by Bryan Hall
“Yeah, you know ... cosmetic surgery.” Phil slid onto a bar stool one away from Mike’s.
Mike stood. “I’m outta here.”
“Hold up, man. I’m telling you, it’s me. Ask me something nobody but us could know.”
Mike hesitated. He and Phil had been best buds until Mike’s dad died and his family moved back to Jersey. What could it hurt to hear what the guy had to say?
“Okay,” Mike said. “Aunt Augusta.”
Phil chuckled.
Mike scowled. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m not laughing at you, man. I knew you’d pick Aunt Gussie, our deepest, darkest secret.” Phil leaned toward Mike and whispered in his ear.
Mike gaped. No one except Phil knew the truth about Aunt Gussie. About what they’d done.
“Well, Mikey, did I pass?”
Wide-eyed, Mike stared at Phil. “What the hell happened to you? Your voice doesn’t even sound the same.”
“I told you, man, cosmetic surgery and a little nick on the cords. Changed my life.”
“No kidding,” Mike said. “That smokin’ hot blonde, she your girlfriend?”
“Nah, we’re just friends. Her name’s Star. She’s something, isn’t she?”
Mike licked his lips. “Oh, yeah.”
Phil chuckled. “When we go out we play this game sometimes, like we’re strangers. You know what I mean?”
“Man,” Mike said, “you are one lucky jabroni.”
“What’re you drinking, bro?” Phil asked.
“Lucky’s.”
“Jesus,” Phil said. “They serve that shit here?”
Phil caught the bartender’s eye, waved him over and ordered a couple of expensive lagers.
Mike sipped the lager, savoring it. The liquid felt heavy on his tongue. Compared to this, the stuff he’d been drinking tasted like warm water. He licked the foam from his lips. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure, Mikey.” Phil took a long swallow. “How’s your mom doing?”
“Gone.”
“You mean ...”
Mike nodded.
“I’m sorry to hear that, man.”
The lump in Mike’s throat made him choke on his next swallow of beer. Phil waved at a waitress and pointed at the empty peanut bowl. She smiled and tossed her hair as she swung by.
“How about an upgrade?” She slid a basket of wings with dipping sauce in front of Phil.
“Thanks, babe!” Phil flashed Hollywood-bright teeth. He watched as she ducked and dodged through the crowd, her tray held high above her head. He sighed and passed the wings to Mike.
“Hey, thanks!” Mike grabbed a fat wing. He ignored the sauce, tearing the meat off the bones with his teeth.
“No problem, bro. So, how long you been in Delaware?”
Mike bit into one wing after another. He answered Phil between mouthfuls.
“Came here for a job a couple months ago. It sounded like a sure thing. Then I meet the guy and all of sudden there ain’t no job. I pick up some one-shot day work in construction here and there, so I stuck around, but if I don’t get something permanent soon, I’m gonna be sleeping at the mission.”
Phil didn’t say anything for a minute or two, then asked, “Can you drive a delivery truck?”
Mike shrugged. “Sure. I got my CDL. But I can’t get nothing.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I might be able to get you something with my company.”
Caught of guard, Mike couldn’t help but look surprised. The last time he’d heard anything about Phil, he’d been working at some crummy pizza joint for minimum wage. “You have a company?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, I don’t own it. But I’m the regional manager. Surgical supplies.” Phil winked at Mike. “That’s how I met Star. She’s a surgical nurse in a private hospital. You seeing anyone?”
Mike narrowed his eyes and gave Phil the look. The one his grandmother called il malocchio.
“Whoa!” Phil said leaning away from Mike. “What’s that for?” He crossed himself. “God bless me.”
“What do you think? I look like an ape and you ask me if I’m seeing anyone? Did they take out your brain when they fixed your face?”
Phil sucked air through his teeth. “No need for talk like that. Get a little work done.”
“A little work? Are you kidding me? No offense, man, but you look like you had a whole fucking body transplant.” Must have cost millions, Mike muttered under his breath.
“Hey,” Phil said, “take it easy.”
“So, how much did it cost you?”
“It cost me nada.”
“Now I know you’re shitting me.”
“No, man.” Phil said, shaking his head. “I know a guy.”
“And he does this for free? How does that work?”
Phil shrugged. “I help him out from time to time. And ... I let him try out some new stuff on me.”
“What ... like ... experimental?
“The doc is always coming up with new procedures and he has to test them.”
“You let him use you like a lab rat?”
Phil ignored the question, answering brusquely as if Mike had offended him. “He’s a professional, man. Worst case scenario, you don’t turn out quite right and you look a little funky until you heal enough for him to go back and make adjustments. No big deal.”
“So, who is this guy?”
“Dr. Fleischman. He’s in the industrial park over by the B&O Lanes.”
“Industrial park? You gotta be kidding me.”
“No, man ...”
Mike waved Phil away. What the fuck? How could that be legit?
Phil stood up. He pulled a card from his inside pocket and pushed it over to Mike. “It was good seeing you again, Mikey. Keep in touch, okay?”
Mike nodded. “You got it.”
“Listen. You change your mind and you want me to hook you up with the doc, let me know.” Phil clapped Mike on the shoulder and headed for the door.
Mike stared at Phil’s card. There it was in black and white: Philip Demartini, Regional Manager, TSR Surgical and Hospital Supply, business and cell numbers.
Phil looked like a million bucks. And Star ... Star ... saliva pooled in Mike’s mouth. It sounded crazy. It was crazy. But, what if Phil’s “guy” could fix him? If Mike could look like Phil, there’d be no more being treated like a retard. No more “disappearing” jobs. No faces twisting in revulsion. No stench of desperation on him.
If he turned out even half as good as Phil, he could get a girl like Star. Shit, he could get any woman he wanted. So what if the guy experimented on him. Could he look any worse? Mike’s whole life could change, like Phil’s had. Wouldn’t it be worth it? The bottom line was: What did he have to lose? The answer was easy: Nothing.
It had taken a while, but Mike finally found Dr. Fleischman’s office in the last building at the back of the industrial park. It just figured. And the door was locked. He jabbed a finger at the doorbell. While he waited for someone to let him in, he saw a Rolls-Royce pull up to the front of the warehouse. The security doors rumbled up. The car drove in and the doors rumbled down. He was about to push the bell again when the lock clicked and the door opened.
“Mr. Gambone, please come in. I’m Miss Dare, Dr. Fleischman’s assistant.”
Mike wondered how she knew his name. He had an appointment, sure, but so did lots of people. Then again, maybe a doc like this didn’t see many patients.
“Follow me, please.” A platinum blonde, Miss Dare had that ethereal glow of a 1940’s Hollywood starlet. She walked ahead of him at a leisurely pace. Mike admired her tiny waist and the side-to-side sway of her heart-shaped backside. She led Mike down a wide hallway. The only light came from lamps high up in the ceiling. Tall shelves covered with plastic sheeting lined both sides of the aisle. Mike tried to see what was on the shelves, but the plastic was almost opaque. All he could see were indistinct shapes.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
M
iss Dare turned, eyes narrowed, a tiny crease between her eyebrows. She gave him a sharp look. “You want to know if I look the way I do because of Dr. Fleischman?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “That’s it.”
She smiled. “From top to bottom, inside and out. Face, ass, boobs, everything.”
Her breasts got Mike breathing hard. He was a breast man and hers were magnificent. A flume of blood rushed to his face. Mike nodded, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.
Miss Dare laughed. They started walking again and came to another door. Miss Dare used the tip of a red-lacquered nail to tap in a code. As they went through, her cell phone chimed.
“Excuse me, I need to take this. Have a seat, Mike. Relax, get comfortable. Dr. Fleischman will be ready for you shortly. He has a little emergency he needs to attend to.”
Miss Dare stepped out of the office and Mike sat on a divan upholstered in cream-colored leather. A desk, a chair, a floor lamp were the only other furnishings. Mike looked around for a magazine. Not a one. What kind of doctor’s office didn’t have magazines? He watched the second hand on the wall clock go around in circles and hoped she wouldn’t be long.
About ten minutes later, Miss Dare returned. “Just a little while longer, Mike. Can I get you something? Coffee? Perrier?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.” He didn’t feel good, though. Now that he was actually here, he had a case of nerves; his stomach felt like it might heave.
“Would you like to see my before and after pictures?”
“Yeah, sure,” Mike said.
Miss Dare unlocked a drawer in her desk and removed a thick album. She sat next to Mike, opened the album and flipped through the pages.
“Here I am.” She turned the album toward Mike.
Mike’s jaw dropped.
Miss Dare laughed softly. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
Mike looked again at Miss Dare’s before picture, then at her after picture, then at Miss Dare herself. Her before picture showed a chinless woman with stubby ears, invisible lips, and a flat, shapeless nose.
“That’s not possible. That’s ... but,” Mike was at a loss for words.
“That is the genius of Dr. Fleischman. He’s not just a cosmetic surgeon, he’s a flesh artist.”
“My friend Phil Demartini told me about him.”
“Oh yes, I remember Phil.” She flipped the pages of the album. “Here he is.”
There was the face Mike remembered. And next to it the face that now belonged to Phil Demartini. Mike felt a strange exhilaration. His heart felt like it was expanding in his chest, and he realized that what he was feeling was hope. Mike hadn’t felt hope in so long he’d almost forgotten the sensation.
“When can I pick out my new face?”
Miss Dare closed the album. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Dr. Fleischman will explain.”
Miss Dare’s phone chimed again. “Dr. Fleischman will see you now.”
Mike stood up. Miss Dare took him through a door behind her desk.
“Dr. Fleischman, this is Mike Gambone, Phil Demartini’s friend.”
Mike didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but the doc looked like a regular guy: curly salt-and-pepper hair, friendly smile, in good shape for an older guy.
“Of course,” Dr. Fleischman said. “Sit down, Mr. Gambone.” The doctor waved Mike into a chair in front of his desk. “Thank you, Miss Dare.”
She nodded and left. The pocket door whispered shut behind her.
Mike looked around. Just as he thought, this guy hauled in the bucks. Thick oriental carpets covered the floor. The furniture was heavy, made of solid wood, real wood. One wall displayed Dr. Fleischman’s diplomas pressed between thick plates of glass, secured with gold screws. On another wall were photographs. One showed Dr. Fleischman surrounded by exotic fish, scuba diving near a coral reef. In another, the doctor, dressed in a tux, chatted with a famous actress at what Mike guessed must be a film premiere.
“You know her?” Mike asked.
“We’re acquainted.”
Holy shit, Mike thought. Who is this guy?
Could Angelina Jolie be one of Dr. Fleischman’s patients? Mike was going to ask when another set of pictures caught his eye. In one, a grinning Dr. Fleischman kneeled behind an enormous boar. Mike looked at Dr. Fleischman.
“Hogzilla,” Dr. Fleischman said.
In another, the doctor stood on a crate beside a monster shark. In the third photograph, Dr. Fleischman stood over a creature that looked like a giant dog with wings.
“Holy crap,” Mike said, “what the hell is that?”
Dr. Fleischman laughed. He looked pleased at Mike’s astonishment. “That is a Chupacabra.”
“No shit,” Mike said. “You killed those things?”
Dr. Fleischman chuckled. “Well, just between you and me, Mike, no, I didn’t kill them. Those pictures are ... for fun. A little amusement for me and my patients.”
Mike shook his head. “You had me going, doc. For a minute, I thought those things were real.”
Dr. Fleischman cleared his throat. “Well now, Mr. Gambone, tell me, how I can help you.”
“Are you serious?” A nugget of anger ignited in Mike’s gut. “I look like a fucking ape. People think I’m stupid. Women won’t come near me. They treat me like shit. I want women to beg to have sex with me, not look like they’re gonna puke when they see me coming. I want what you did for Phil and Miss Dare.”
Dr. Fleischman leaned across his desk. “Most people have no idea of their true form, their inner selves. I am very good at discerning the ‘real you’ and bringing that individual to the surface. That’s what I did for Mr. Demartini and Miss Dare. I strive for positive outcomes for both my clients and myself.”
“You fix me up like Phil and that’s my positive outcome, Doc.”
Dr. Fleischman leaned back in his chair, his steepled fingers pressed to his lips.
Sweaty and anxious, Mike hadn’t meant to get in the doc’s face. What if the doc decided to kick him to the curb? “Look,” Mike said, “I got no money for this, but—”
“Money isn’t an issue, Mr. Gambone. I have no end of clients who pay me very well for services they can’t get anywhere else.”
“You got my permission to use me like a lab rat. What else is there?”
“Not a thing, Mr. Gambone, not a thing,” Dr. Fleischman said, his dark eyes boring into Mike’s with laser precision. “Let us move along to your physical evaluation.”
“Now you’re talking,” Mike said.
In the white-tiled and stainless-steel room, the examination table was the only piece of equipment Mike recognized.
“Step behind the screen, Mr. Gambone, and remove your clothing, then get on the exam table and we’ll weigh you.”
Mike stepped behind the portable screen and undressed. “Hey, doc, there’s no gown?”
“No gown,” Dr. Fleischman replied. “I need access to your entire body.”
Mike shrugged. As far as his body was concerned, he had nothing to be ashamed of, at least in the muscle department. The hair was another matter. But, Dr. Fleischman would take care of that.
“Lie down, please, Mr. Gambone. We can’t weigh you standing up.”
Mike stretched out on the exam table. Pretty sophisticated stuff. The platform whirred and whispered as it did its job.
“Please excuse me, Mike,” Dr. Fleishmann said. “I’ve forgotten something. Just relax. I’ll be right back.”
Before Mike could reply, the pocket door shooshed open, then shut.
“Two hundred ninety-three pounds. All muscle. Not an ounce of fat.”
“What the─?” Mike sat up. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. A nurse stood at the end of the exam table. She was smiling, and when Mike realized what she was smiling at, blood rushed to his face.
“Sorry,” she said as she draped a sheet over Mike's legs and chest. “I've seen a lot of those, but yours is a showstopp
er.”
“Thanks,” Mike muttered.
When her mobile computer station beeped, she turned and Mike saw her in profile.
“Hey, I know you ... from Garibaldi’s. Star. You were with Phil Demartini.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You have a good eye, Mike. I’m called Stella here. Star is the other me.”
“The other you?”
“Star does all the things Stella would never dream of doing.”
“That sounds ...” Mike stopped. He didn’t want to insult her.
“Crazy?”
It was crazy. But Mike wasn’t going to say that.
“Star is the real me,” she said. “Stella just hasn’t caught up with her yet. It takes a while after all this.” She swept a hand over her face and body. “You’ll understand what I’m talking about after you’re done.”
“I get it,” Mike said, not sure he really did.
“I need to do a blood draw,” Stella said.
Mike watched as she prepared a syringe, tube, tap, and six vials.
Jeez, Mike thought, Dr. Fleischman must have a thing for blondes. Even in her scrubs, Stella looked like she should be on a fashion runway, not working in some below-the-radar doctor’s office doing preop exams.
Dr. Fleischman returned and Stella pulled her cart to the head of the table and out of Mike’s sight.
“Mr. Gambone, if you’re ready, we will begin.”
Mike looked at Dr. Fleischman and said with more confidence than he’d felt in a long time, “I’m ready, Doc. Do your worst.”
Stella, syringe in hand, moved to the side of the table, lifted Mike’s arm and examined it closely, tapping her fingers here and there along its length.
“What are you doing?” Mike asked.
“Looking for a vein,” Stella said. “Here we go.” She slid the needle in with such precision that Mike didn’t feel it.
“Wait,” Mike said, “what’s that? I thought you were going to draw blood.”
“I am,” Stella answered, “in just a minute.”
“Okay,” Mike said. “But, what’s that stuff?” Mike blinked. Did he just say something? He couldn’t remember. He could hear sounds, but he had a hard time recognizing them. He stared at the ceiling. His vision narrowed and blurred. He felt the room closing in on him. He tried to speak. His tongue lay in his mouth like a dead thing. He tried to move his arms, his legs. He was paralyzed. A great weight settled on his eyes; he couldn’t keep them open.
