Gerald Henry, CEO of Transficube Productions. I sneer at his reflection in the smudged mirror; he simultaneously sneers back. The lazy bastard couldn’t manage to pull himself away from his flat for one business meeting; he preferred to call me. I should have assumed he wouldn’t give me enough information. I knew his paltry autobiography was too scripted, too superficial, but I didn’t speak up. I was lazy myself, it seems.
The majority of the meeting still went smoothly. In most “business-related” appointments, it is only a matter of presenting potential plans but never elaborating upon them, allowing the rest to do it for me. It was just that single, damn murder case that almost screwed me over. Some teenager had knocked off his father after a fight over the company’s product, but when he was caught, TP had agents talking to the kid before even his lawyer could. No unrelated person knew about the incident, including me. Consequently, such ignorance made it difficult to answer such impromptu questions as, “How should we deal with the Jenkins case?”
I lean close to the stained sink and splash lukewarm water from the faucet onto my face, feeling unfamiliar wrinkles and sagging skin against my hands. In retrospect, attaining the right information was relatively easy. Henry was getting old, and his business partners did not seem too surprised when I had asked for another summary of the crime. From there, I proposed the company quietly resubmit liability contracts to all their customers. The reaction was positive, unanimously accepting. I laugh halfheartedly, feeling my jowls shake. On a normal appointment, I singlehandedly augmented the system to better cover a corporate giant’s ass. Even after a few years, the business still manages to have a few kicks.
I would have to remind myself later to charge Henry an extra thousand. Now the next appointment calls.
From the reflection in the mirror, I am able to see all the bathroom stalls are empty. A tenth of the nation hires Substitutes, but our shifts still must be discreet. “Destroy the illusion; destroy the Substitute.”
Reaching into the front pocket of my button-down shirt, I remove a crinkled photograph, dated two days ago. Rob Johnson, 21 year-old college student, says he can’t take it anymore and needs a break from his leech of a friend. A typical client: he doesn’t realize hiring me will only aggravate his problem. This will be first of many appointments with him. I won’t tell him this though; it would damage another illusion of his.
I skim over the picture one last time, recalling his biography before I place the photo on the edge of the sink. I empty the rest of my pockets: my wallet, my cell phone, my red Substitutes emblem, a slip of folded paper. Focusing on my reflection, I grab hold of the bulbous nose I wore for Henry and depress the sides, molding it until I develop a smaller nose with a larger bridge. I then knead the folds of mottled skin back into my face, removing the age spots and structuring higher cheekbones.
My movements become more fluid as my concentration focuses. I lengthen my hair, remove the stray white strands, and burn the rest brown. I tint my eyes green, rework my mouth, and define my neck. With rough sweeps, I rub away the excess fat from my arms, legs, and stomach, shaping small muscles as I go. Carefully, I slide my fingernails across Henry’s formal wear until I tailor a loose-fitting t-shirt and a worn pair of jeans. I replicate Rob’s smile in the mirror as I work the rest of the age from my hands.
The image before me looks no different from the photograph, background withstanding. I am Rob. My colleagues often revel at the advancements in plastic surgery, but a successful shift depends more on the artist than the technology.
I sweep the photograph off the sink and slide it into my wallet, placing it along with the phone, paper, and insignia uncomfortably in my tight back pockets. Smoothing the creases from my clothing, I step out of the bathroom and into a well-lit bar. The selection of alcohol decorates the place in a multicolored brightness. Being only nine in the morning, the bar is relatively empty except for a middle-aged man seated in a far-corner booth and a young man waiting at the entrance. The latter glances toward my direction, squints, and then beams brightly.
“Rob! I didn’t know you were already here!” He greets me enthusiastically, striding up to me and grasping my hand firmly. Derek Lark, self-titled “best friend.” Based on Rob’s summary, Derek’s initial assertive movements are a façade, displaying control and thinly covering a deep desire for attention and human contact.
I grin genuinely. “Hey, Derek,” I say, flexing a slightly higher voice than my previous appointment. “You seem up today. Something special happen?” His smile doesn’t falter as I speak, signifying my successful replication of Rob’s voice.
“Special? Well, something did happen yesterday that was pretty damn special.” We walk over and sit at the bar as he continues an exhaustive tale of yesterday’s event, stopping only momentarily to order from the bartender. I listen attentively and display the right reactions when he pauses at dramatic moments. Inwardly, I laugh.
Substitutes have a specific game for leeches like Derek. Since these needy individuals thrive on their own voice, it has become a competition to see how little we can say in the span of the appointment. A successful run involves a few questions at certain pauses and little to no use of the client’s autobiography. Derek only helps my current average.
“Nah…nothing’s new for me. Oh yeah, what happened to that one chick?”
“So what’re you gonna do now?”
“No kidding?”
“Yep…nope…”
“That’s amazing.”
Derek just finishes his second beer and sixth story as my appointment ends. I glance at my watch, making my movements noticeable. He eyes my watch as well, his grin dipping at the edges slightly. He mumbles, “Gotta go?” I nod, mindful to show a little regret and to watch my word count.
When the bartender catches us, Derek insists on paying for my drink as well. I allow him. It’s a pitiful tactic to maintain this friendship, but I remind myself it’s no more pitiable than how far Rob goes to avoid telling his clingy friend the truth.
Our parting handshake is agonizingly long, but I reject his attempts of banal small talk. Interjecting an assertive goodbye between his stuttering, I back away and exit the bar. I briskly cross the business square—weaving my path through the few people on it—and reach a parked taxi on the other side. I climb into the back seat.
Through the tinted windows, I see Derek walking hesitantly toward my taxi. I retrieve the slip of paper from my back pocket and hand it to the driver. “Hurry.”
The wiry man gently takes the slip from me and glances at its writing. He nods, “Sure thing.” He eases onto the gas, merging the taxi into traffic just as an empty spot presents itself. I watch as Rob’s friend drifts by. He waves at my shadowy figure behind the window. I don’t return the gesture; he wouldn’t see it anyway.
I glance at the taxi’s clock: 11:30 a.m., thirty minutes before my next appointment. Reaching beneath my seat, I grab hold of a suitcase’s handle and pull it up beside me, thanking my longtime driver for keeping it safe as I come up and unlatch it. He grunts in reply and glances again at the address on the paper.
“An apartment?” he chuckles, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. “A personal appointment this time?”
I laugh as I pull out a biography from the suitcase: thirty pages of computer paper, flecked with traces of highlighter. “I certainly hope not,” I mumble, leafing through the pages and checking my marks. “My client is a recent widow and wants to have her husband home for one last lunch break. She said she just wants lunch, but it seems to me that that plan is unlikely.”
“What’s wrong with her husband?” he asks as he drives off the main road and down a street with a spattering of restaurants and apartments.
“Killed himself.” He cringes. I study the picture from the file as I continue, “Rufus Plath, 42 year-old business manager, husband of Cynthia Plath. Took a bullet to his head.” The man in the photograph appears content: a cheeky smile to compliment his humble appearance. A beer belly. A shaggy blond beard, warming a round face defined by a large nose and blue eyes. Balding. Somewhat short. Regular attire: a blue button-down and brown slacks. I focus on these last details; clothes weren’t my forte.
As I begin to knuckle-iron my jeans into slacks, the driver clears his throat. “Uh, hey…do you think you could cover for me tomorrow?” He looks up into the rearview mirror as I continue molding my next appearance. “It’s my son’s tenth birthday, and he’s really excited about the double-digits, and I missed his birthday last year. My boss won’t give me a day off, so I was wondering…you could keep my day’s wages…I can’t give much—“
“Don’t worry; I’ll cover for you,” I say softly, practicing Plath’s more empathetic voice. “And I’ll take a quarter of your day’s pay.” I study my working look in a mirror installed in my suitcase. I dab at my beard, flecking it with some white and adding some bushiness.
“Thank you so, so much,” my driver says. “My son will love you for this.”
“Don’t mention it.” I flash a smile toward the rearview mirror. He had helped me for the past few months; he deserved one favor. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be my continued business.
*
“Goodness, honey! What’s that delicious smell?”
Mrs. Plath, 40 years old and dressed in her best dinner garments, gapes at me as I close the apartment’s door and walk to her in the kitchen. Tears hang dangerously at the ends of her eyes, but the tips of her lips angle slightly upward, signaling her approval of my appearance and manners. I gingerly take hold of her hand and reel her into a soft hug.
“Are you okay, dear?” I ask lightly, pulling away gently and looking into her eyes.
There is a pause as she searches my eyes. Finding no abnormality, she smiles and wipes her eyes. “No, Rufus,” she whispers. “I’m just glad to see you home.”
I chuckle heartily, seizing her waist. “Well, I’m happy to hear that and happier to see all this!” I wave my hand over the elaborate meal of a glazed ham, mashed potatoes, garden salad with Ranch dressing, and Rufus’ favorite: spaghetti and meatballs. “What’s the occasion?”
“Oh…oh, nothing,” she says, her voice a bit fuller. Suddenly, she kisses me—a quick peck on the lips—before sitting down at the kitchen table. I struggle against the urge to cringe. I severely dislike the contact—as desperate as it is—but I suppress my disgust and sit casually opposite of her. For a time, we sit silently, sharing an intimate gaze I hold unwillingly. Perhaps I had deceived myself, but as she watches me, I no longer detect that air of nostalgia anymore. It feels sickly romantic now.
We both naturally work our way into lunch. She eats relatively little; I clean off two plates as my biography dictates. It’s a painful task as a stomach is unfortunately one of my organs I cannot mold. Through forced mouthfuls, I talk about my morning at work and what I expect the evening to bring, general bits of information that would hold no meaning to a content individual. I offer several opportunities for her to talk, but she keeps silent, forcing me to continue speaking. She listens intently, seeming to enjoy Rufus’ voice. It is an uncomfortable sign.
I place my utensils down after one last unpleasant bite of meat and look up at a quirky train clock on the kitchen wall. I sigh, “Well, I should be getting to work soon, Elsa.” I lumber out of my chair, feeling the food slosh nauseatingly in my stomach. My body meets hers as I stand fully erect. I raise my eyebrows quizzically, hiding my worry.
Her face is close to mine. I can suddenly smell her perfume, subtle but enticing: a musk recently designed to seduce men at close quarters. The synthetic temptation broiling in my stomach bothers me little, but Mrs. Plath begins to stroke my cheek and chest as if it is consuming me.
“Rufus,” she says playfully, her lips inches from mine, “don’t you have a little time? Can’t we have a little fun?”
I laugh nervously and place my hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, dear, but I really got to go.” I try to tenderly pry her from my body as I step around her and toward the door.
Her hands clench my collar as I pull away. The grip is taut, panicky. Still, she retains her stability as she continues, “Oh c’mon, honey. They won’t notice if you’re a few minutes late, and besides, when was the last time we spent some intimate time together?”
I grip my left hand tightly. “Cynthia,” I sigh apologetically, attempting to mimic a sense of longing, “I know it’s been a long time, and I want to, but I can’t be late today. I just can’t.” Avoiding her eyes, I turn from her and reach for the front door.
“No!” The cry is piercing, freezing me before I can escape. My outstretched hand seems to have lost its purpose; reaching for the doorknob but leashed by external forces. I cannot grit my teeth. Dejectedly, I look back at her. She is trembling, and tears have pooled at the tips of her eyes. It is an unpleasant image. Her smearing mascara accentuates the slight signs of age upon her face, the small wrinkles on her forehead, the developing bags under her eyes. “Please…” she whimpers. “I’ve been lonely for so long.”
I pause, watching her. I didn’t agree to any sexual activities in my contract, and I have never done so in any other. I am many people, but I’m not a prostitute. However, as I study her, I understand I cannot leave. To deny her now would break an illusion and possibly my career if she lets her mouth loose. No, this time I had to comply, but only for an exceptionally large charge to her bill.
“Okay,” I say softly. As if my blinking changed it all, a smile flashes across her face. Relieved and laughing quietly, she races to me and embraces me.
Hand-in-hand, we walk down the hall to her bedroom, my steps like lead.
*
I sit slumped in an empty subway car, feeling dirty. I remain with my Plath appearance, for lack of a better identity. His suitcase lies dejectedly on the seat beside me. My stomach bothers me, protesting an unsettling amount of contempt and food. I desire only to finish the day, but I have yet three more hours to solicit more business. I wear my Substitutes emblem on my chest, informing that ten percent of the nation who knows of me that I am open for spontaneous appointments. Currently, the barren subway car provides no customers.
I gaze outside the window across from me as the subway briefly pulls outside the tunnels and into the city. I see flecks of color amongst the rectangular buildings and flashes of promising faces in the blurred crowds. I squint. The colors become billboards, and the people become lost. The subway speeds into a tunnel just before I grasp a promising face, and instead I am treated to gray bricks as they blur past.
Few people wait at the next stop, and even then most of them stand far down at the other end of the subway. Amongst the crowd, a hideous old man catches my attention as he picks up a worn, peeling suitcase and shuffles hunched into the car ahead of me. By chance, he glances in my direction. His hooked nose seems to bend away from me and to shield his two fat, purplish lips. His ears stick out like a monkey’s. His eyes bug out, ready to leap out at me if he coughs too severely. Those lips…their smile is so horrible.
A shuffling of steps. I shift my glance toward the subway’s doors just as they creak shut. A girl—perhaps 17 or 18—stands rigidly just inside the subway, her red woolen scarf narrowly missing the closing doors. Behind her thinly-framed glasses, she stares at me—or rather, at my emblem. Hesitantly, she takes a step toward me, moves her gaze to my face.
“A-a-are you a Substitute?” she asks meekly, nervously twisting the ends of her scarf in both her clenched hands. Her lipstick-heavy mouth contorts frantically, appearing both hopeful and anxious.
I run a hand over my head, noticeably replacing my bald spot with long, rich golden hair. I plaster on a grin. “At your service.”
Her lips finally give way to a smile, and she blushes, accentuating her rosy cheeks. She remains standing, swaying only slightly as the subway resumes its push. Again, her smile falters as her thin eyebrows scrunch in concentration.
My smile falters as well as she begins her explanation. She doesn’t have much money, but she only needs me for an hour, only wants me to ride along with her on the subway for an hour. No, she would like it if I acted like her boyfriend for one hour just riding along on the subway. Again, she doesn’t have much money, but now is her chance to be with the man of her dreams.
She ends resolutely with a sigh. “So, what do I pay you?”
My smile aches. I watch her kindly as I think. Finally, “I can do an hour for forty dollars. Can you do that?”
Her shoulders fall as she releases a relieved breath. She swings a low-hanging, blue purse from her arm and grips it in her excited hands. Unsteadily, she retrieves 40 dollars in assorted, crumpled bills and hands them toward me. I do not remind her about a tip as I take the payment.
“Okay,” I say softly, “Name?”
“Alyssa Stewart.”
Alyssa Stewart. “Good. And mine?”
The answer is immediate, “Alex.” I smile at this and feel some warmth from her innocence. She smiles back nervously.
“Thank you, now turn around, please.”
Hesitantly, she does as I say. I concentrate on her thin frame as I ponder her emotions and actions I have seen thus far, taking the time to remove my emblem and the contents in my pocket into the Plath’s suitcase. I dislike creating imaginary personas, as they instill false hopes in my clients, but the girl seems to have a low enough income to not pose a problem. Slowly, I close my eyes as I begin massaging my face, at first molding a stereotypical, young face. I work on the rest of my body—forming a more youthful, athletic physique—as I determine the fine details. She is desperate, a desperation that stems from her absent self-esteem and plain looks. She’s not awkward and displays some common sense but lacks a quick mind to define herself. She needs someone strong, someone confidant. My hands follow my thoughts and strengthen my features, bringing out my jaw, developing the bridge of my nose, tanning my skin, blackening my short, coarse hair. I return my hands to the pockets of a newly-fashioned pair of jeans, and open Plath’s suitcase to study myself. A nice, masculine Italian look, flawless. I close up the suitcase and place it under the seats.
Rehearsing the ensuing events carefully within my mind, I tiptoe behind the girl and exclaim, “There you are, Alyssa!” As she faces me, I pull her close, arms draping around her waist. This catches her off guard, but her apprehension is overwhelmed by her fascination, and a smile betrays any desire to run as she studies my appearance. Her eyes travel along my body, grabbing all the details possible in our close embrace. Then her eyes rest in mine, and I know I have her hooked.
Gently but insistently, I guide her to where I had been sitting and plant her small body close to mine, her head forced against my shoulder. Her response is unsurprising; she follows my gestures willingly, falling against me breathlessly. As the subway continues I recite memorized stories with altered details to reinforce my false persona. She listens enthralled and eventually—with my coaxing—begins sharing her own experiences, her voice melodic, excited.
The subway rumbles along its tracks, halting intermittently to pick up more parasites. Alyssa pauses each time a person boards our car, glancing at them condescendingly while she holds my body closer to hers. The people, in turn, do not even see us. Still, she continues her behavior, attempting to impress phantoms.
The hour passes, taking with it all the passengers but us. We sit in silence, her head against my chest as she stares at my watch. The final seconds tick away under her surveillance. She holds her breath. The final second passes. Nothing. The coach does not turn into a pumpkin. Her Charming still exists. Her head shifts to face mine, her eyes looking into mine questioningly. I smile, but it is unlike the infatuated one of her boyfriend.
“I must go now,” I say softly.
Alyssa frowns and slowly moves her head off my body. She appears determined as she watches me, not the depressed mood I had hoped for. “Can I have your work number?” she asks forcefully, almost with spite for having taken her boyfriend.
I maintain a smile, stomach a grimace. My drug caused an addiction. Reluctantly, I give my number to her. She writes it silently on a notebook retrieved from her purse and then stands, notebook and pen still in her hands.
Wait, my mind protests as she leaves to stand by the subway doors, waiting for the next stop, facing away from me. Do you want this relationship? I will respond to you for a price, and I will offer you stability, but how long can you believe this façade?
The subway slides to a halt. The doors swish open, and the girl walks out as others file in. In my pocket, I fiddle with the emblem. Reluctantly, I pull the suitcase from under my seat and take out the cell phone. I take one painful picture of myself, for inevitable later use.
I’m done. No more appointments today.
*
I enter my apartment exhausted, looking like a high school prick. As I struggle toward the kitchen, toward any form of liquor, I hear water running from a faucet and then abruptly stop. I sigh, relieved, and turn away from the liquor cabinet.
“Hey, would you like me to make you a drink?” I call, resting my arms against the kitchen’s tiled counter.
High-heels clack against the hard-wood flooring, and my roommate emerges from her bedroom. She is absolutely dazzling today, dressed in a dark red dress that cuts short just above her knees and features her well-designed curves. Her skin is amazingly fair. Curly auburn locks tumble from her head to complement her beautifully-modeled face. She is an expert at her ability, better than most I have met.
Her eyebrows arch when she sees me, and a quick twitch at the edge of her mouth implies my appearance is humorous to her. Instead of laughing, she replies, “No, dear, I’ll pass on the drink. My client plans to bar-hop, and I want to be sober for as long as possible.” She looks at me kindly, but again, the side of her mouth twitches. “Don’t tell me another old woman had a sick fetish; I hate it when the men do that to me.”
I laugh this time. “No, this time it was an actual teenager. I haven’t come upon those clients too often.”
She laughs softly as well. “No, you haven’t.”
We share a silence, not knowing how to continue this conversation. Neither of us shows any signs of discomfort as we stare at each other. “So,” I say suddenly, launching myself into a prepared speech, “I’ve missed you lately. Do you think you’ll be home tonight to be with me and maybe to stay in my room tonight?”
She smiles and gazes kindly into my boyish eyes. “I will. Don’t you stay up for me though.”
“I won’t.”
Sighing, she checks a thin watch on her wrist. “I need to go soon. I didn’t have any time to make anything for dinner; I hope that’s okay.”
“That’s fine.”
She smiles warmly again and walks up to me. “Thanks,” she says lovingly, placing her arms around me as she lightly pecks my cheek. I embrace her. “See you tonight.”
Swiftly, she leaves the room, taking with her my smile and desire for alcohol. I remain at the kitchen counter, chewing my bottom lip, watching my absurdly young hands rap against the table. Her acceptance of my request does not improve the pain in my stomach.
I stand up abruptly. I walk to my bedroom’s bathroom and shut the door behind me, sitting on the top lid of the toilet. I pull my wallet from my back pocket and open it, its worn leather cracking. In addition to Alyssa’s money, I only have twenty dollars. The rest of the wallet is stuffed with clients’ photographs, a miniscule limbo of faces. Now I leaf through them, studying each one, looking for the one picture. Fifty faces slide by, not one sticks out. I put them back in the wallet.
The sink is my crutch as I rise from the toilet. Shuffling a few steps, I come before the mirror, observing the youthful face that stares back. I place a hand over my face and use my thumb and forefinger to apply a few years upon my features. When I pull the hand away, I see the same, just some more wear. Anxiously, I use both hands to sculpt my face. My mind races, attempting to choose the right face. I can barely see through my hands, but I work; I work continually. I move through noses, eyebrows, mouths, ears, cheeks, eyes; I find each face obsolete, a lifeless replica of nobody. My brain cannot come up with anything.
My hands fall to the sink’s counter. I stare at my reflection, at the strange combination of facial features. It’s unnerving. It could be me and it could not. Gingerly, I touch my face and feel only a dull pressure. I run my forefinger along my eyebrows, erasing them from my face. With my thumb, I remove my lips, leaving only a hole for a mouth. With my hand, I take away my nose, the definition from my cheeks and chin, and the distinctive shape of my eyes. With both palms, I wipe away my hair and ears. My tools fall to my sides.
I see a bald man in the mirror, an empty face. I try to grimace, but I can’t.
Calmly, I leave the mirror and the bathroom and walk over to my bed. Without molding my clothes away, I step under the covers, push myself to one side, and place my back to the door. My bald head lays exposed. My roommate won’t like my appearance, but it won’t be the surprise it was the first few times. No, she can bear it tonight.
My bill from her will be larger than usual.