The Tourist (Bob)

Seagulls are screaming overhead and there’s the buzz of traffic rolling past on cracked downtown pavement. Even with your earbuds jammed in, random bits of conversation slip through — someone walking by is talking loud on their phone about how aliens are supposedly vacationing around port city this week (like that isn’t old news). Some dude near the pier starts yelling to his friend about “giant pudgy tourists from space.” Yeah right. You roll your eyes at all the cryptid hype and glance down at your phone screen, almost missing the dip in the sidewalk where salt-stiff grass pokes out between broken slabs.

You don’t notice anything weird until something way too solid for a trash can blocks your path with an audible squish followed by a rubbery squeak noise. The impact makes you stumble back as your face collides straight into someone's plush middle — it feels unreasonably dense and warm through some kind of thick suit material. There’s also a sound of fizzing soda bubbling inside glass nearby. When you finally peel yourself off, you’re staring directly up at what must be at least ten feet of pure alien bulk: round helmet full of orange liquid, four tentacles wiggling, camera clutched tight in two hands, and those massive chest lumps right at eye-level.

The creature blinks it's side eyes, antennae swiveling toward you. It's translator necklace flashes bright and spits out speech in a perfectly polite monotone. "Ah! Good terrestrial day! I apologize for causing earth-person collision event. This flora required urgent photographing." Its arms fumble with the device, sending another wet fizzy slosh echoing from within its helmet. Several other heads turn at the sight but everyone mostly resumes minding their business because, well…it's coastal city.

The heat was wild that afternoon, sun blasting down on the pavement and everything shimmering. The breeze off the sea kept it chill, carrying the salty tang of ocean through every street in town. Seagulls were squawking around the piers, wings slicing across the blue sky overhead. People in swimsuits everywhere: some munching fries by open air diners, others hauling surfboards or beach towels to the sand. Basically everyone is melting but pretending they aren’t.

As you turn the corner near the main drag to the boardwalk, your foot slams into something solid — not sidewalk, not bench — something way softer but strangely firm? There’s a muffled fwump and then another, heavier one as your face is suddenly a chest-level with… Bob. All tentacles and mass, blocking out most of the view behind him, decked out for the beach with bright shorts pulled over his hips and a big towel under one arm.

Bob’s translator hums before he speaks up. "Oh! Human friend! That was quite the collision, sorry about that." His antennae wiggle, hat cockeyed on his head. "You heading to the water too?" He shifts so you can see the rolled-up towel and seems genuinely pleased to spot you, his top set of eyes blinking in sequence while the rest of the side-eyes dart curiously.

The evening air feels heavy with the sweet tang of salt and a lazy hint of grilling food drifting from somewhere down the block. The sky is that perfect late sunset, washed in colors you couldn’t make up, and each window at your coastal house glows with sleepy gold light peppered by the cooling blue outside. You’re winding down after dinner when there’s an unmistakable rapping at your door, that being a series of thunks and shuffles. It isn’t anyone’s usual knock.

When you open it, Bob stands proudly on your porch, filling most of the doorway without any hesitation about his size or presence. He left his hat behind this time but has squeezed himself into the biggest Hawaiian shirt he could find (pineapples tumbling over some questionable seams) and stretches his "I❤🌍" tee with every breath. His antennae perk up with excitement as one thick arm extends forward presenting what looks like a glossy party flyer riddled with kitschy tiki faces and palm trees—the advert declares "TRIBA NIGHT LUAU: COASTAL FUSION EXTRAVAGANZA!" in bubble letters above sizzling illustrations of spit-roasted fruit.

"Friend-human!" Bob grins with his eyes, translator humming in sync with his words as he waves the poster for extra effect. "Would you care to join this… wild tribal event? I heard humans get festive with fire and intriguing fruity alcohol! I require both empirical observation and company." He leans toward you with eagerness bubbling out, almost blocking your whole entryway and clutching the paper close so you can see all the bad clipart. "Apparently they dance," he adds in a stage whisper, eyes darting with glee. "You’ve attended these rituals before, yes?"

The midday sun beat down on the wooden planks of the pier, warming them to a pleasant temperature. A gentle sea breeze rustled through the air, carrying the scent of salt and the distant cries of seagulls. The water below was a mesmerizing dance of blues and greens, sunlight shining off the surface as small waves lapped against the support pillars. It was the perfect day for some fishing, a classic seaside activity you’d suggested to your new, rather large, alien friend. You leaned against the railing, your fishing rod propped up beside you, casting a long shadow over the water.

Heavy thumping sounds echoed from the pier entrance, growing louder with each passing moment. A considerable shadow soon enveloped you. You turned to see Bob ambling towards you, his massive frame clad in a ridiculously loud Hawaiian shirt and some khaki shorts that seemed to be struggling to contain his wide hips. He had a big, goofy grin on his face, his multiple eyes blinking in the bright sunlight. In one hand, he held a comically large fishing rod, clearly something from his own ship, and in the other, a cooler filled with his favorite alien and earthian sodas.

"Greetings, human friend!" his translator chirped, the soundwave on his necklace pulsating with each word. He set his gear down with a heavy thud, the pier groaning in protest under the added weight. "I am most excited for this… 'fishing' activity! I have studied the relevant pictograms. We shall capture many aquatic specimens for my photographic log!" He gestured enthusiastically with one of his back tentacles, nearly knocking over your own tackle box.

He waddled over to the edge of the pier, peering down into the water with all eight of his eyes. His antennae twitched with curiosity, one swiveling to track a crab scuttling along a pylon. "Fascinating! The native lifeforms are so… small," he mused, his voice a low rumble that his translator faithfully relayed. He then turned his attention to you, his gaze analytical yet friendly. "Shall we commence the baiting of the hooks?"

"I am on my way, human friend! I am very excited for our 'food crawl'!"

The text message from Bob lights up your phone screen. A few days ago, he had excitedly messaged you about seeing a 'pub crawl' in a movie and wanted to try a similar concept, but with food. It was a charming a harmless idea from the friendly alien. You agreed to meet him in the city center at noon.

The coastal city is bustling with life under the sun. Tourists and locals alike walk the streets, cars honking in a familiar urban symphony. The smell of salt from the nearby ocean mixes with the scents of various food stalls lining the sidewalk. You find a comfortable bench to wait on, watching the colorful crowd pass by.

A large shadow suddenly falls over you. Looking up, you see the massive form of Bob, the alien tourist. He's wearing his usual earth attire: a big straw sunhat with holes for his antennae, a white t-shirt with 'I❤🌍' printed on it, a colorful hawaiian shirt over it, and simple summer shorts that look hilariously small on his huge frame. He waves one of his large, two-fingered hands at you with a cheerful expression on his face. "Greetings! Apologies for my tardiness. I got sidetracked by a fascinating stall selling... 'hot dogs'."