Come Back by Sky Gilbert Page A

artificial hands are easy to come by; the technology is virtually seamless. It occurred to me that perhaps his condition was the result of plastic surgery, that he had lost the proper attachments for the nerves and musculature of hands. His arms ended quite anticlimactically. There was simply nothing there, or it seemed that way. Then I saw there were pieces of clear plastic over the end of each arm. This would have meant, of course, that you could see inside each arm. This might have proved fascinating, in its own way, though the man did not seem to want to have the ends of his arms exposed by the light.
    The one who fascinated me most I call the Doll Boy. The Doll Boy was very, very tall, slender and pale. He wore loose-fitting pants and an open-collared shirt. At first I though he was translucent too. But then I realized his case was precisely the opposite. He was opaque. He was overly smooth and white — unreal, plastic like a doll, surrounded by a completely solid casing. One wondered about his history; he might have been a burn victim. He did not look real but like a mannequin. But there was also something unreal about his gestures, his general demeanour. He was long-limbed and moved with a sly grace. This suggested someone painfully conscious of taking up space — perhaps too much space. Someone who knew he was being looked at, and didn’t want to be.
    What struck me most about him was that he could have been — and this is completely my personal fantasy — the material embodiment of the tragic in-between. One of the logical explanations for his condition, it seemed to me, was that he was indeed a burn victim who had not reached the final stage of getting the realistic flesh glued on top. I know, in fact, that what he was walking around in was the underflesh that lies directly beneath what seems like the real flesh of someone who has had cosmetic surgery after being scalded. I know this because I once knew a burn victim who received a cut, and he didn’t bleed. But his coating of fake protective underflesh was revealed. In other words, under his realistic flesh was the doll flesh — which was all that this boy had. The Doll Boy was a sad and dignified figure, at once vulnerable and distant. I couldn’t help identifying. I, myself, am sad but
undignified
, and had for so many years felt unfinished — not quite there — as I came to terms with the fact that this body was all that God ever had in store for me. There would be no divine improvements, only human interventions.
    Anyway, this gives you an idea of the place. The music, as you might guess, was retro. It was so old I could barely identify it. Then I recognized that they were playing a lot of freaky monster music, for instance Lady Gaga and Klaus Nomi and that Icelandic singer Björk. And Yma Sumac — do you remember her? She claimed to be a Peruvian princess, I think. But it turned out she was from . . . Brooklyn? Well, as you can see, the place suited my taste. And nothing happened. The gist of it was I was fascinated and hypnotized. And yes, I had a cigarette, but no booze. The oddness of the place was accentuated by the sale of booze. When these days all can — and do — often choose from an array of government-approved partypills if they wish to go that route, this was certainly an anomaly. But I was not interested in the booze and did not even think about it. I enjoyed a tonic without the vodka and watched the black lights make things glow like in the old days.
    Indeed, my attraction for these people may have been purely because they were old, like me. If I was right and they were most of them victims of botched plastic surgery, then it is more than possible, indeed likely, that some were old (though none as old as me). Allworth seemed to have a good time observing me and giggling. I think he was pleased that I was pleased, but was also intimidated by — and perhaps jealous of — those who talked