The bright red S.U.V. that came barreling up the road wasn’t the sort of vehicle you saw all that often in Tucker, Ohio. Tractors and pickups were the preferred models. But when it came to a stop in front of “Bob’s Country Emporium,” the two old farmers sitting on the porch barely gave it a second glance. They were too focused on their game of checkers.

For a moment nothing happened. Then the driver’s door popped open and out stepped a young man: thirty, thin, and wearing an expensive pair of cowboy boots. “Howdy!” He called to them.

Both of the farmers looked up at him. They were grizzled old men in their sixties and almost identical in appearance -- from their plaid shirts and denim coveralls to their pale blue eyes. The only thing that distinguished one from the other was their choice of hats. The farmer on the right wore a bright yellow “Cat” baseball cap. The one on the left had on a Chicago Cubs baseball cap.

“Morning,” the farmer on the right answered. He then turned to his friend. “Your move.”

The second farmer squinted at him. “Eh?”

“YOUR MOVE!” The first farmer shouted.

The second farmer adjusted his cap and then nodded. “I know!”

The driver gave them an expectant look but they seemed to have forgotten him. “Hot today, isn’t it?”

The first farmer glanced at him. “Yup.”

The man waited but then decided this was the best opening he was likely to get. “I, ah, I was wondering if you fellas could help me out. I’m sort of lost.”

“Really?” The farmer in the yellow cap said without looking up. “Go back twenty miles. Interstate will be on your left. Can’t miss it.”

The driver seemed a bit flustered by his response. “Well – since I’m already here – I was thinking I could . . .” he glanced up and down the lonely expanse of roadway that went past the store, “. . . look around.” The farmers remained silent.

“Ok,” he said, resigning himself to the situation and reaching into his back pocket, “I’m from the Chicago Tribune. I’m looking for Ben Johnson’s farm. Can either of you boys help me out?” He held up a twenty.

The two old men looked at each other before bursting into cackles of laughter. “He’s looking for Ben Johnson’s place.” The first said, pointing at him.

“All the way from Chicago!” The second said with disbelief.

“Bet you’re looking for the ‘Mother’ Ship?” The first farmer asked, still giggling.

“Ooooh,” the second farmer said, rolling his eyes, “the Mother Ship.” And he began waving his hands in the air.

The reporter stared at the ground. He told his editor this was a stupid idea. “I guess,” he said, smiling awkwardly, “I’m not the first person to ask?”

“Nope,” the farmer in the yellow cap answered happily. “Just the other day we had a lady from the Times offer us fifty dollars if we’d introduce her to an alien.”

The reporter cocked an eyebrow. “What’d you do?”

The two men grinned. “Took her over to Johnson’s farm and introduced her to one of his goats. She spent the next twenty minutes trying to figure out how to say hello.” The two of them started laughing again.

The reporter nodded his head, grateful it wasn’t him. “I think that answers all of my questions. I’ll be going now.”

“Don’t you want to interview the goat?” The second farmer asked. “For half a turnip he’ll give you an exclusive!” The reporter pulled out of the parking lot with the sound of laughter ringing in his ears.

When the S.U.V. was once again a speck in the distance, the two old men fell silent. Then the second farmer reached up and removed his Cubs cap. With a calloused hand he massaged one pinkish antenna back into shape. The second one unfurled itself on its own. “Think he bought it?” He asked his friend.

The other farmer pulled off his yellow cap and both of his antennas shot straight up. “Doesn’t matter. In a week the ship will be refueled and we’ll all be gone.” He then turned irritably on his partner. “And when are you going to get a new hat? I told you to get one with some mesh on it. Mesh doesn’t muffle the sound as much.”

His partner bristled. “I may be here for just one more week but I’ll be damned if I’ll get rid of my Cubs cap. I’ve been a fan since the beginning and this is their year. Mark my words. They’re going to take the series! I’m just sorry I won’t be around to see it.”

“I’m not,” the first farmer declared. “About time they found us. A hundred years on this ball of dirt with nothing better to do than to listen to baseball. It’s enough to drive a being mad! I, for one, will be glad when we’re home.” He glanced down at the checkerboard. “It’s still your move.”

“Eh?”

The first farmer took a deep breath. “One more week,” he mumbled to himself. “Just one more week.”

The second farmer looked down at the board. “Oh, hey, it’s my move. Yes Sir,” he said, contemplating the board. “Cubbies are going all the way. You can count on it. The goat told me so.”