Hey Spacejerk

Behind The Scenes

Hey Spacejerk,

Maybe I should talk some about my Dad. I know you met him once. You guys seemed to be getting along well. Pretty chummy guy, huh? Truth is, he is pretty good with people as long as he's not related to them. I guess it's called having charisma, or something. He rolled a nat 20 on that and I rolled a nat 1. I don't even care if you understand that reference from the ground up, but it means that he got all the people skills and I got none of them.

This, he is happy to expand on for hours at a time, is the foundation of how he got his first grant. Successful science ventures like his are 30% actual science and 70% salesmanship skills, according to him. He walked in to the city board of something or other and presented his blueprints for a more efficient pot-hole fixing substance he called RoadPaste. You could squeeze it out of a giant tube and tamp it even with the rest of the road, no other work needed. No mixing, no mess, and you would never see that hole again. In fact, it slowly strengthened the integrity of the street by seeping out into the rest of the road over time. Neat side effects of the product included eating the carcinogens out of the surrounding tar-based road and suppressing root growth in the surrounding area. But it was the strength of his presence that truly sold it, or so he says.

He's only gotten better at this over the years. I think I first became conscious of how popular my Dad was around age five, when we had to move to a new house. Something about overzealous fans trying to get ahold of DNA samples from our septic system or something. That's when Dad started working full-time at his lab and left us in the care of hoverscreens he'd developed and electrified the perimeter of the house.

If I had any photo or footage of him doing anything like actual parenting before that, I might chalk it up to a desire to protect us from the public eye. I'd even take remembering our birthdays or making attempt to visit us, secretly. All we get, though, is Family Night, where he fulfills all his obligation to us at once by gracing us with his presence once a year on a scheduled day. Sometimes he would come back and sit in front of the TV and Gaz would sit next to him, and they just watched Dad's shows. Sometimes he would tinker some in the basement, but he made it pretty clear that it was his space and we weren't to interrupt unless it was an emergency. So, yeah, I don't exactly trust there was some altruistic motivation behind separating himself.

He used to take it to crazy lengths, too. His lab security wasn't told he had kids, so if I came to visit, they fended me off like I was some fanboy. Gaz knew all the backdoors somehow, but I usually got Security's electric prod. And on the off-chance that I actually got in to see him? He'd pretend like he didn't know who I was. What the hell, Zim?

I have to believe it's because I'm that much of a disappointment to him. I've never played with the toys he wanted me to play with, I've never taken the classes he's wanted, I've never shown an interest in his world. But hey, turnabout is fair play, right? When did he ever pay attention to my interests and desires?

Because I'm such a disappointment, he never backs me up. Maybe once in a while he'll loan me equipment I need, but I'm pretty sure it's to get me out of his hair. But this one time—you remember when I got hauled out of class on Halloween? They took me to the Crazy House for Boys. Dad was on the examination board and he could have gotten me out with a few words, Zim. Just a couple words and pulling his clout a bit, but he just let them take me away.

It's gotten worse over the years. I'm starting to think he's isolated me and shut my mouth so that I can't embarrass him anymore. He's still sending me to class in the manner aforementioned in my last letter and I'm still expected to complete homework and send it in, but I can't communicate with my own mouth.

Not that anyone would believe me, even if I could tell them. My Dad is Professor Membrane, the guy who cut the entire world's carbon emissions in half last year and is currently working on a clean, easily implemented, inexpensive energy solution. I have a record of being committed to mental institutions. All Dad has to do is hang his head and murmur, "My poor, insane son," and he gets all the sympathy while I get sent to a padded room. Old Skoolmates thought I was a nutcase already, no help there. My new classmates won't come within five feet of me. My teacher absolutely fawns over me with the same look on his face he got the moment Dad's voice addressed him from the chair speakers. What are the chances he'll believe me about Dad, you think?

Even if I could talk or communicate somehow and even if I didn't have Dad's reputation hanging over my head like some sword of Damocles... I mean, let's say I wrote a letter out to someone other than you, right? I still rolled a nat 1 on charisma. I get so caught up in what I'm saying that I don't care how it comes out because damnit, I'm telling the truth and why can't anybody see that? But that's never won me any friends or believers, has it? I've screamed about the truth when it's staring them in the face. I mean, another alien abducted you in front of class, Zim, and all they saw was that a bird crapped on my shoulder.

And Gaz doesn't care. She actually still hangs on the minimal attention we get from Dad, so she turns on me every chance she gets for a few extra chunks of approval.

Like I said before, Zim. If anyone would believe me, it's you. At this point, even if I ditch the tracker, I'd die of starvation without the nutrient patches the hoverscreen administers every few hours, since I can't eat solid food.

The ghost has been reaching out of the walls more, lately. Stroking my forehead at night, telling me it will be okay. I keep dreaming about our last house and the fire I was too late to stop. Maybe moving away from everyone who even remotely knew me was why Dad felt he had a shot at reforming me into a copy of him. A last-ditch, desperate attempt. I don't think he sees anything but the importance of his work and his image anymore. Of course his work is super important, but why couldn't I be more important than all of that?

-Dib

Note: A guest asked if I was okay because of the last chapter and this being a vent fic. I can't respond directly to guests so I'm responding here. I apologize very much for causing concern by not being clear, and I will rectify that now. Yes, I am safe. Personal themes I explored in the beginning were about moving to a far-off location, and I've also explored some themes of loneliness (which I've dealt with more in the past but it rears up from time to time now too). Those are the only relevant-to-my-life themes within this story so far. Lately this fic has taken a turn into my more typical storytelling which leaves my real life pretty far behind. My typical storytelling usually involves analyzing cartoon characters and extrapolating either the good or bad turns they may have taken over time and personal development (in Membrane's case, even more controlling and uncaring toward family). That has no real parallel in my life, and neither does Dib slipping nearer and farther from sanity. Again, I apologize that I was not clear regarding that.