by Paula Guran
“Oh, look at this!” Song all but squealed.
I shrugged. It seemed everybody had something to protest. Throngs were always marching, chanting, bearing signs and shouting. This group waved placards reading: NO MORPHLINGS IN CHICAGO! They shouted: “Morphlings are an abomination! No Safe Zone in Chicago!”
I pulled Song aside while the group passed by. A couple of the protesters tried to hand us fliers. I glared and Song smiled like a lunatic, but neither of us took the propaganda.
Inside The Berghoff, we ordered two servings of stuffed-mushroom appetizers and she wolfed most of them down before I could get started. Then, over our main course, I became acquainted with what I would later come to dub “Sing Song Moments.” The first Sing Song Moment came after our conversation got rolling along. We were talking and laughing and I flippantly said something like, “Oh, I see how you are.” At that, Song closed down and spat, “Alex, you don’t know any damn thing about me. Not. One. Thing.”
That led to a bit of awkward silence. I picked at my gnocchi and fumbled with an apology, but we moved past it. The second Sing Song Moment almost ruined the evening. We got our conversation back on track and things were going pretty well when I asked what she did for a living. This is always a hit-or-miss kind of question, but her previous comment had been correct: I didn’t know anything about her, except that she enjoyed great works of art and had one hell of a mouth on her. Song had a way of sidestepping questions about her past and her family and what the hell she did all day besides frequent museums.
“Who says I do anything for a living?” she said, again with that edge to her voice.
“Well.”
“The government gives me money, Alex.”
“Okay.”
“They give me money and these big bricks of cheese. Is that what you want to know? Any other questions about what I do for a living?”
I had no response. Fortunately, our waiter came by with the dessert menu and Song squealed with delight, and our evening rolled over its second speed bump. Song ordered herself two slices of black forest cake and assured me, “Don’t worry, I’m paying my portion. This is just a ‘friends date,’ right? I mean, you don’t want to fuck me or anything. If you do, then you can pick up the check. Still cheaper than a whore, right?”
Song dug into her cake while I gaped, dumbfounded and at a loss for anything to say.
We split the check.
I considered bailing on the second half of our “friends date.” Did I really want to socialize with a crass, unattractive, foul-mouthed, and mentally unstable welfare queen? And yet, despite it all, or maybe because of it all, I liked her. We continued our evening.
I don’t know whether to classify what happened at the Art Institute another Sing Song Moment or not. We were in the Grand Hall in front of the expansive Seurat mural, Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte. Plenty of attractive women wandered about, artist types and hippie types, but when I’m with a woman—whether friend or lover—I try not to scope out other females. It seems disrespectful. I try, but I’m not perfect.
Song nodded toward a tall redhead who had just dropped her sketchpad. Red bent over to retrieve her artwork. Red had an undeniably cute ass. “You think she’s hot?” Song said.
“What?” I said. Had I looked at the redhead? Maybe a glance, but no more.
“I asked if she’s hot. Do you think she’s sexy?”
“Um.”
“Alex, would you fuck her?”
When Song says my name and uses profanity, it’s a good sign something is up. It’s also very uncomfortable in a public place. A young mother shot us a justifiably harsh look and hauled her kids out of earshot.
The question, crude as it was, hung in the air.
I could have said, Nah, she’s not my type. Or, She’s okay but a bit tall. I could have said a lot of things, but I am not a liar. I said, “Yes. She is hot.”
Song looked up at the Seurat: men in suits and women in long dresses strolling about a park on a pleasant summer day. “So you would fuck her?” she asked, quieter now. Sad, I thought.
“Yes, Song.” I sighed. “I would fuck her.”
I remembered what I had thought the day before, about Song being confident for an ugly girl, and felt ashamed. I looked about the Grand Hall at all the good-looking people. I looked at Song’s pasty skin and misshapen face and thought how dumpy and inferior she must have felt.
Shows what the hell I know.
I awoke in the middle of the night with a question buzzing around my brain: She’s Chinese; why are her eyes so blue? Isn’t that unusual?
I puzzled over it briefly, but it hardly seemed to matter. I went back to sleep.
2. Run Like Hell
“You know it can’t last,” said Agent Chen. “Today is Wednesday so your time is almost up.”
They were in his office during one of her periodic “check-ins.” Song wanted to scream. She damn sure knew what day it was. She knew all the rules, all the complications, and all the risks.
“I can’t go on like this.”
Chen took one of her hands in both of his.
“I know it’s hard.”
“You have no idea just how hard. You’ve got a wife. You’ve got a dog, too, that big Labrador.”
“Do you want a dog, Song?”
“I want a fucking life. I want somebody to be with.”
“He would have to know what you are.”
“I know that. I’m not an idiot. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life having four-day flings.”
“It would be a serious breach of security. There are some sick people out there, Song, who would do God-knows-what if they found out about you.”
“Well, wouldn’t you risk it? Wouldn’t you risk your life to be able to go home and kiss Mia and cuddle on the couch and walk the dog?”
“Blackstone,” said Chen. “That’s the dog’s name. And damn straight. I’d risk it all for them.”
It was Wednesday. Song called me and I recognized that familiar edge to her voice. “Alex, we need to go back to the Art Institute tonight.”
“Why, what’s there?”
“Art is there! What else?”
“I know, but is there a special exhibit or—”
“No.”
“How about tomorrow?”
She didn’t say anything but somehow that silence constituted a Sing Song Moment.
Finally: “Forget it, Alex.”
“Wait!”
“Tomorrow’s no good. Tomorrow is Thursday. Thursday, Alex! Thursday!”
I asked if she wanted to grab some supper first. She said no, just meet her at the Art Institute. Or not. Then she hung up. I went and met her at the Institute right after my shift at the Field. She dragged me to the dollhouse exhibit. She hardly said anything, just stared into the dollhouses. I am a patient man, but she really spent a long time just staring until I finally had enough and coaxed her away. We hit the Impressionists for the last few minutes before the Institute closed.
In front of Renoir’s Two Sisters (On the Terrace), Song said, “Alex, do you like me?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
I knew what was coming next.
“But you don’t want to fuck me.”
“No,” I said.
I took her hand in mine.
“I don’t want to fuck you. I do want to make love to you.”
I wanted to look in her eyes but she just kept staring at the Two Sisters. That ordinary moment frozen in time. Her hand shifted in mine. Something moved under the skin. It felt like bones crunching. What the hell? I tried to pull away but her fingers wrapped around mine and wouldn’t let go. She did not squeeze but clamped my hand in place with a vise-like grip.
“Don’t struggle, dear,” Song said. “I am far stronger than you.”
We stood there until she was ready to leave. Then she released my hand and said, “Tomorrow is Thursday. The Institute is open till eight. Meet me by the Seurat at s
even-thirty.”
“But—”
“Damnit, Alex. Tomorrow is Thursday. I won’t be ready till seven-thirty.”
And, with that, she stalked away.
I had no inkling of the significance of the days of the week, especially Thursday, to Song. I had no clue what I was getting into. I was infatuated with her but also wary as hell. Work the next day felt tedious and boring, and I hated it. I watched the clock and took a long lunch with Suzy, one of the museum docents.
“Who is she?” Suzy wanted to know. “Who’s got your head in the clouds?”
“A very strange lady,” I said. “I don’t know, but I think she might even be psycho.”
“Better stay away, then.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “That would be best.”
I looked at my watch and counted down the hours till I would see Song again.
Had I known what Song was doing at that very moment, well, who knows what I would have done? Time dragged like never before. All the qualities I pride myself on—patience, focus, a good attention span—were history. I hit the Art Institute early and paced restlessly from exhibit to exhibit, not really soaking anything in, let alone enjoying it. I tried calling Song to confirm our date but she didn’t answer. At seven twenty-five I all but ran to the Grand Hall.
At seven-thirty, I paced back and forth in front of the Seurat. I looked around, but no Song. I pulled out my cell phone but got zero reception. Damn! Then movement caught my eye. It was the redhead from Tuesday, again dropping her sketchpad and bending over to retrieve it. She stood and I got a better look. No, it wasn’t the same person but looked oddly similar. And how peculiar that she should be standing in the exact same spot and dropping her sketchpad and—
I looked at her eyes.
They were the same amazing color as Song’s.
The redhead smiled. I gaped.
“Care to be shanghaied now, Alex?”
Her voice was the same as Song’s.
“I had to make a couple minor changes,” said Red. “Can’t just copy another person exactly, there are laws against that. Polymorph laws suck dick, almost as much as modern art.”
It couldn’t be. She simply could not be a polymorph. Polymorphs comprise less than one-tenth of one percent of the population. The chance of meeting a polymorph was minuscule. The odds of actually dating one? Like winning the lottery. Besides, I would have seen this coming. I do look at things from every conceivable angle, don’t I? This had to be an elaborate prank.
Except, in front of the Renoir the evening before, I had felt the bones of her hand shifting.
“It’s really you,” I said.
Robust scarlet hair framed a gorgeous freckled face. She showed off her long, symmetrical legs with a pirouette and a flashy grand jeté. A grand jeté right in front of Seurat’s Grand Jatte. Fortunately, she was wearing tights; jeans would have split apart. A couple patrons looked over and gave a round of applause while the curator frowned. Song took an enthusiastic bow for her adoring fans and blew the curator a kiss. Song was shapely and elegant and hot.
“Actually,” she said, “I think I got a better ass than your little girlfriend from the other day. That’s your reward for looking past my butt-ugly exterior. You didn’t know you were being tested, did you?”
I stood there, trying to process it all.
Finally, I babbled, “You’re a morphling? Sorry. Changeling. No, no, polymorph. Polymorph!”
“Alex,” she said. “I am a P6. Do you know what that means? By the stupefied look on your face, I will assume you don’t.”
“You’re not a polymorph?”
“I am not just your garden-variety polymorph, but a Polymorph Adept. That is the highest rated category of polymorph. And I’m getting better at it. I am evolving. Who knows, they might even have to come up with a new category, just for little ol’ me.”
I started to say something but she pressed one slim, freckled finger against my lips.
“Just listen, dear,” she said. “I am not an easy person—and I used the word person loosely—I am not an easy person to be with or to love. I am inherently unstable. If we get involved, I will make your life more interesting and more intense than you can imagine. I will also make it a living hell. I told you I was evolving. I don’t know the direction my own evolution will take. That excites me and it scares me to death. I want to be with you, Alex. But I have mood swings. Big, bad mood swings. I have a temper. I don’t always talk dainty. I am a psychotic bitch but I am honest.”
I said, “I bet you say that to all the boys.”
“Yes. Yes I do. This is my spiel. I tell you this so you know what you are getting yourself into. If you choose to be with me, these are things you need to understand. If you don’t want to be with me, then run like hell. Now. I mean it, Alex. Run like fucking hell.”
I didn’t run.
A woman like Song can have any man she wants. Of all the men in all the world, why would she want to be with me? Was it because I passed her ugly-girl test? Or because of my job, my ties to the deep past, my affinity with things that change only slowly, if at all? Perhaps I represented her polar opposite. She certainly seemed to be drawn to still-life paintings and moments frozen in time.
Truth is, I never did quite figure out what she saw in me. Not that it really mattered. I was happily overwhelmed.
Did I have questions? Yes. Did I want to examine her and scrutinize her like some sort of living museum exhibit? Yes.
But first, I wanted to fuck her.
3. Safe Zone
Polymorphs are in the news a lot, especially here in Chicago. Chicago is one of the designated “Safe Zones” for polymorphs. Most shape-shifters have extremely limited abilities. A few can make themselves taller or shorter, while others can actually alter the topography of their bone structure enough to fool facial-recognition software. A very few can manipulate their melanin levels and change the pigment of their skin. Fewer still are able to transform the color and texture of their hair.
A minuscule number can do all these things. Of the rare polymorphs capable of multiple body changes, only a handful are able to control these transformations with any degree of accuracy. These shape-shifters have the incredibly rare combination of tremendous natural talent coupled with the discipline and concentration needed to actually guide the morphing process. They are the P6s, otherwise known as Polymorph Adepts.
The ability of the Adepts is so compulsive that they simply have to transform themselves on a regular basis in order to survive. The Adepts are the most closely regulated and monitored of the polymorphs. Each registered Adept is assigned a day on which to transform.
Song’s designated transformation day is Thursday. She seemed to have a slightly different personality with each incarnation she undertook, completely unpredictable. One evening as we strolled through the Loop—downtown Chicago—we were approached by a petitioner. This was hardly uncommon. People are always asking you to give to a worthy cause or to scrawl your name on some piece of paper or other.
“Excuse me, folks, but are you registered voters?”
He was an earnest young man, probably a struggling student. Inside, I wished him all the best but outwardly gave him my standard, “Thanks, but we’re in a hurry,” response. We had dinner reservations, after all.
Song stopped and smiled.
“I’m a registered voter,” she all but squealed.
I think the young man was momentarily put off by her amazing looks and the way she stepped right up into his personal space. But he recovered nicely and chirped out, “I’m happy to hear that. I’m out here today representing the Citizens for Free Information and—”
“How important-sounding!” Song cut in. “Anything with the word ‘citizens’ in it must be noble.”
She smiled like a lunatic at him.
He was momentarily at a loss for words. I knew that feeling.
“We, the Citizens!” Song nearly shouted.
I think our Good Citizen was thrown of
f-kilter. Was he being screwed with? Yes, he was. But he forged on: “I’m out here to gather support to repeal the Polymorph Privacy Act.”
“Polymorphs!”
“I’m sure you’ve read about them in the news.”
“I don’t read. Reading is boring!”
I restrained my laughter. Song had spent the previous evening curled up next to me devouring Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. In the original French.
“On TV, then?”
“I like TV!”
Song all but jumped up and down.
“So you’ve seen all the news about polymorphs. Shape-shifters. It is estimated there are over a thousand right here in Chicago. Chicago is a so-called ‘Safe Zone’ for polymorphs. That means they can live here, right among us, but we don’t have the right to know who they are, where they hide, or anything. And they’re not even human!”
“I like cartoons,” said Song.
“Pardon?”
“I don’t watch news. I watch cartooooons! Can I sign your paper?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Sure. You are a registered voter, right?”
“Yup!”
The petitioner cast a glance my way. I gave him my blandest look. He handed the petition to Song, who stepped over to me. She held it up so I could see her sign it.
On the Name line she wrote, “Fuck you,” and on the Address line she scrawled, “Bite me,” and on the Date line she drew a smiley face. She handed the petition back and we went on our way, east on Madison.
“Hey, fuck you, too!” the young man shouted after us. “Morphling lovers!”
Buddy, you have no idea.
Polymorphs are extensively studied. Medical research has made vast strides forward thanks to access to polymorph physiology. Song donates the occasional vial of blood or tissue sample and, in return, the government provides for all her needs plus a generous monthly stipend. They even supply her with bricks of super-concentrated cheese developed specifically to sustain the incredible metabolism of polymorphs. Just as Song had told me during our strange dinner date.
Despite strict regulation, the public gets paranoid about rogue polymorphs impersonating them and then committing crimes. A few famous people have tried to blame their misdeeds on polymorph doppelgängers. I suspect that most of the news about polymorphs, like most of the news in general, is spin-doctored for entertainment value.