old days. But it wasn't
his
old days he missed, it was the old days of the guy in the movie. He missed the house in the small town and the mother and the father who loved each other and were nice to him. It was strange—because how could he miss something that had never actually happened to him? It was kind of like when he saw things in the pieces of wood he was carving, things he had never seen in real life, the face of the woman waiting at the door or whatever. It was as if the things in his head were as real as real things. It had always been like that for him. Even when he was little, he had missed this movie life he'd never lived. Even before he had known there
was
such a life, he had somehow known it, and had known his own life was wrong. How had he known such things? Maybe before his real life, he had had another life in which everything was the way it was supposed to be and he missed that. Or something.
He sat in the chair, wondering about it. He wondered: If he
had
lived that movie life, would he have been a better person? Would he have been like the guy in the movie, always doing things for people?
Anyway, that was the last DVD. The box was empty. And then—hallelujah—the foreigner came to bring him his new identity.
"Look, look," the foreigner commanded impatiently. "Look. Go on."
But for another long moment, Shannon hesitated, his heart hammering. He was afraid. Afraid to lift the round shaving mirror from where it lay on his thighs, afraid to peer into the glass at his new face. What if he really was a monster now? Or just so different from what he'd been that he couldn't recognize himself, had become a stranger to his own countenance? Bad enough to be imprisoned in the white room, but to be locked inside a body that wasn't his own...
"Go, go," said the foreigner. "Is not so bad. Look."
Shannon took a deep breath and lifted the mirror.
His first sensation at what he saw in the glass was terror, a quick, lancing jag of nauseating fear. Where had he gone? Who was that there? Who was he? But the moment passed. He was still himself. The features were changed, reshaped, but they were still his features somehow. He could still make himself out in the eyes and in remaining traces of the face he'd known. And he was still himself inside.
His terror abated. He was relieved. It was not so bad. It was good, in fact. No one else, not even people who knew him well, would ever recognize him. But he felt the same. He was who he was.
"You are Henry Conor now," the foreigner said.
"Henry Conor," Shannon murmured, gazing at his reflection. He let the name play in his mind. He didn't like it much. It sounded to him like the name of some pencil-head in a suit, a lawyer or something like that. "Why can't I pick my own name?"
"Because I make papers," the foreigner said. "This is name I put."
Shannon shrugged. A name was a name.
He went on looking. He felt better and better about the face looking back at him. Whatever else it was, it was no way the distorted monster face he'd seen reflected in the TV. The beard made him look like kind of a wild man, but he could shave that off soon enough. Underneath, it was all right.
"You do good work," he said.
The foreigner straightened from the briefcase he had opened on the bedroom chair. He handed Shannon a couple of manila folders. "Here are papers. License, passport, Social Security. Also tax returns for five years. Work history, references boss can call so he knows you are good worker." He handed him the folders.
"Nice. This is a whole big operation."
"You will have tools to work with and number to call where you can get job."
Shannon opened a folder. Saw the driver's license in there. Saw the address under the photograph.
"That's a long way away."
"This is good, yes? Far from where you were."
"Yeah, I guess that is good. I never been out there. Where'd you get the picture of me?"
"Computer morph. It's what I work from when I do face. You will shave to look like
his
old days he missed, it was the old days of the guy in the movie. He missed the house in the small town and the mother and the father who loved each other and were nice to him. It was strange—because how could he miss something that had never actually happened to him? It was kind of like when he saw things in the pieces of wood he was carving, things he had never seen in real life, the face of the woman waiting at the door or whatever. It was as if the things in his head were as real as real things. It had always been like that for him. Even when he was little, he had missed this movie life he'd never lived. Even before he had known there
was
such a life, he had somehow known it, and had known his own life was wrong. How had he known such things? Maybe before his real life, he had had another life in which everything was the way it was supposed to be and he missed that. Or something.
He sat in the chair, wondering about it. He wondered: If he
had
lived that movie life, would he have been a better person? Would he have been like the guy in the movie, always doing things for people?
Anyway, that was the last DVD. The box was empty. And then—hallelujah—the foreigner came to bring him his new identity.
"Look, look," the foreigner commanded impatiently. "Look. Go on."
But for another long moment, Shannon hesitated, his heart hammering. He was afraid. Afraid to lift the round shaving mirror from where it lay on his thighs, afraid to peer into the glass at his new face. What if he really was a monster now? Or just so different from what he'd been that he couldn't recognize himself, had become a stranger to his own countenance? Bad enough to be imprisoned in the white room, but to be locked inside a body that wasn't his own...
"Go, go," said the foreigner. "Is not so bad. Look."
Shannon took a deep breath and lifted the mirror.
His first sensation at what he saw in the glass was terror, a quick, lancing jag of nauseating fear. Where had he gone? Who was that there? Who was he? But the moment passed. He was still himself. The features were changed, reshaped, but they were still his features somehow. He could still make himself out in the eyes and in remaining traces of the face he'd known. And he was still himself inside.
His terror abated. He was relieved. It was not so bad. It was good, in fact. No one else, not even people who knew him well, would ever recognize him. But he felt the same. He was who he was.
"You are Henry Conor now," the foreigner said.
"Henry Conor," Shannon murmured, gazing at his reflection. He let the name play in his mind. He didn't like it much. It sounded to him like the name of some pencil-head in a suit, a lawyer or something like that. "Why can't I pick my own name?"
"Because I make papers," the foreigner said. "This is name I put."
Shannon shrugged. A name was a name.
He went on looking. He felt better and better about the face looking back at him. Whatever else it was, it was no way the distorted monster face he'd seen reflected in the TV. The beard made him look like kind of a wild man, but he could shave that off soon enough. Underneath, it was all right.
"You do good work," he said.
The foreigner straightened from the briefcase he had opened on the bedroom chair. He handed Shannon a couple of manila folders. "Here are papers. License, passport, Social Security. Also tax returns for five years. Work history, references boss can call so he knows you are good worker." He handed him the folders.
"Nice. This is a whole big operation."
"You will have tools to work with and number to call where you can get job."
Shannon opened a folder. Saw the driver's license in there. Saw the address under the photograph.
"That's a long way away."
"This is good, yes? Far from where you were."
"Yeah, I guess that is good. I never been out there. Where'd you get the picture of me?"
"Computer morph. It's what I work from when I do face. You will shave to look like
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