I got off the train at quarter to eleven and trudged across the muddy lot to Betsy. Betsy, a nine year old Toyota hatchback with pockmarks from hail and worn tires, showed her age. I knew the feeling. I had to press the unlock button on the car remote three times before a half-hearted flash of headlights accompanied the sound of the driver's side door unlocking. I plopped myself into the bucket seat, quickly pulled my mire-caked sneakers off and dumped them in an ancient plastic shoe box for the ride home. Aching feet melt into a pair of ballet flats for the ride home. Ain't commuting grand?
I rev the engine once I'm settled, increasingly relieved that Betsy still comes to life without hesitation after all these years. I worry that my concern may be an omen of an impending repair. Under the hood expenses would further delay the needed tire replacement I'd been saving up for since the summer. Even my worries have worries. Modern life, full of antibiotics and random, compounding expenses. Now that you can survive, can you afford to?
On my hour long train ride, I catch up on my latest trashy escapism of choice, otherwise known as genre fiction. Today, it's a mage on a quest to reclaim his grandfather's hamster bone wand (Who thinks this stuff up?). Last week it was a young woman who inherits a general store on a spooky island. I got an email from the library's digital collection this afternoon, letting me know that next week it'll be the inspiring tale of four generations of women and the stories they've shared over jam making. That's sure to be a real page turner.
For the last twenty minutes of my commute, I listen to self-esteem guru du jour, Maximus Alder, try to build me up in his dulcet tones. Probably not the best choice to keep me awake on the drive home after a long day in the trenches, but I dutifully repeat after him and before I know it, I'm pulling into the parking space outside of my doorstep. The light flickers over my door, the yellow glow claiming another mosquito victim in the night. Bug light, one, mosquitoes, infinity.
I carry my box of crusty shoes inside to rinse off in the shower. I've stepped onto the back patio, where a faucet for a garden hose is, exactly once. I estimated the snake skin to be a good four feet long, but it's hard to be sure. I froze in place just as the mummy-bandage-thick layers of spider webs enfolded my head and shoulders. I sucked in air to scream, something completely automatic in my skin crawling revulsion, and received a wad of desiccated bug remains square in the middle of my tongue. A little mud down the drain is a fair trade off to never open the back door again.
Keys, coat, messenger bag, phone. They all go in their proper places, hooks or the yard sale accent table with a huge chunk burned out of the top. At three dollars, I didn't ask. A piece of cardboard and a bit of clearance fabric later my bargain adequately serves its purpose. Which is what I feel like my epitaph will eventually be.
She adequately served her purpose.
Maybe I need to listen to Mr. Alder's podcast a little more often. I don't think the message is taking.
By the time I'm slumped on my love seat with the television on for background noise and the laptop balanced on the armrest, I feel defeat rising. I keep trying this meaningful social interaction by way of technology, but it rings more hollow as time goes by. I must not have the Midas touch for social media. No one from the office likes my posts. Nobody favorites my pictures. Zero retweets. Not a single comment on the blog. I sink straight from dismay to despair.
Dutifully, I make my usual updates and skim my regular feeds. I'm sure everyone else's life isn't as grand as they portray it to be, but it doesn't stem the feeling that I've taken on a kind of half-life. It's clear Marjorie Cleary never had much going for her and there's precious little to do about it now. Stay the course, that's what's been drilled into my thoughts from my earliest memories. Get up, go out, stick to the routine, go home, reset, do it all again the next day. How long can I keep this up? How does anybody keep this up?
I click the laptop closed a good hour later, casting aside the television remote to the far corner of the love seat after I turn that off as well. Regrettably, I don't take advantage of the new nasal cleaning machine advertised at an insanely low price advertised by a benevolent company thinking only of the greater good. I scratch an itch in front of my right ear as I climb the stairs of the townhouse and my fingernail finds a patch of dry skin beginning to flake. Time to reset indeed.
Inside the master bedroom, I head straight for the closet and pull down the access ladder to the small attic each unit in the complex has. The dim light cast from a single, bare bulb in the uppermost storage space isn't visible from the porthole style window to the outside. A few layers of heavy duty foil took care of that. I close the hatch behind me and balance my feet on two of the beams running above the plaster of the ceiling below me. The itch is spreading down to my jaw, as is usual for this time of day. I'd think it was an allergy to something in the apartment, but I know better.
In the musty space, maybe two thirds the size of the master bedroom, there's a seat akin to a dentist chair and a long steamer trunk covered in dust. The chair has glassy trays the length and width of an adult's forearm with a deep groove carved down the middle of each one. The trunk appears old enough to house enough spiders to cripple a child with nightmares for the rest of his or her life. I run my hands along the top of it until I hear the hiss of the seal breaking and the front and lid fold away revealing a restrained form of a woman in her mid-twenties.
"Long day at the office today. How did you put up with Natalie constantly badgering you to buy her slimming shakes and body contouring wraps? Honestly, it's enough to drive a person insane."
Her mouth is covered, so of course I receive no reply. Why should this part of my day be any different than the rest? The itching along my face demands satisfaction, so I finally and blessedly peel away the human face the covers my own. The hooks that keep the mouth lined up with my own, the better to hide the fact I have two sharp plates for teeth instead of the ridiculous variety human evolution has chosen, come free with all the relief of removing a belt after a heavy meal. I sigh in delight as I wipe away the layer of viscous mucus and membranes that protect my sensitive skin from the human tissue that covers it.
Gently I wipe away the infected fluid oozing from my auditory canals, the pus a reaction to having the human skin covering the necessary airflow that would ordinarily prevent irritation. Human skin doesn't appreciate my bodily systems either, thus the reason the skin flakes and dries out when I wear it too long.
The real Marjorie Cleary watches me with practiced disgust. As though she hasn't seen me shed a bioidentical shell of her skin for the better part of a year already. I pat her on the head, evoking nothing more than a mild shudder between the heavy sedation and effective restraint system. Carefully I walk from beam to beam to get to my real job. As I settle into my chair, I peel off the Marjorie skin covering my 'arms'. I stick a skeletal finger into the framework at the wrist to disengage the framework that recreates Marjorie's forearms and hands over my tentacles. Just as the casing on the trunk did, the frame neatly folds away, tucking back into where a human's kidneys and intestines would be.
After I've submitted my report, I'll put the Majorie casing in with the real thing. The overnight 'soaking' process helps both the upkeep as well as continuing the minute aging process of the skin that occurs day to day in a human life. Marjorie will get her life back eventually and on that day she'll look exactly as I did on my last day as her. Down to the crinkling beginning to happen around her eyes. Details are important.
"Reconnaissance three dash star primary, Earth plan fifty-two. Identity is compromise-free. Still no indication in this quadrant that the people could handle an interplanetary meeting. Recommend maintaining silence with everyone outside of first contact protocols. Ambassadors Tyson and Hawking continue to be correct in their analysis. Subject continues to reject a give and take reciprocity scenario and remains humanely quarantined. Subject shows marked improvement after stasis chamber detected and removed rapid growing tumors of an aggressive nature from the respiratory system.
Observation through immersion continues. Tedium remains an issue with daily living, as was expected. Culture and entertainment pursuits continue to be a highlight, though by no means on par with our own. At this time, there is nothing of merit to report. Instructions to maintain current position and plan understood and accepted. End transmission. Date and send."
My right appendage slithered across my bumpy green face, my eye lids swirling closed like the aperture of a human camera. My auditory canals already felt better, the drainage almost stopped.
It was easier to undulate down the stairs after I tucked Marjorie in again, the human legs make climbing the ladder more than a little awkward. I do it, but I don't care for it. I leave the floral kimono I donned after work in the attic. I don't care much for the look of the second skin upon mine, so it's become my go-to apparel in the home. I'll wear it in the morning after putting the casing on for the day.
The en suite bathroom's tub is half full of iridescent gray gel. Out of habit I've already added my daily nutrition supplement into the cool goo when I first get home. When it's time for bed, to borrow an expression from my human colleagues, I prefer to have things ready and waiting so I can just slip in. I understand this usually has to do with the process of laundering bed clothing or clearing clutter from the bed space.
The replenishment plasma is the best part of my day, the thing I look forward to most when dealing with strange human customs. I ease in, not wanting to waste a drop of the welcoming balm it offers. I stare at the ceiling through the thick gelatinous matter. As my eye lids spin shut, I happily drift and hope the morning doesn't come too soon.
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