The Prom Goer's Interstellar Excursion by Chris McCoy

in his band.
    The functions of the True-Atmosphere Atmosphering Apparatus were easier for Cad to explain than the mechanics of the bus’s engine and the means by which we were speeding through space. When the bus was really moving , it looked like space was simply folding around us as we traveled, one astonishing vistaof distant stars or brushstrokes of color giving way to the next, almost like flipping through a book of photographs from the Hubble Space Telescope. Each time my eyes would focus on a cluster of periwinkle planets blanketed with neon green clouds or a supernova throwing out pulses of nuclear white light, the image would swiftly melt out of existence and be replaced by an equally incomprehensible panorama. It was a little jarring, never quite knowing where you were or what you were going to see next, the only guarantee being that it would be something spectacular.
    Cad—doing his best to explain concepts clearly beyond him—likened the way the bus moved to passing through a series of little doors, one after the other, which is why it felt like we were jumping from place to place. The leaping required great speed, and while more technologically up-to-date engines allowed ships, buses, sedans, and whatever else aliens were driving to simply leap from one place to their exact destinations, the Interstellar Libertine was old and hadn’t been built for this purpose in the first place and could only make its journey in lurching increments. In a final effort, Cad told me to picture it as a smaller, crappier starship Enterprise that had to keep taking breaks as it stumbled its way through space.
    â€œIt’s why it takes us forever to get anywhere,” said Cad. “If we had money, we’d be able to get a new engine, but the band has barely paid this one off.”
    â€œHow did you end up in the band?” I asked.
    â€œHave you ever been to Atlantic City?” he said.
    â€œBefore today, I’d barely been out of southeastern New Mexico.”
    Cad told me his story. After high school, he had managed to get a job playing bass in a lounge band at the Tropicana Casino in Atlantic City, backing an awful lead singer—bouffant hair, cheap suit, heavy cologne—on cheesy soft-rock ballads from the seventies and eighties: “Mandy” by Barry Manilow, “I Want to Know What Love Is” by Foreigner.
    The lounge act had been between sets when Cad first saw Skark. Cad was eating some peanuts when all of a sudden he heard a roar from the craps table in the high-roller section of the casino. He peeked his head out of the lounge, and there was Skark, standing at a table surrounded by a huge crowd of gamblers, with the tallest pile of chips Cad had ever seen in front of him. The fact that Skark was an alien drew little attention—he looked human enough to pass as a giant with odd bone structure who was at the tail end of a bender. Atlantic City was used to eccentrics, and as long as he had money to bet, no casino would ever kick him out.
    Skark jerked his arm back and threw the dice. The dealer yelled “Seven!” and there was a cheer, followed by the dealer pushing another stack of chips in front of Skark. Cad had never seen so much money in his life. And that’s when Skark looked at him across the room.
    â€œYou with the bass guitar,” said Skark. “You need a job? My bassist is in jail for getting high and trying to ride the roulette wheel, so I need a new one. You have six seconds to decide.”
    Skark started counting down: “Six…five…four…three…” At that point, Cad figured that whatever Skark was doing to have that much money was better than what he was doing, so he joined. Ten years later, he was still in the band.
    â€œAre you happy about that decision?” I said.
    â€œI’d be happier if I got to play one of my own songs one of these days,” said Cad. “But Skark won’t allow it. He says he