“What do you mean by charge? We don’t have money.”
“But we do have a place in line, correct? What number are you in queue?”
“I don’t know.” So that’s where I am. The waiting area.
“Look at the letter, dummy.” Rod points to the front pocket of my cargo shorts. The letter is peeking out of my pocket. How long has that been there?
I pull the letter from my pocket. I don’t have to read the entire thing, I’m already familiar with the words. I just need the number.
“I’m number 207.” The numbers fade and reappear while I’m staring at it. “Wait, now I’m 204.”
“In this place we use line numbers as currency. Each word of your tattoo is five spots in line.” He crosses his arms over his belly. I see the word “loved” on his wrist.
“How did you know I wanted words?” I ask.
“Everyone wants words.” He points to another dentist chair and says, “Sit there.”
I nod and stretch out on the chair.
“What else can I purchase in this place? Can I get new clothes?”
“Sure can,” he says.
“I’ve been in this outfit for ten years.”
“Geez, dude. Sounds like you need a new Tom Waits T-shirt.”
“Will this hurt?” I had one tattoo when I was alive. A tiny peace sign on my left ankle. Hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. It’s still there now that I’m dead. I’d rather that it had disappeared.
“Nah. It will feel tingly sometimes when you’re in your new body. But no pain and the ink won’t be there no more.” He pulls a tattoo gun from somewhere. He doesn’t put on gloves. I guess he doesn’t need to do that here. “What do you want?”
“Two words: ‘find Naomi.’”
“Black okay?” he asks.
“Can we do blue?”
“Nope.”
Rod steps on a pedal I hadn’t noticed before and says, “You want a rack on it?”
“What?”
“The last guy who got ‘find Naomi’ wanted a pair of boobs on it. I thought maybe it was a thing.”
Rod starts running the needle across my skin. It creates a faint vibration, but no pain.
“Was this guy named…”
“Johnny?” He pulls away and sits up straight. “No, Jimmy.”
“Greg?”
“Yeah. That’s it. Greg.” He nods and leans over my arm again. “Know him?”
“Sort of.”
Rod starts the gun buzzing again. “Who’s Naomi?”
“Just this girl I met during grief watch.”
“And Greg?”
“They were connected while they were alive.”
“Sounds like we have ourselves an old-fashioned love triangle.” He looks up says, “Some things never change.”
“I guess.”
“We’re done.” He sits up and points to my arm.
The words “find Naomi” are right there. I don’t know if it will help, but I hope so. But if it helps me, it will help Greg as well.
Rod stands up and walks toward the counter. He grabs a clipboard and says, “Sign here.”
I sign away ten places in line with no hesitation or fanfare. It’s easy.
My boobs are finally in hiding. I mean, they’re still visible but only the outline. No more cleavage for me.
“Should I choose a model, a reality star, or a pop star?” Doris has three folders spread out on the desk. Each one has a photograph attached to the cover. All three are men. Young, extremely attractive men.
“You don’t want to be a woman anymore?”
“Absolutely not. I want power and respect. If I’m a famous white man I can do whatever I want.” Doris does the creepy grin and sits back in her chair. “It’s going to be spectacular.”
“Wow, Doris. That’s a serious life change.”
“I’m up for the challenge.”
I wonder if I should become a man, too. But I really enjoy being a woman.
“Do you think you’ll be gay?” I ask.
Doris shrugs and says, “Probably not. That might interfere with my plans.” She tilts her head and adds, “But I guess we’ll have to wait and see. I’m not going to deny myself something if I want it. Not now that I know what’s on the other side.”
“But you won’t know once you get there, right? You won’t remember.”
Doris smiles. A real smile this time, not the creeptastic grin. She pulls three binders from somewhere and tosses them on the desk.
“Doris, you clever bitch. You found a loophole, didn’t you?”
“I did.” She taps one of the binders and says, “It’s in this one.”
“No way.” I grab the binder and open the cover.
“Patience, Naomi. You can’t take your eyes off Louisa yet. The likelihood of her completion is at the low end of the scale.”
“There’s a scale?” There’s so much I don’t know. I’m not at all prepared for this job.
“Yes. And my dear, you were at the top.” Doris stands and says, “Let’s get you that mentor to feed to the Shadow. That should buy Louisa enough time to finish her grief watch. His name is Tony. He’s my former husband.”
I stand and say, “Let’s do this.” Perhaps I’m more prepared to feed this guy to the Shadow then I should be. But hey, I might be a sociopath.
Wait, did she say “former husband?”
Chapter 22
I’m not sure what’s fashionable now so I go into what looks like a Dillard’s and ask for help from a girl with a name tag that reads “Sasha.” She looks about eighteen.
“How long have you been wearing that?” she asks.
“Ten years.”
“Well, that will not do! Let’s get you fixed up.” Sasha puts her hand on my arm and steers me toward the men’s department. Her warmth on my arm is a momentary thrill. “You’re about 6′2″, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Sasha takes her hand away and looks through a pile of jeans. “You died when men who weren’t from fashion-forward areas were still wearing baggy jeans.” She taps her finger to her temple and says, “With your height and slim build, I think you should go for a basic straight leg. You can totally get away with skinny jeans, but I have a feeling those aren’t your thing.”
“Are those the jeans that girls wore in the 80s?”
“Yes. But boys wear them now, too.”
I shake my head from side to side, relieved that I didn’t have to witness that trend. Hopefully it will be over when I get back.
“How do you know what’s going on in fashion?” I ask.
“There was this fashion editor here. I think it was like a month ago.” For a second it looks like Sasha is chewing gum, but I know that’s not possible. “She updated the entire store for me while she was waiting for her new body.”
She puts a pair of jeans in my hands. “Here.” We walk to a row of button-down shirts. “I think with your coloring you should go for a deep blue.” She holds up a shirt and says, “This color is called Blue Nile. It will make your eyes pop.”
“Okay,” I say. I haven’t worn a button-down shirt since Trevor’s funeral. But it wasn’t as nice as the one Sasha’s holding. It was an ugly cream-colored shirt that was handed down from one of my older cousins. I think it had been white at one time.
Wait. Why did I wear a button-down shirt before?
Shit. It’s happening again. Fucking memory purge.
Sasha points to a dressing room and says, “You can try it on in there.”
I walk through the curtain and the clothes are no longer in my hands. They’re on my body. I don’t know where my old stuff is. I turn and walk out.
“What do you think, Sasha? Do I look okay?”
She smiles proudly like I’m her creation. “You look fantastic!”