Model T Ford in the center of the parlor. It  appeared to never have been driven. It was clean, not a spot of dirt anywhere to be seen on the gleaming black paint.The wheels were strapped to the floor. Oswald stared at the Model T with his mouth open. 

“How do you like it? I built it myself,” Buxtehude said.

“I’m speechless,” Oswald answered. “How did you get this car into your house?”

“Piece by piece and I assembled it right here. Just like Mr. Ford.” Buxtehude said.

It was true that in 1896 Henry Ford and his cohorts had built a quadracycle piece by piece, in Mr. Ford’s toolshed. It was only when they thought to get it out of the toolshed that they realized that it was too large to fit through the shed’s door. They took axes to the walls of the shed to get the car out and on display the next day.

“But you can’t have a car in your living room!” Belcher exclaimed. This was going to have to figure prominently in his report to the Sociological Department.

“Why not? We’re in the automobile business, right?,” Buxtehude asked.

Belcher whipped out his notepad and pencil and began scribbling notes. This was going to be interesting. Cowbell could be either fired and charged for pilfering parts to build this car, or Belcher’s superiors might applaud Cowbell for his initiative and skill. When he looked up from his notepad, he began to notice a number of other items in the room. There was a copper telescope, a gleaming brass and copper steam engine, an electrical dynamo, lamps and bulbs from streetlights, wire, tools, cans of oil, firearms, a sextant, the wing from an aircraft, books, a saddle and riding tack, garden tools, pots and pans, all arranged in an orderly fashion around  the room and all strapped to the floor. But there was no furniture. Belcher scribbled furiously for a moment then looked up.

“Mr. Cowbell, “ Belcher began, then paused. “Pardon me for asking but what kind of name is Cowbell anyway?”

“Cowbell, why that’s an old traditional English name. Like Baker, or Smith, or Miller denotes the skills of someone back in antiquity. Cowbell is my family’s name. We must have invented the cowbell. Or else we put the bells on cows. Look at your name, Belcher. Some one of your ancestors must have been very good at making wind or passing gas. Hence, your name.”

Belcher stood silently for a moment. Just then, Mrs. Cowbell entered the room with a silver tray containing a pitcher of hot coffee, cups and saucers, spoons, a sugar bowl and a small pitcher of cream. She sat them down on top of a large steamer trunk..

“Belcher, this is my wife, Farfeesa Cowbell,” Buxtehude said.

She gave a smile and said’ “Pp…heleased to meet you Mr. Belcher.” Suddenly, as Belcher gazed at her face, it seemed to shimmer as if it was behind water.. Farfeesa’s eyes grew very large, then dilated back down to their normal size. Farfeesa gave a slight start and glanced at Buxtehude. She then scurried out of the room. Belcher turned back to face Buxtehude and saw the end of the same watery transformation. Then his face returned to normal. Belcher’s hands shook. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Mr. Cowbell,” Belcher began but Buxtehude cut him off.

“Just call me Hoody. Everybody at the plant calls me Hoody. Hoooo-dy Cowbell! May I call you Ozzy?” Hoody asked.

“Yes, sure,” Belcher answered. He looked around the parlor for a place to sit, but there were no chairs. He sat on the running board of Hoody’s car. “How many children do you have Hoody?”

“Well Ozzy, we’ve got thirty-five children. Two of them are here in Detroit, the other thirty three are out and about on the surface of your world.”Hoody answered.

“What? Thirty-five? You have…thirty-five children?” Belcher asked. He stared Hoody in the eye for a long moment. Hoody’s face did another watery transformation, then returned to normal. “Do they all have the same mother?”

“Why yes, Ozzy, why wouldn’t they? Farfeesa is wonderfully fecund.” Hoody answered. “”Oh, right, you people usually have only one to six or seven children. I’ve observed that myself.”

“Hoody,” Farfeesa said as she re-entered the room, “We are critically low on ppp…hhower. You might as well tell him the truth. He’ll never believe you and we’ll be gone long before he makes his report.”

“You are correct, Farfeesa my love. By the way, dearest, please call Oswald by the diminutive “Ozzy!”  Ozzy, we’re just waiting for the children to return, then we are off for home!” Hoody said.

“Wait…truth…what’s the truth? And where’s home?” Belcher asked with the coffee cup poised at his lips.

Hoody sat down next to Belcher on the running board.

“You see Ozzy, we are doing the same thing that you are doing.” Hoody said. He gazed into Belcher’s face. He underwent another watery transformation and continued. “We are from a planet in orbit around Luyten 726-8A. I know this means nothing to you because at this stage your powers for astronomical observations are very limited. Luyten 726-8A is approximately 8.4 lightyears from your star, that you call Sol. Our people live on a planet we call Morsia. We are part of an organization of planets called the Harmony of Rondures. We have been observing the evolution of your species  and of the civilization on your planet, that you call Terra, to determine when you might be able to join us.”

Belcher said nothing. He raised his coffee to his lips and took a sip. It was delicious coffee. He knew this interview was not going well for Cowbell. He saw no flags, no bibles, no healthy well-mannered children, no evidence of a nutritious diet. What could he write about? Would anyone believe him? Would he be sent away for rest? And yet here he was, in the living room of what was a really splendid house, surrounded by the fruits of the Industrial Revolution but no furniture.

“Let me go on,” Hoody continued. “I and my family are just one of numerous groups of observers on Terra. We try to blend into your various cultures to learn about you. You people have learned to fly, to defeat the darkness with electricity, and to communicate over great distances. You now have these autonomous ground transportation devices. You’ve made wonderful progress, but you still have a long, long, long, long way to go to evolve fully. This war in Europe is a perfect example. Do you know why those nations are fighting?”

Belcher silently shook has head from side to side.

“Well, neither do we. It seems pretty pointless and lots and lots of you are going to die before it is over. Fighting for dirt? Pfaw!! Plus, there’s an epidemic of disease a-borning in Europe right now that’s going to kill another large batch of you in a few years. Your planet still has very vigorous microbial infestations that you haven’t even be-gun to deal with. So we in the Harmony decided it was too dangerous to stay here for now, and that’s why we are leaving. So here, take a good look. Farfeesa…”

Hoody Cowbell stood and he and Farfeesa stood shoulder to shoulder before Belcher. There was a watery transformation and there before Belcher stood two very tall creatures, with impossibly large eyes. They were rail thin and had six fingers on each hand. Their clothes were gone, replaced by some type of silver body suit. Just then a tiger entered the room.

Belcher stood quickly and spilled his coffee. The cup and saucer crashed to the floor. The tiger had something on its’ head that looked like a tiara. It paced very slowly and rubbed up against Hoody and Farfeesa just like a pet kitten. The tiger approached Belcher and a deep purr emanated from the tiger’s throat.

“Don’t be afraid. As long as Sppp…hencer is wearing the, uh…that thing on his head, he’s ppp…hherfectly safe to be around.” Farfeesa said. “And don’t worry, we’re taking him with us.”

“Where in the name of seven devils did you get a tiger!?!” Belcher shouted .

“One of the kids got it in a place called Mathurakhanda on what you call the Indian subcontinent.,” Hoody answered. “Jungle-y. Very jungle-y,” he said. “Hot…lots of insects. Germs and bacteria beyond description, even the insects are infested. This little kitty was killing a bunch of poor fishermen in a boat. Can’t say I blame him. You people have certainly killed enough tigers. And just for trophies! Another of your more detestable practices.”

“Now look here Cobweb…” Belcher shouted.

“Cowbell!” Farfeesa corrected.

“Cob…Cowbell! Yes! This is too much!! You know I’m going to have to recommend that the Ford Motor Company terminates your employment. The Ford Motor Company only wants exemplary examples of American families to work for Mr. Ford. I can’t see anything exemplary here at all!!“ Belcher fulminated.

“That’s fine. Like I said, we are leaving very…”Hoody stopped mid-sentence. There was a commotion on the front porch.

The front door suddenly burst open. A large group of people, talking, shouting,and laughing all at once, ran into the house, stopped in the front hallway, and immediately began to strip and toss their clothes onto the floor. There were soldiers, ballerinas, bakers, steelworkers, police, nurses, farmers, sailors, businessmen, and clergy in a discombobulated riot of flying arms, legs, feet, buttocks, and hands. They spoke in a cacophony of voices that sounded like the quacking of a large group of ducks, the rustle of dry leaves in an autumn wind, and tiny bells.

“Oh, the children are home!!” Farfeesa exclaimed. She clasped her hands together and if Belcher could read her facial expression correctly, she looked as if she was going to cry.

The various clothes and uniforms suddenly squirmed, stiffened and began to slide across the floor and into a crate. What was once a pile of various uniforms and garments had neatly folded themselves, and hung themselves up into the crate which then closed itself and slid across the floor by where it banged loudly into a corner.

          The small mob of now silver-suited aliens bolted out of the hallway and parlor at a dead run, their footsteps thundering on the wooden floor. They threw open the back door and disappeared into Forest Lawn Cemetery. As quickly as they had come, they were gone and the silence returned.

“Belcher,” Hoody said, “You can write up whatever you feel is necessary. I won’t be at work tomorrow or ever again. You see, I’ve got a report to write up too. You people are bloody unevolved! Here you are in your fume-spewing wood-wheeled chariot, barely removed from being pulled around by beasts, sanctimoniously deciding who is to be included in your tribe! Why you haven’t even created your first element yet! You’re still digging around in the dirt and wearing shiny stones and animal skins!  Anyway, we’re off! We’ve got very little time. Please see yourself out. Come along Spencer.” the tiger followed Hoody and Farfeesa out of the back door of the house. The three of them disappeared into the darkness.

“Good luck with the wars and diseases!” Hoody’s voice called out of the darkness.

“Make beautiful wind, Ozzy!” Farfeesa called over her shoulder.

Belcher stood in the brightly lit but now silent house for a moment. He gathered his notepad and briefcase and started out of the front door. Then he stopped and ran to the back door.

“Cob…I mean, Cowbell!! Where should we mail your final paycheck?” Belcher shouted. There was no answer. He waited then ran out of the front door, jumped into the Model T and sped off. As he approached the corner of Palmetto and Van Dyke, he saw a flash of light in the rearview mirror. He twisted around in his seat in time to see the entire Cowbell house spew flames from the base of the two turrets, lift off of the ground, and vanish up into the darkness of night at a high rate of speed.

Belcher arrived at his home in Hamtramck fifteen minutes later. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, sat at his desk, and in the dim light of his lamp, began to review his notes. He took out his pencil and made note of the fact that he had not observed any vermin in the Cowbell residence. He swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, and felt the warmth descend into his belly. He put a sheet of paper in his typewriter. No one was going to believe this, he thought. but he began to type anyway.

(Author’s Note: To this day, there is just a patch of bare dirt at 6999 Palmetto Street in Detroit. The house numbers now begin with 7001.)