| A Modern Myth |
No matter what its true purpose, Area 51 had become one of our society’s replacement myths, with advanced technology taking on the role of magic, and aliens or secret government programs standing in for fickle gods. It’s a place that does exist on maps, but remains unreachable for most of us. And whether or not the stories are plausible, it has become a place for wild speculation to take root.
And so we offer the results of the first Area 51 Writing Contest. We offered entrants the beginning of a myth (see below), hoping to draw out our understanding of Area 51. Discovering what lies behind those imposing signs and sentries was never our goal; instead we wanted to know why the idea of Area 51 holds such a power over us.
We've gathered three explanations, three separate stories, which look at Area 51 in a different light. The first story demonstrates our fear and fascination with technology, surely a reason Area 51 is so interesting to us all. The second tale discusses humanity's fear of a secret power, of losing meaning and control over one's life, and, of course, distrust of outsiders. The third uses humor and aliens to place a very human ailment on a non-human creature.
Are these myths meant to be taken literally, do they hold the answers to the Area 51 question? Maybe it depends on what you mean by myth, and what exactly you are looking for. Enjoy!
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The Story So Far... |
We thought they were developers at first; some people got their hopes up, started fixing up spare houses, cutting down swaths of cheat grass. Others said the mine would reopen soon or they were going to siphon off some of the Vegas pipeline water and create a resort, so everybody should open a hotel. But most did nothing; they watched the newcomers warily at first, but gradually, almost got used to them.
Though the mine closed years ago, this is still a company town. In this town, you either worked for, served, or were married to the mine. No other reason to live out here with 200 lonely miles of pinion and juniper in all directions. The mine paid for your house, paid your utilities, gave you credit at the grocery. If you had a child, they sent the carpenters down to your house to build on an extra room. If you got sick, they sent a doctor to your house, or a priest. If you were willing to work it wasn't a bad life.
The houses they built were not for the long haul. That’s why we weren’t too surprised in 1951 when a new copper deposit was found just beneath main street and the company decided to up and move the whole place a few miles down the road. It was their property, they said, and we went along with it.
The town had been on a downhill slide since the mine closed, and the railroad petered out soon after. New faces just weren’t part of the landscape around here. We’d had a few people rumored to work at that Area 51 place, but they never really fit in and eventually moved on.
So when the black-haired man and his wife moved into one of the bigger houses on High Street we wondered and wondered hard. Someone heard they were from Las Vegas and looking to get away from it all. Whatever “it all” was, this town was as far away as anyone could get.
The first couple claimed to be Mormon, so when the second and the third arrived we thought we understood: they were planting a new church, what they call a ward, though rumors said it would be a cult. We never had Mormons here (I don’t know why), so we didn’t have anything to compare them with. They seemed ok. They walked the walk, used the right lingo.
The strange thing was they didn’t have much to do with each other. They barely even talked…nod knowingly when they’d meet each other on the street, but that was about it. Now that made us nervous, and the fact they were so much more interested in us than each other. I guess that makes sense from a recruitment point of view, their being Mormon and wanting to add to their flock. But they never really talked much about religion. They seemed mostly interested in the details of us as people, our families and histories. They’d just sit and gab for hours. Mrs. Frieda had to ask them to leave one night after cards, which is unheard of if you’ve ever been stuck out at her place when she gets to talking about old times. But they sat there and lapped it up for almost three hours before she told them it was past her bedtime.
They were just there long enough that their newness had started to rub off, and then people really began to talk. Who had ever been over to their houses? And where did they get all their money?
One Saturday morning, we woke up and all three couples were gone, vanished in the night, just like the way they came. We could tell they were gone because the three wives were conspicuously absent from the County Quilting Bee, conspicuous because 90-year-old Clara Bennis was the only other regular member.
The deputy sheriff's wife claimed the couples’ three houses were not just emptied but all the windows and doors were open. Our mixture of disappointment, relief and unease was interrupted by the big sign that somebody finally noticed in all the hubbub hanging on the front of the post office. It said there was a meeting of the town council. It said it was an emergency.
Now that got people's attention. The last emergency had been the when the mine closed, before that…probably Pearl Harbor.
I think the whole town crammed itself that evening into town hall. Old John, spitting in the eye of death every time he wheezed a breath, spoke first. Thanked everybody for coming. Told them all to turn off their recording devices and cameras (this brought a chuckle), told all the children to leave the room (this did not).
The he started in, a tremble in his voice from nerves and age.
“We’ve all been talking about the couples that left, the three of them disappearing at the same time…” He let the silence roll out over the crowd. “Well, that weren’t no coincidence.”
“I guess I don’t have to tell you they weren’t what they claimed to be. They weren’t Mormon. Boy, they weren’t even married.”
This brought a rise from the part of the room heaviest with old folks.
“Now, now don’t be jumpin’ to conclusions,” Old John said, waving his hand as much in dismissal as to signal for Frank Tartenal, the post master, to take the head of the room. Frank removed a manila folder from inside his jacket, reached inside as if afraid. He took out a paper and started to read the legalese out loud, then stopped and shook his head.
“This here’s from the government,” he said. “They’re makin’ us an offer.”
Somebody in the crowd yelled out, “Don’t trust ‘em.” That’s always been the attitude, and more often than not, the right one.
Frank held up his hand, and the room quieted. “But it ain’t our water they want, or our land…it appears…. It’s us. They’re interested in us.”
“Who’s us?” a lady near the back squawked, and her coffee clatch cronies roared with laughter.
“It’s a job offer,” Frank said finally. “And it’s for the whole town.”
So what was the job offer, what was the decision? Read the stories to find out...
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