“Rolland!”
“What?” I yelled. The knife handle was in my hand, I suddenly realized.
“Weren’t you listening to me?” she asked.
“No,” I said, truthfully enough. “I was thinking about your murder.” It had managed its way to my mouth, and just came out. Before I knew it, the knife was slicing through the air. I heard a scream, and this crazy sound. It sounded like someone hacking a chicken in half, preparing it for supper. A fleshy, cracking sound. When I looked down, I had blood all over my hand. But it couldn’t have been all over my hand because my hand lay on the floor, oozing blood onto the carpet. Blood was spurting from the open wound at my wrist. I cackled uncontrollably, staring at my dismemberment. I looked at the ground where the bloody knife lay, and then at Marilyn who was backing toward the door. I smiled at her, then remembered I had to take my medicine, and went to the kitchen.
The Replacements
Published in Rock ‘n’ Roll is Dead by Bloodbound Books
MOREY GRIGSBY DID NOT believe in body replacement. He did not believe a person needed a new body every five to ten years, nor did he believe that his would crap out on him. On his thirtieth birthday, however, he looked like he was ninety.
“Damn pollutants,” he muttered, combing the thin white hair over his bald spot. “Stupid planet killers.” He stuffed his partial denture into his mouth, clicking it into place. He showed his teeth at his reflection, leaned forward to examine a brown spot on his semitranslucent skin. “Damn stupid ignoramuses.”
“Honey,” his wife, Celia, now on her fourth body though she was only five years older than him, poked her head into the bathroom. “I think it’s time.” He knew by the look on her face that she despised him because he looked so old.
“No, never,” Morey shook his head. “I refuse,” he said. He believed diet and exercise would prolong his body’s life, and though he was tired of hooking himself up to machines to live through the night, he did not want to trade in his body for someone else’s. Because that’s what the replacement was: Someone else’s body.
The replacement bodies were harvested by means of cloning aborted fetuses and genetically altering them, so they would not grow brains. With no brain, there is no mind. With no mind, the person technically isn’t a person. Just a body. They were hooked up to complicated machines to keep them alive, so the organs would continue to function, and the muscles wouldn’t atrophy.
The brain of the person seeking a replacement was removed and implanted into the new body. The old bodies were recycled back into the system, the cells used once again to create clones of that body. Morey did not want someone else’s mind floating around in his body, clone or not.
Celia looked at Morey with her large blue eyes filling with tears. He hated her large blue eyes. He missed his real wife. The wife he fell in love with. The dark-skinned beauty with big, round dark chocolate eyes. He didn’t like this blonde, tan-skinned, perfect Celia. And though she claimed to be the same Celia, she just wasn’t.
“Why did you get a white woman’s body?” he asked her, looking at her in the mirror.
She shrugged and sighed when he glared at her. “Hurry home after work,” she said. “I have a birthday surprise for you.” She smiled at him but didn’t meet his eyes and the smile was gone as she turned and left the doorway.
Morey got dressed for work and made his way to the office, daydreaming on the bus ride about his dark-skinned wife who was no more while his eyes scanned the paper.
As usual, he ignored the disgusted looks from the other passengers. He was used to them pointing at him, whispering behind their hands. Judging him. He glanced sideways at a woman who was obviously staring. She looked a little green.
“Take a picture,” Morey muttered. He turned his head slightly toward the woman. She leaned away from him, taken aback, then got up and moved to a different seat. Morey chuckled. Served her right to be staring at him like that. He returned his gaze to the newspaper in his lap.
When the bus screeched to a stop, he looked up.
Out the front window, looking at the bus driver through the windshield, waving her arms and kicking the bus was Celia. Not the blonde, tan one, but the original dark beauty. Morey gasped. His heart fluttered, and he feared it would go out on him. He pounded his chest and jumped to his feet, his knees protesting. The bus started to move after the woman, his real Celia, stomped across the street.
“Stop the bus!” Morey called. He gripped the handrail as the driver slammed on the brakes again and turned to look at him. “Thank you,” Morey said. He shuffled down the aisle as fast as he could and made his way down the three steps onto the pavement. The bus took off, blasting pollutants in his face. He held his breath until the black cloud disappeared.
The woman was just entering the hotel across the street. He wanted to call out to her, but he knew her name likely wasn’t Celia. Instead, he made his way across the street and followed her inside.
She stood at the counter at the coffee stand in the lobby. The same body, the same woman, the same beautiful eyes. When she laughed, tossing her head back, flinging her long black hair behind her, he saw she had the same crooked front tooth, and her eyes crinkled in the exact same way his original Celia’s had. His heart pounded, and he clutched his chest.
“Don’t give out on me now,” he muttered to himself, tapping his breast bone.
She turned, her eyes widened, and she gasped. “I’ve never seen such an old body,” she said, then demurely covered her mouth with her fingertips. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Sometimes I say things without thinking.”
“That’s okay,” Morey said. He cleared his throat when his voice came out scratchy and old, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. His body was old. That was a fact. “I’m Morey,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Tanya,” the woman replied. She gently took his hand and stared at it as she shook it. “How old are you?” She asked.
“Thirty today,” said Morey. “This is my original body.”
“Wow,” Tanya said. “Happy birthday.” She still held his hand and turned it, examining the hair on his knuckles, the brown spots dappling his thin, loose skin. “Why haven’t you gotten a replacement?” She asked.
Morey didn’t know how to answer the question.
“I wanted to see how long this one would last,” he said with a smile. His partial popped out and fell into his mouth, exposing his three missing teeth. He covered his mouth with his hand while he worked it back into place. He thought Tanya would be disgusted, but she laughed and moved his hand away.
“You have missing teeth!” she said. “That’s so amazing. Let me see.”
Morey pulled the partial out, cupping it in his palm, and smiled.
“How’d you lose them?” She asked.
“Boxing,” he told her with a lisp. It was sort of true. Really, he got in a drunken fight when he was in his early twenties.
The barista behind the counter slid a cup of coffee to the middle of the counter. “Coffee’s done,” the girl said. “Ten ninety-five.”
“Let me get that,” Morey said. He fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “Keep the change,” he told the girl.
“Thanks, Morey,” Tanya said, smiling her imperfect smile. Morey thought if he was a cartoon his pupils would be hearts beating out of his eyeballs. She cleared her throat. “Are you busy right now?”
“Nope!” Morey said without thought. Of course, he was busy. He was on his way to work, but he felt like she was going to ask him to have breakfast with her.
“Can you help me with something?” She asked.
“Yep!” Morey said smiling uncontrollably.
Tanya took his hand and led him to the elevators. “I’m starting a business,” she said as the car zoomed up five floors. “You seem like the perfect candidate to test my skills on.”
“What kind of business?” Morey asked.
“You’ll see,” Tanya said with a coy chuckle. The d
oors opened with a ding and she led him down the hall to the right. “This is my room,” she said.
“I can wait in the hall, if you’d like.” Morey said.
Tanya giggled. “No, please, come in,” she said. She slipped the key card into the door and opened it.
The room was a standard hotel room. King size bed, smallish bathroom, a dresser with a television. A round table stood in a corner with a chair that didn’t match. Tanya deposited her purse there and turned to face Morey.
“Take off your clothes,” she said.
Morey choked on his own spit, flinging himself into a hacking and coughing fit. He pounded on his chest. Good God, she wanted him. This was way better than breakfast. To be with his Celia again? To ravage her like he had when they first got married just five years ago. Oh, to caress her round, firm butt. To gaze into her eyes and know the woman looking back at him loved him maybe more than he loved her.
He could hardly contain himself, but he wasn’t sure he heard her right. He coughed again, a long phlegmy, face-reddening cough.
When he had himself under control, he looked at her with raised eyebrows. “What?”
“I said, take. Off. Your clothes.” She raised an eyebrow and undid the top button of her blouse.
“What is your business?” Morey asked, reaching for his belt buckle.
“Sex.” Tanya said.
Morey’s heart fluttered again, and he cleared his throat several times. Was she serious? She unbuttoned the next button on her blouse, and the next.
How many men had she used Celia’s body with? Morey’s excitement faltered. But, it wasn’t really the real Celia, he reminded himself. Just a cloned version. He could pretend it was his real Celia. That would work. He would pretend.
As Tanya undid the last button, Morey glimpsed her beautiful breasts under a thin cotton bra. He fumbled with unbuckling his belt and untucking his shirt, while slipping off his shoes. Tanya giggled again and moved closer. “Let me help,” she said, dropping to her knees. She looked up at him as she pulled his belt free and unzipped his pants.
“Oh my,” she said with wide eyes. She smiled up at him.
When it was all over, they lay next to each other, silent save for Morey’s wheezing. Disappointment filled him. It wasn’t Celia. Of course, it wasn’t Celia. It was just a clone of her body. Nothing felt the same, nothing even looked the same. She didn’t do the things Celia used to do. She didn’t move in unison with him, she didn’t even look at him. In fact, the more he thought about it, he wasn’t even sure she really looked anything like his original Celia. Was her skin that dark? Had her eyes had that slight upward slant?
He stared at the ceiling trying to calm his breathing. Tanya pulled him back to the moment with a breathy laugh.
“I can’t believe you’re still in your original body,” she said. She rolled over onto her stomach and drew circles in his white chest hair. She fingered a withered, saggy nipple. “My body gave out when I was eighteen,” she said. “This is my first replacement. It’s only a year old but I’m kind of getting tired of it already.”
Morey wanted to tell her she looked like his wife, that he wished his wife had never changed bodies, but instead he asked her, “were you black originally?”
Tanya nodded.
“My wife . . .” he started and mentally smacked himself.
Tanya smiled. “That’s okay,” she said. “You’re not the first married client I’ve had. Most of them are married, actually.”
“Oh, right,” Morey said. The disappointment flared again. Why did he ever think this imposter in his wife’s body would be anything like his Celia? “How much do I owe you?” His voice was small and choked.
“Three thousand,” she said, sitting up. “But I’ll give you fifty percent off. Consider it a senior citizen discount.” She giggled. “Fifteen-hundred.” She smiled and held out her hand.
Morey swallowed hard. “Do you take a credit card?”
Tanya nodded.
After the transaction was complete and Morey had his clothing and belongings together, she walked him down to the lobby.
“I’m always here,” she said. “In case you get lonely.” She brushed her lips across his and sauntered away. Morey sighed, then pounded on his chest again to get his heart beating. He watched her board the elevator.
“I’m an idiot,” he whispered.
Later that day after work, Morey stepped into the house feeling heavy like the day was smashing him into the ground. He thought of Tanya, of the sex. Disgust filled him, turning his stomach. His shoulders sagged, and he closed his eyes.
In the designer kitchen, a martini sat on the granite counter. He smiled and took a sip. Perfect. She may not look like the woman he fell in love with, but Celia could make a mean martini.
“Morey, is that you?” Celia called from the other room. Morey sighed and made his way to the living room. Celia lay on the black leather sofa in a white negligee embellished with marabou boas. “This is the first part of your surprise,” she said with a wink and a smile full of perfect teeth.
“I’m not in the mood,” Morey said. The guilt. He couldn’t even look at her. He shuffled past her to the bathroom, martini in hand. Celia followed him.
“But it’s your birthday,” she said.
“Yeah, and I would like to be left alone.” Morey told her, not meeting her eyes. Guilt mingled with the disgust and disappointment.
Celia pouted, stomped her foot, and swirled away toward the bedroom. He heard her slamming dresser drawers and throwing things. He shook his head and went to calm her.
“I’m sorry, Celia,” he said. She was halfway out of her lingerie, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“You don’t love me anymore.” She crossed her arms. She wiped furiously at a tear.
“Yes, I do,” Morey said. He sat next to her and put his arms around her. “I don’t love your new body, but I still love you.”
She pulled away.
“It’s the mind that matters,” he told her, trying to convince himself of this. “It’s you in there, just not out here.”
“Is that why you slept with her?” Celia asked, her voice clipped.
Morey coughed and hacked. He pounded on his chest. “What?”
“You know what I said, and you know what I mean,” her voice was all venom. Her eyes cut into him when she looked at him through her lashes. She stood and stomped to the dresser, jerked open the top drawer and pulled out a piece of paper. It was an email. “The credit card company sent me an email about a suspicious charge,” she said. “Hookers Anonymous? Really, Morey?”
“I-I’m sorry?” He didn’t know what else to say. His whole body flushed, heating him. He felt hot and sticky and slightly tingly.
“I knew it was true. How could you?” Celia shrieked. “Fifteen hundred dollars?” She threw the paper at him, but it drifted to the floor. She turned away. Morey sat still, feeling stupid and horrible. Her shoulders trembled. He thought she must be crying, but a wicked laugh cackled from her throat. When she turned around, she was smiling.
“Drink up, Morey,” she said. He looked at the martini, nearly gone, the olives not even covered by the clear liquid. “Your other surprise is waiting.” The smile disappeared. Her eyes tightened and took on a malicious gleam.
Morey dropped the glass. Not on purpose. His hand stopped working. His arm dropped to his side. A numb tingling spread up his arm and across his chest. His heart, oh God his heart was finally going out. But no, it was still beating. He could feel it in his pulse points. He fell backward onto the bed, then slid off when his legs gave out. He crumbled onto the floor, frozen in place. Only his eyes could move. He looked up at Celia standing over him. Her cell phone was at her ear.
“Come and get him,” she said. “Bring the ambulance, I’ll pay extra for expedited service.” She left the room.
“Celia!” He cried. “What did you do to me?”
Celia came back in and crouched next to his head. “I’m getting you a new
body for your birthday,” she said, petting his hair. “You see, I don’t love this old disgusting thing anymore,” she stuck her lips out, cocked her head. “But that shouldn’t matter, right?” She patted his head and stood up. “It’s all about the mind, not the body.”
“No,” he croaked. “No, I don’t want a new body, this one is fine!”
The doorbell rang. Celia bent and kissed his forehead and ran to get it, tossing on a silk robe on her way out the bedroom door. Two men came in with a stretcher.
“His body just gave out, but his mind is still good,” she said. “Let’s get him to the hospital.”
“No, I’m fine!” Morey shouted. “She drugged me! There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m drugged!”
“There, there, sweetheart,” she said.
Morey cried and shouted, he struggled to even just struggle but his body would not move.
“You have to believe me,” he yelled. “She drugged me! There’s nothing wrong with me!”
“Don’t listen to him. His body is old. It’s affecting his mind, he’s out of it!” Celia shouted. Her perfect brows were low and brooding.
“We’ll get him into a new body as soon as we can,” one of them said. As they wheeled Morey out to the ambulance, he overheard Celia say, “No, that won’t be necessary” before the doors slammed shut.
What did she mean it won’t be necessary? She said she was getting him a new body, had she not? He tried to scream but his vocal cords broke. He called out to Celia, to anyone who would listen, but no sound came from his throat.
At the hospital, Morey was wheeled into a room. The doctors gave him a sedative. He fought with all his might to stay awake, but they pumped more into him and finally he passed out.
When he came to, he was staring at their four-poster bed. Celia lay asleep. Everything was very quiet. Silent. She rolled over and sat up. No sound. No rustling of sheets. Good Lord, was he deaf? He tried to move an arm to wiggle a finger in his ear, but he couldn’t move. Perhaps the drug hadn’t worn off yet. He wondered what his new body looked like and wanted to cry. There was nothing wrong with his old body.
LUMP Page 13
