Alexandra Kleeman - You Too Can Have a Body Like Mine

Before he had a chance to finish, I was walking away. At the end of the aisle, I sprinted. I wanted to increase the distance between us exponentially. My sneakers squeaked against the shiny plastic floor.

I passed canned soups and magazines. I passed the produce section, which was advertising a new breed of apple — grafted together from two popular types of apples and also a type of peach — that I had read about. Its chromosomal structure was unstable, odd numbered, which meant new seeds and plants could be created only in a laboratory using a variety of specialized equipment. It was supposed to be delicious. The apples were a fuzzy coral color with a velvety texture. When you took hold of one in your hand, they gave in a little bit, like a stuffed animal. Flesh on flesh.

Where I had thought I might finally find Kandy Kakes, past the canned soup and seasonings, paper products and household cleaners, I found meat. The meat came in slack shades of red or pink within the refrigerated bins, and I stopped to visit them while I decided what direction I wouldn’t try next. No matter what shape an animal might have been while alive, dead animal was always made to resemble slabs, a paste that could be shaped into logs, toruses, wavy rectangles. These were the shapes we made, mathematically and conceptually simple, and they were different from us in every way. I patted the packages of meat with my right hand, the one that wasn’t holding the flowers. It was colder in this part of the store and brighter.

Then I saw the veal section. It was twice its usual size and covered in posters and slogans. I recognized Michael’s face printed large on every one of them, his mouth pinned into a stiff grin. He wore a kitschy black-and-white-striped jumpsuit and a handkerchief tied around his neck. His left hand was planted on his hip as his right pointed out at the promotional display in a stiff “I’m a little teapot” sort of way, as if he were practicing being something that he would clearly never become. The posters read THIS VEAL’S A STEAL in big black print, and below it small cursive letters spelled out: “Veal is a delicious part of any balanced meal. — Michael Trowbridge, ‘The Veal Stealer.’” The posters had a tiny stamp at the bottom, indicating that they were a product of something called the Regional Council for the Protection of Veal and Veal Imagery.

I went to the veal poster that was nearest to my eye level and I got close to it, close enough that Michael’s head was almost the size of an actual person’s head. From six inches away he was blurry, but he looked more real than he had that day on the TV screen. I was trying to look into his face and figure out what it meant that Michael had gone from hating veal to hiding it to eating it and now to endorsing it. Had he changed his mind? Had he been sued? Had someone stolen his picture and made it mean whatever they wanted? His burglar costume looked like it had been pasted on in Photoshop. I wished that I could speak to him, ask him who was in control of this ad campaign and whether it was awful or just much more convenient to have another person controlling your identity.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the red-and-orange coloring of the Kandy Kakes logo. I was close! Then I remembered that I was starving. My hunger was so wide and placid that I could dog-paddle around in it. There were dozens of boxes of Kandy Kakes stacked on top of one another on the shelves, red-and-orange boxes with the neon-green lightning bolts that signified snack cake bliss. My body felt small to me and light, and I walked to my Kakes with a cartoonish energy in my limbs, as though one giant leap could carry me all the way to their shelves.

I heard a scuffling sound as the cloth I wore rubbed against itself. I saw my bony arms sticking out in front of me as I maneuvered them over to the shelf and picked up the nearest box, which was suspiciously light, because it was empty. I picked up the next box and tilted it right to left, listening for the Kakes sliding back and forth within.

All the other boxes were empty, too.

It was just like that commercial where Kandy Kat turns to crime in a last-ditch attempt to achieve Kandy Kakes consumption. He goes from store to store trying to buy a single, measly package of Kandy Kakes, but nobody will sell him anything. They point at a poster behind the counter that reads DO NOT SELL TO THIS KAT. DANGEROUS CHARACTER. Kandy Kat’s face is on this poster, hollow and gaunt. So Kandy Kat hijacks a freight train made up of an endless number of cars painted with the Kandy Kakes logo, and off goes the Kandy Kakes alarm, bringing police helicopters and squad cars, then military tanks. As Kandy Kat barrels toward a military blockade, he reaches back for a box of Kakes and says a final prayer before opening the box. But the box is empty, and so are all the others in the first car, and the second, and Kandy Kat looks up toward the impending collision with tears wobbling in his eyes. Strings of drool hang from his mouth as he meets his doom.

Holding the empty Kandy Kakes box in my arms, I realized that C was not going to be calling me back anytime soon. I realized that I had not been realizing how different he was becoming, day by day. He had seemed like a different person, or the same person acting differently, an even scarier thought. Last night he sat at the far end of the sofa, six feet away from me, as he explained his thinking. I was a great girl, he said, but I had a downward trajectory. I had been doing less and less each day, and the things I did do I regarded with trepidation, as though they might turn on me. He wanted to date someone who was on the upswing. Someone who had shaken off simpler problems and was left only with the unsolvables. I, on the other hand, was turning solvables into unsolvables and then trying to solve them. I made the least of my situation. He didn’t believe in that. I reminded him of one of those polar bears at the zoo that won’t mate even though, in captivity, there was really no other way to participate in some sort of natural order. Though obviously, he said patronizingly, literal mating was not our problem. I told him that I was on the upswing and that all he was noticing was a person coming to know what was right with her life and also what was wrong. C said I tired him out. He went to the fridge to get a beer. When he came back he looked at me a little more warmly. He told me: “I want someone who can do everything I want to do in life with me, and I want that person to be you. Could you be a person who wanted that?”

Inside I was imagining myself showing up on that game show, smiling as they led me into a chamber where I would be duplicated by dozens and dozens of paid extras. I imagined myself excited to get on the show, excited to try to win the big suitcase full of money with my partner. I imagined myself dancing the cancan with the other decoys, my shoulders and face tingling from the hot lights overhead, smiling big and feeling certain that C would pick me out of the lineup. But even though the face I put on this imaginary person was my face, and even though her body was like mine, I knew the person I was imagining wasn’t me, only looked like me, and really had nothing more to do with me than a piece of paper a photograph is printed on has to do with the picture printed on it. And if I wasn’t really going to be around, I’d rather not be around at all. I’d rather be wrapped in a sheet, ghosting myself, leaving everyone with questions about what had happened to me and where I had gone.

I looked at C, at his wavy, shampoo-smelling hair and the thin lower lip that I had been sucking just an hour before. I loved his face, I loved that I could touch it, taste it, put my mouth all over it. There was no other face like his, no other face I was allowed to do that with. His face wore a waiting look.