Graphic by Mary-Amma Blankson
I do not know how he got in there. Maybe he crawled through the vents or shimmied down the chimney like some off-brand Santa. He just showed up one day and never left. The first time I saw Alex Jones, it was the middle of the night. I woke up to the creak of the floorboards, a strange chill in the air, and the smell of barbecue chips and fear. Soft whispering floated out of the dark about gay amphibians and the dangers of fluoride, and when I rolled over, his face was right next to mine, flushed and sweaty, like he had been holding his breath for hours.
I shrieked as Alex Jones skittered back to the closet like a startled grizzly bear scrambling for its hibernation spot. My mom rushed in to figure out all the commotion. “It was just a nightmare,” she insisted, before flicking on the lamp and approaching the dreaded closet door. I braced for impact as she turned the doorknob. But he was nowhere to be found.
Later that night, I could hear her yelling at my dad in the next room, saying, “This is what happens when your brother comes over and watches all that conservative conspiracy crap.” I pulled the covers over my head, heart pounding, but I knew what I saw that night. Alex Jones was in my closet, and somehow, I was sure he was not going anywhere.
Every night, I hear his ramblings. Sometimes it is about “the Liberal Media removing the McRib because it threatens vegan hegemony”. Other times, he blabs about how “laundry detergent pods increase estrogen in males.” Last night, I even heard him muttering about how the government was increasing the amount of gravity on Earth, which was why his scale kept saying he was heavier.
I thought maybe, if I could prove to my mom that Alex Jones was really in my closet, then she would get rid of him. I tried to lure him out with food. Pop‑Tarts were his favorite. I used to leave one just outside of the closet, and like clockwork, a small, stubby, sausage-fingered hand would reach out and snatch it. Mom never saw this because Alex Jones only snacks on them during the work-day, and every time she came home, the evidence was gone and he was back in hiding.
Unfortunately, this plan stopped working. Yesterday, he chucked the foil wrapped Toaster Strudel back at me, grumbling, “Pop‑Tarts are government-issued thought grenades disguised as breakfast, designed to make you buy into political censorship.”
It looks like I will not be getting a good night’s sleep anytime soon. Still, I’ve come to kind of like him. It is nice having someone who is even louder than my dad’s snoring. When Alex Jones is quiet, I almost miss him. Maybe, tomorrow night, I will slip him a juice box.
