It was styrofoam.
The ground underneath the grass was styrofoam.
I don’t think that’s supposed to be the case.
Not many people know about styrofoam. I do, and that’s only because I’m the expert on styrofoam at the local factory. We make huge blocks of the stuff, and ship it out.
I’m not sure where we ship it out.
The ground underneath the grass was styrofoam.
I don’t think that’s supposed to be the case.
I’m not sure.
I know a lot about styrofoam, but not a lot about grass. Maybe that’s normal for grass.
I make styrofoam.
I do not know why I make styrofoam.
I’m not sure where we ship it out.
The ground underneath the grass was styrofoam.
A thin connection formed in my mind. Tenuous, rather weak, much like styrofoam. Maybe grass, too. I don’t know a lot about grass.
I turned over to my neighbor, who was not quite as perplexed as I was, even after my explanation of my own confusion.
“I mean, it certainly looks like styrofoam.”
He shrugged. “Think it’s dirt.”
“Know anything about dirt?”
“Learned about it back in school. Been twenty years now, so I can’t remember much.”
“Is dirt supposed to look like that?”
“Dunno. Could be white dirt under the brown dirt.”
My neighbor put down the shovel on the section of perfectly whitewashed picket-fence next to the gash in his lawn, where the bright-green and perfectly-kept grass was parted over the styrofoam and thin scattering of dirt- I mean, regular brown dirt.
He was an average man, and looked like most men of his age. Most men of his age did. I did not know any men of his age, in fact, who did not look more or less exactly like each other, except for me. I looked unique. I think.
It had all started when I had offered to do a good deed. I had, in my haste, mixed up well-wishing (wanting good things for people) with doing good deeds (actually going in and helping), so the reader should understand my error- it is simple enough to make. Wanting to help someone is all well and good, and in fact rather encouraged, but doing a good deed for someone is rather patronizing and implies that they cannot do it themselves. Instead, dear reader, heed my warning and wait, for the proper authorities will come and handle it themselves.
I must confess, I thought that my good deed was going to be a bit different. In my haste, I had thought that, while his working alone would not be enough to dig new fence posts in any reasonable time, our working together would speed up the process, without being overly patronizing. While I am, of course, remorseful, I still am not entirely sure why I should have waited for the proper authorities. I suppose I was pressuring him to deal with it himself, in a way. I hardly intended it, but I suppose I must have been.
But what is done is done, and there is no use looking at the gash in the lawn and the two shovels regretfully. It will not undo past wrongs.
The police came. I called them, don’t worry. I am a respectable citizen, and I intend to keep it that way by owning up to my wrongs. I suppose I could have covered it up and left, but I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong, so I called them.
They informed me that I had possibly made some sort of grave error. They were rather vague, and did not seem like they entirely understood what it was that they were charging me with. Or even what it was that I had done.
I remember.
I remember something, vaguely.
I remember the image- not the image, the impression- of a judge. I cannot tell you if there were any people there, per se, but I have the distinct memory of the impression of a judge, so I assume that I must have visited the judge.
I do not know where I went.
I do not know where the judge is supposed to be.
I did not know we had a judge.
Of course we have a judge, every town has a judge. I remember a judge. We must have a judge. It would be silly if we did not.
I am not sure if we ever needed a judge before. What would we have one for, after all? We do not have crime.
I am not sure if I have ever thought about crime before.
I do not know why we have police.
I do not-
I am not going to tell anyone about it. It is my business.
I have never had my own business before.
I do not-
I-
My wife was in the kitchen making breakfast when I woke up.
She was always in the kitchen making breakfast when I woke up.
I do not know when I went to bed.
I am not sure I did.
I am sure I did not.
Why was I in the bed this morning?
She turned, hearing my hesitant footsteps, and smiled.
I made extra-strong coffee, in case you feel tired from the extra hours you worked yesterday.”
Why was I in the bed this morning?
I got out my plate automatically, and nearly dropped it when I saw my breakfast.
“Is that-” I said before I stopped myself.
Styrofoam.
No.
White bread, complete with a crust, fluffy and with little holes in it.
It was always white bread. I’m not sure why I saw it any differently then.
Why was I in the bed this morning?
“Is that what, honey?”, she said, getting out her slice of slice white bread.
“I was going to say it looked like styrofoam.”
She laughed. “You need to take a day off of work someday. You’ve been working with the stuff too much, and now everything looks like it. Absolutely everything.”
Why was I in the bed this morning?
I stared at the bread.
I looked up, searching for something. Ah. There. Sleek, metal, two intake slots, plugged into an outlet.
I stared at the bread.
“Why was I in the bed this morning?”, I said to myself, very quietly, as she moved a chair away from the table and sat down with her bread.
“Why?”, I said to myself, louder this time.
“Why what?”
“Why do we have a toaster?”
She turned to follow my gaze.
It was a beautiful thing. Clearly, someone had put a lot of effort into making it look like the very essence of a toaster, while still going for a kind-of futuristic chrome look. Your eyes seemed to slide right off of it onto-
Onto other things your eyes seemed to slide right off of.
Why was I in the bed this morning?
I could see that there was no gash in my neighbors yard.
I got up.
I walked towards the toaster, unsure of what to do with it.
Hesitantly, I put the bread in.
“What are you doing?” said my wife with a faint hint of panic in her voice.
“Using the toaster. Making, ah...”
I hesitated.
“Toasted bread,” I finished, my back still turned to her. “You want some? There’s a second slot for the bread.”
She got up and ran over to it, making sure to not get too close. There was something between fear and curiosity in her eyes.
“It’s a toaster,” I said, like an idiot.
“I know that,” she said angrily, “it’s just…”
“We’ve never used it before?”
“Yes. We’ve never used it before. We’ve never had to use it before. Look, I like white bread, you like white bread, there’s no reason to use this.”
“Well, I’m curious.”
“No, no, just- just wait. Just wait a little bit. Wait until, I don’t know, we can ask someone?”
I heard a humming, and smelled something like burnt food.
I turned. My wife turned as well, gasping.
Fire. I had smelled fire.
The toaster was on fire.
It was not supposed to be on fire.
I do not know why I did what I did next.
I know why I did what I did next. I do not know why I think it is strange.
I reached in, unplugged the toaster, and poured water on it. (Author’s note: you should use something non-conductive like salt or baking soda, as water can cause electrocution in an electrical fire, but a) I made sure to unplug it and b) I did not know anything about fire.)
Three minutes later, the fire truck arrived.
I should have waited until the fire truck had arrived.
Three minutes later, after we called it. I’m not sure why I felt that way.
It was already out. It had, luckily, not spread.
The fire truck looked strange.
It did not look like a fire truck should have looked like.
I have never seen a fire truck before.
I should not know what a fire truck should look like.
We do not have fires.
We just had a fire.
The first thing I asked them was “Why do we have a toaster?”
And, as a presumptuous follow-up before they had answered the first, “And why doesn’t it work?”
They knew neither. They said I must have bought it, and it must have been defective.
I do not remember buying a toaster.
I do not remember buying-
It must have come with the house.
I did not have any more questions that I dared ask.
I did not ask “Why was I in bed this morning?”
I did not ask anything.
I
My wife was in the kitchen making breakfast when I woke up.
She was always in the kitchen making breakfast when I woke up.
I did not go to bed last night.
I walked down, quietly cleared my throat, and said, “Can we have toasted bread this morning?”
She did not turn.
I did not speak.
My first wife died many years ago.
I remarried soon after.
I do not think I was able to tell the difference.
I do not think there was a difference.
She still did not turn.
I still did not speak, but walked over to where the toaster had been.
There was a gap where it had been. It looked obvious, like a missing tooth.
I looked around the kitchen. There were many other gaps, I am sure of it, but I could not see what they were.
All I had were the impression of gaps, with a certainty that there was nothing out of place.
I walked closer to her. I could not see a difference between her glossy black hair and my first wife’s glossy brown hair.
I know they are different colors. They must have been different colors, because everyone is so sure they are.
I could not see a difference.
I am not sure there was a difference.
She was shaking, and breathing heavily.
“No,” she said, quietly, when I had gotten close enough to hear her. I think she may have been saying it the whole time, but I was not close enough to hear it.
Many things are that way.
“No,” she said, and the way she said it made me certain it was not merely the lack of a toaster that told her that.
“I’ve been having bad dreams, honey,” she said.
Dreams.
They exist, yes. I used to dream about my first-
Black hair caught my eye. It hung from her head in the exact way that brown hair had hung from-
Dreams.
“What were they about?” I asked dutifully.
“I think we should go to sleep again.”
“That seems like a bad way to avoid bad dreams.”
She turned. I could see that she was furious.
“No,” she said angrily. “No, because I never have to deal with toasters when I’m asleep. I only have to deal with them on the days-“
She paused, shaking.
“On the days that are bad dreams.” She straightened up, hissing. “Toasters. Digging holes in other people’s lawns. Why, honey, why?”
“I didn’t tell you about the holes.”
“Why do you think you were in bed that morning?”
“I didn’t think much of it,” I said. I said, lying. I lied. Lied.
I think she yelled. I think, because I had never heard her yell before, so I do not have anything to compare it to. I have never heard anyone yell before. Everyone is very quiet and polite.
Everyone is very quiet and polite.
At first I heard her yelling, but I did not understand it.
I understood the significance of her yelling, but I am not sure I heard the words.
But then I tuned back in to the individual words.
“- and then, after you go goodness-knows-where, the police drop you on our doorstep with- they didn’t tell me not to make a fuss, but I didn’t want to make a fuss, and I knew they didn’t want me to make a fuss and knew they didn’t have to tell me not to make one- and I didn’t make a fuss but then guess what? You blow up the toaster! I don’t care about the toaster, of course, but the amount of fuss that it caused! I had nightmares- real nightmares! Not just bad days that I refuse to acknowledge, but real nightmares! It was worse than the day I dreamed that Mrs. Robinson told someone else that I dreamt that my teeth had fallen out! Much worse!”
I stood silently. That is what I do most of the time.
I make styrofoam. I wonder why.
“Do you know what the ground is made of?”, I said quietly.
She stopped yelling. “No.”
“Styrofoam.”
“No.”
I looked at the floor. We had a basement. I wondered if there was anything there. We never use it. We have never used it. I wondered if the basement trapdoor would open to reveal an unblemished stretch of styrofoam, or if it would simply open up into a gaping emptiness where someone had forgotten to install it. I wondered if it would open at all.
I never got to find out.
I looked at her again. Her black hair looked brown in the light. Or maybe brown hair looked black in the dark.
“Aren’t you curious?”
“No. I’m not curious. I don’t care. I don’t care about your stupid styrofoam or your stupid toaster and your stupid toasted bread. You know what? I bet it wouldn’t even taste that good. And I don’t care if it would have.”
She drew herself up to her full height, the exact same height of all other women her age. “I’m going to go drive somewhere.”
I did not see her leave, as my eyes had closed a while ago. I only heard the roar of the motor as the car pulled out of the driveway.
The town I live in is a perfect town. The houses are all perfectly built, not too big, not too small. Our families are perfect, our cars are pleasant to drive in, and the trees are always the most beautiful they can be, depending on the season. The grass is almost always green, and the hills are
And the hills are.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I wonder why I did that, because I already know what I look like, and mirrors don’t show anything, they’re just blank pieces of cardboard in a pretty frame.
I wonder why I wanted to look at myself. I try not to do that in the shiny things we have. I don’t know why.
I already know what I look like.
I look unique. I do not look like other people. I look. I look. I look.
Like something. It is probably unique.
She came home late. I could tell there was something wrong. She slowly knocked on the door, and almost fell inside when I opened it. Her hair was wet and messy from the rain outside- I just realized it was raining, hard, and it had been for a couple hours. I hadn’t noticed. I had been staring at my lack of a reflection in the mirror.
She took my hand silently. I held her steady as she hobbled over to the couch.
We sat there, in total silence, for a long time. The clock seemed to slow as the constant beating of rain on our roof kept an arrhythmic heartbeat of time instead.
“There’s a dead dog in the back seat of the car,” she said, finally.
“Dead? How?”
“I hit it. While driving.”
She flopped over, laying longways on the couch. She raised her arms towards the ceiling and started to stare at her hands.
“I didn’t mean too. It was rainy, and dark, and it was running so fast-”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dog on the road,” I said. “Or near it, even. Not when I’m driving, at least. Don’t worry, it’s just a stroke of bad luck.”
“It’s not that- no, it is a little bit- but- I’m sorry, you need to see for yourself.” She started moving her hands around slowly, inspecting them, as if she wasn’t entirely sure they were real.
It would be an understatement to say I was not relishing looking at the dead dog in the back seat of the car. I suppose I would have to deal with it sooner or later, but- why was it in the back seat? Unless she was driving sideways, or something, at extremely high speeds- no, she had probably hit it and felt guilty, so she- no, that wouldn’t explain it either. And besides, she was not the kind of person to casually pick up a dead dog and shove it in the back seat.
Speaking of that, I supposed it would fall on me to take it out. I shivered- I couldn’t tell whether it was because of revulsion, or the cold and rain.
Frankly, I was not feeling up to it. It was pretty cold, I thought, so it would probably take a while to decompose. And besides, if she had hit it, there would probably be so much blood everything would have to be replaced anyway.
I looked in, preparing myself for the worst scenes of blood and mangled body parts, but-
It was split roughly in half, and something- I couldn’t tell what- spilled out long, slender, and wormlike from its halves.
Wires.
They were wires.
I could see broken, sheared pieces of metal where the bones should have been, worked into half-hollow shapes complex with spurs and support struts. Actually, most of the dog was hollow- to counteract the weight of the metal, I assume.
My eyes flickered back to the wires. They seemed to flow and drip over the side of the seat, like rivulets frozen in time.
With a start, I realized my wife was standing next to me again. The pounding of the rain had covered the sound of her footsteps.
I realized she was even more soaked than before. I realized I was soaked, too.
“So,” she said.
“Wires. Don’t think dogs are supposed to have those.”
She was staring at her hands again. I noticed she had been picking at the skin around one of her fingernails.
We went to bed before anyone could put us there.
We got up in the morning at around the same time. We ate breakfast in silence. It was white bread, as always.
She looked like a mess. I suppose I did, too. I made coffee while she picked at her fingers.
“You should probably stop doing that,” I observed.
“I know, but- just pass me that coffee. I think I need something to do with my hands.”
I nodded. I poured myself a cup and sat down.
I knew without having to check that the dog would be gone from the back seat, and that there would, in fact, be not a trace of it left- not that it left much blood, but there was a bit.
She started wearing gloves. By the time I realized why, it was too late. At first, I thought that it was to stop herself from picking at her fingers.
After a couple weeks, everything started to fall out of control.
I do not think I ever had any control in the first place, but- somebody, something else lost control. The gears and mechanisms that had hidden everything from us, the ways we had blinded ourselves, the way that everyone had hidden everything from everyone else and themselves.
It was at a town meeting that she pulled off the gloves.
Her two long, slender arms had every single bit of skin and flesh picked off of them, reduced to gracile armatures. There was only twisted wire, and shiny metal bones.
I apologize for not having enough time to finish this account. It would not interest you, the most of it- I hope that you can fill in the rest. I spent time staring out into the rain when I should have been typing. I reminisced about things I will never see again. I felt nostalgia for things that I have not yet entirely lost- but will lose soon enough.
Skinless people walk outside my house. People? Yes, people- they are not that far gone yet.
So many things have been found to be artificial, and so many things have been torn away because of it.
There are serial numbers underneath our skin.
Our fingerprints were stamped on when we were made.
Our houses are not ones we chose for ourselves.
Our town is founded upon styrofoam.
I never wanted this. I only wanted the truth.
Maybe this is the truth, but if so, I never wanted this.
I think that, in getting rid of what was fake, they got rid of what made them people, too.
Maybe we shouldn’t be people, if that’s what people have to be.
Maybe I’m a coward for not joining them, a liar too. I didn’t choose to have this skin, to have this personality, and maybe that’s enough to justify getting rid of it. Maybe how I was born and how I was raised are just ways I’m trapped and shackled. Maybe the fact that it’s artificial means it isn’t true.
But even knowing this is all fake,
I still feel compelled to be
a model citizen.
Honey?
I have something to tell you.
I lied.
My hair is not black.