by M. E. Roufa
“I didn’t get it here.” Norma said, as sweetly as possible. “It was a gift. Did you want me for something?” Sometimes when you tossed a ball to a terrier, you could get it to change directions. Or was that only retrievers?
“Hm. I could have sworn we had them here. Oh well. Yeah, actually. I did need to talk to you.” She saw the ball! Atta-Shosha! “Can I pull you aside here?”
Shosha led Norma away from the glassiest most mirrored part of the store, to a more secluded section, closer to sunscreens and fake tanners. This was the section people only came to when they knew what they wanted and didn’t feel the need to linger. It was a place favored among management for raises and reprimands—more often the latter. Norma’s heart sank. “I think I did see them selling the pendants here…” she tried changing the subject back, but the old ball had lost its bounce. Shosha put a protective arm around Norma’s shoulder. That meant the news was going to be really bad. “Okay. It’s about Illusions. You’ve been doing great numbers. Every time you’re out there, trial goes up. But the last month hasn’t been great.”
Norma protested, “No one’s been doing great this month, Shosha. The weather’s been cold, I dunno, the economy’s down—it’s not just me. I know I’m doing better than the girls over selling Libido, and they’re brand new!”
“Norm.” Norma squirmed, rankling under being called “Norm” even more than under the subject of conversation. “I’m not criticizing you. You’re doing great. You’re the best. But you know how it is, when the numbers go down, we have to do something, and with Illusions, well—you know, there’s a little something corporate would love to have us doing to push the needle.”
“I’m not wearing a costume,” Norma said flatly.
“Don’t think of it as a costume,” Shosha protested. “You’re not a clown going to a Halloween party. It’s an Illusion. You’d be a part of a bigger Illusion.” Shosha was doing her best to sound enticing. Norma could almost hear her capitalizing the word Illusions each time she said it, her fingers spreading slightly in subconscious Balanchine jazz hands, willing the marketing gimmick to be more magical than it was.
“It’s a costume, Shosha. Don’t fall for the hype just because they’re spending a little more money on the brochure.”
“Oh, I know. But they’re spending a lot more money on the outfits too. I’ve seen a couple of them up at Saks and it’s real quality. You’d be surprised. Anyhow, it’s out of my hands. Pick who you want to be out of the book, and we’ll order you the Illusion. Okay? Or you could let me pick?” Shosha bit her lip hopefully. Norma didn’t want to know what Shosha had in mind. But the request startled her. “Wait a second… I get to pick?”
“Of course. It’s still fragrance, not fascism.”
“You mean I don’t have to be Marilyn Monroe?”
“Marilyn Monroe?” Shosha looked her up and down. “You? You’d need some wig—I dunno, I don’t see it, but if you want to…” She walked off shaking her head.
Norma was floored. She could be anyone she wanted to be! All of a sudden she couldn’t wait to get her hands on the Illusions wardrobe catalog—even the idea of being forced to wear a costume suddenly didn’t seem so bad. To be anyone at all, even if it was another celebrity; to be told “you don’t look anything like fill-in-the-blank celebrity” and to be able to answer, “I know!” and have no rancor about it… just the idea alone was amazing.
She heard the clomp of a platform boot before she saw Shosha back at her elbow. There was the Illusions catalog, held open by Shosha’s perfectly manicured finger to a familiar figure in a familiar sequined gown, with a very familiar platinum blonde wig and a too, too familiar beauty mark. “Marilyn Monroe!” Shosha said, triumphantly “Wow—I can’t believe I never thought about it, but wow, I bet you could pull that off with all the great makeup people here… I’d kill to see that! Oh wow wow wow! What a fantastic idea!”
Damn, Norma thought. Damn damn damn.
15
Abe stepped out into the Florida sunlight, temporarily blinded. It was the man from the party at the exhibit opening. Harold.
“Do you have any idea how hard you are to track down?” Harold asked.
“Not really,” Abe responded. “I can pretty much find me whenever I want me.”
“You’re funny.” Harold answered. “Abe was always funny.”
“Do you always talk to people in the third person?”
“I was actually talking about Abraham Lincoln. You, know, the president.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
Harold pointed at him. “Funny again.” Abe didn’t know people really did that, point at someone to indicate him or her while still talking to them, but Harold did. It was talking in the third person while still using the second person. As if there was an unseen audience somewhere, and Harold was letting them know exactly to whom he was referring. This is the funny one, right here. Abe felt like he should take a bow. Or bite the outstretched finger. Or point back and say “Observant,” or “Annoying.” He did none of these things. As in their last encounter, he merely said nothing and hoped the pest would go away.
Then again, the fact that this man had taken however much time to track Abe down meant that he would probably not be shaken off so easily. Abe’s first thought was to walk to his car, pleading lateness to some appointment. Then he decided he didn’t want this stranger to know what he drove, or his license number, so he stayed put.
“How did you um, track me down?”
“Actually, I ended up taking the last thing you said—Abe Finkelstein son of Marvin. Had a bit of trouble with the whole Steen/Stein thing. But eventually searching through enough public records got me to the DMV and your license plate numbers, and voilà! There I was—and here we are!”
“Here we are.”
There was a pause.
No. Something still didn’t make sense. “How did you find out where I worked?”
“Well your number’s listed, Abe. And you said you were a history teacher. There aren’t that many schools around here. Telephone is an amazing thing. You know, Abraham Lincoln invented it.”
“No he didn’t.”
“See? History teacher. That’s called heading you off at the pass. In case your next question was going to be ‘how do I know you’re you?’”
Abe tried to mentally deny that his next question was going to be ‘How do you know I’m me?’ but it was, so he dropped it. He tried to think of a different question his next question would have been to insist on, then realized how stupid a thing it was to defend. Not as stupid as insisting that Abraham Lincoln invented the telephone, of course. Or that saying that his knowing he didn’t was proof that he was a history teacher. But still idiotic. Though maybe not so idiotic as Harold’s next question.
“You don’t know anyone who looks like Alexander Graham Bell, do you?”
“What?
“Alexander Graham Bell? Inventor of the telephone? Don’t play dumb with me. I know you’re a history teacher, Abe Finkelstein the history teacher, so you won’t get away with it. I don’t really need a Graham Bell just now, but it couldn’t hurt to have one. Just in case.”
Things were starting to make sense to Abe, all of a sudden. “For bat mitzvahs?” he asked, trying not to roll his eyes.
Harold grinned. “I was thinking more along the lines of graduation parties. But you’re good! Bat mitzvahs could work!” He pointed at Abe again. “Or sweet sixteens! Because girls are always on the phone! I gotta write this down…! Of course, it doesn’t really work without an Alexander Graham Bell.” He looked visibly deflated. “But just in case.” There was another pause.
“Do you even know what he looked like?”
“No,” Abe lied.
“How about Watson?”
“You mean like Sherlock Holmes’s Watson?”
“You know a Sherlock Holmes’s Watson?” Again, Harold got excited, then caught the look in Abe’s eyes. He pointed again, this time with both hands. “Funny! An
yway,” he added, putting an arm around Abe as best he could despite their nearly twelve-inch size difference, “I represent celebrity impersonators.”
“Really?” said Abe. “I never would have guessed.”
Harold pointed. Abe stopped his finger with his hand. “Let me guess. I’m funny.”
Harold stopped. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Yes you were.”
“I was going to say clever.”
No he wasn’t. He wasn’t. Abe knew it. He wasn’t he wasn’t he wasn’t. He wanted to jump up and down and point his finger at him and poke him. Instead he said what he always said. “I’m sorry.” Abe felt like an ass for apologizing again. When was he going to stop apologizing for things? He was going to take a stand. No more apologizing for things that weren’t his fault. And certainly no more apologizing for things that weren’t even things. No more. Enough.
“Thank you. Apology accepted.” Abe wanted to poke Harold in the eye. Repeatedly. Or better yet, himself. With a sharp stick. Yes. Right into his stupid apologizing brain. “Ladies and gentlemen, that squishy popping sound you hear is a sigh of relief from a far too apologetic man. We’re sorry for the disturbance.” Oh, for fuck’s sake, I did it again. Right through the brain itself. With a harpoon.
Meanwhile Harold was apparently still talking. “…about five years now, but when I saw you at the party last week, I saw something I hadn’t seen in years. A real magical connection. You really are Abraham Lincoln.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Let me finish. Look, when I picked you out of the party, you looked like him. Okay, fine. But then, when I saw you in the outfit, you really looked like him. Bonanza. Gold rush. You work for me and if you’re any good at acting, you can put your teacher’s salary behind you—I promise you. I mean far, far behind you. I can get you TV gigs and maybe into the movies. There’s always a need for Lincolns. He’s the top President we ever had, except maybe Chris Rock. And in another ten years his popularity will probably pass, and you’re what, 30? 35? So if you don’t mind dyeing your hair, you’ll probably have a really long career. Just think of the money!”
“And you get a cut?”
“Well, of course. I’d be representing you. I’m not stupid.”
“I’m really not interested. I love my job. I love teaching. And I hate being Lincoln.”
“You hate being Lincoln?”
“More than you’ll ever know.”
“So you have impersonated Lincoln before.”
Abe frowned, caught. “Well, yeah, people have said I looked like him. So for Halloween. Or at school. Only when I was drafted. I hate it. It’s not me. Look, I’m late for a… thing. It was really good meeting you. I’ll let you know if I see any Alexander Graham Bells. Belli.” He smiled.
Abe started to leave, only to be stopped again by Harold’s pointing finger. Only this time it wasn’t accompanied by the word “Funny.” This time it was an arresting point, holding him in place. “Wait. Don’t go yet, Abe. There’s something I haven’t told you. I was hoping you’d want to sign on for your own sake, but that’s okay. I know you probably think I’m a big joke, and I guess maybe I am, a little—I mean I’m not, but my job sort of is. But there’s big money in celebrity impersonators, and I’m the best spotter there is. People want them for parties, or events, or to sell stuff; I find them. Client wants someone famous like Elvis, I can get them fifty. But I can round them up someone like Marie Curie too. Nine out of ten people at these things have no idea what these people look like, sometimes ten out of ten, but I’ll make it my business to know, and I’m gonna provide a decent match. So if there’s a portrait, or a video, they’ll be able to say ‘yeah, that’s pretty good.’ Maybe even ‘wow.’ Okay. You think I’m rambling. I’ll get to the point; there’s a reason I’m so good at representing impersonators. It’s not the repping. Almost any talent agent can put their photo book in front of people and almost any actor can buy a wig and look like someone if they’re even halfway decent at impressions. It’s the spotting. I was a history major in college too, Abe. Double major. History and biology. Did my Ph.D. in Genetic Biology.
“But the thing is, for about three years before I changed over to booking impersonators, I was a clonologist.”
16
The history of cloning was remarkably short and uncomplicated, considering its moral and ethical considerations. Miles and miles of pages were written about “Should We Do It,” “Is It Wrong To Do It,” “Why God Doesn’t Want Us To Do It,” “Which Circle Of Hell Are We Going To Be In If We Do It,” “Will Our Families Ever Forgive Us If We Do It Or Will We End Up Sleeping On The Futon In The Guest Room For The Rest Of Our Lives,” plus multiple variations on the subject of whether it would even be possible. And meanwhile a couple of guys in a lab who never bothered reading that sort of thing just up and cloned somebody.
It all started with the sheep, of course. Everyone remembers Dolly. Named after Dolly Parton, who probably would have been the first human clone herself had the technology been available sooner (scientists being what they are), but when resources are scarce and you’re in Scotland… a sheep would have to do. Dolly was a bit of a disaster: very cute and got great press, but she died young from all sorts of medical problems and because of her huge public debut many laws were immediately passed worldwide to try to keep anyone from making any sort of further cloning attempts. Celebrity cloning executives said she was actually a victim of poor representation; that if she had only had a better agent she could have been licensed into immortality via plush toys and bed sheets, and there would be millions of children counting Dollys off to sleep today. Dying young is a windfall when it comes to fame, as anyone can tell you, and that Dolly’s developers didn’t exploit her celebrity when they had the chance was seen as one of the greater tragedies in children’s marketing history.
So the sheep led to cats, which led to other mammals, and the next thing you know (well, not the next thing but in a logical enough progression that all the doomsayers were able to pat themselves on the back gleefully for their foresight) there was a bouncing human baby clone. Her genetic material came from a rich woman who had lost a beloved daughter; her surrogate womb was, easily enough, the same woman’s. It made a lot of ethical questions easier, tied the inevitable upcoming nature-vs.-nurture arguments into a neat little mobius strip, and made for an incredibly easy workload for the lab’s legal department. Not to mention that it brought the lab a very cozy sum of money. Best of all, because of the risky nature involved, and the woman’s extremely personal reasons for wanting the experiment to succeed, she stipulated that there be no publicity for the girl’s first few years of life. Losing her child a second time would be heartbreaking enough, she reasoned; losing her in the glare of the media would be devastating. Only a tightly knit international group of scientists knew of her existence, and miraculously, knowing of her was enough for them to wait quietly. If she died, or worse, suffered horribly, they would all have lost together. So they hunkered down and made more mice and cats and horses (or rather one mouse or cat or horse, but a lot of them), and waited to see how little Miranda Grace developed.
And little Miranda Grace developed colic, and croup, and a perpetually runny nose, and dirty fingernails and a smartass tone and the ability to slam doors and scream “I HATE YOU!” at a moment’s notice, and was in every other way a perfectly obnoxious, perfectly normal child. And her mother loved her to pieces. And so eventually the press was alerted to the existence of Child X (no name, no city, just the fact of her), and human cloning was officially on.
After Miranda, genetic laboratories that had up till then been so patient and understanding and nicey-nicey with one another suddenly entered a state of warfare. Science for science’s sake was all very well and good while the kid might have died, but now there was money to be made. Finding the best way to exploit the blossoming field and corner the market was the new noble calling. So while a couple of altruistic research facilities really
did devote their efforts to pursue partial stem-cell cloning for its lifesaving transplant potential, yadda yadda yadda, most of the big players threw their funding into focus groups: what did people want in cloning? Particularly the rich people, those with lots of expendable income? Well, they wanted their old pets back again, they had known that for years—why take a chance on a new kitten when Mr. Tiddlesworth was so good with the yarn thing and looked so cute on the Christmas cards?
And now they had proven that the same sentiment could be exploited in relatives. They also wanted celebrities, though that was soon taken over by professional licensing firms and movie studios until even the best-connected laboratories couldn’t get a taste of that action. People also wanted copies of themselves. Children so often didn’t get their father’s smarts, or looked like the ugly aunt on their mother’s side, or just plain let everyone down—why take the chance on ordinary genetics when you could have a carbon copy of what you already knew and eliminate all the unknowns? It was astonishing how literally selfish some people were when they decided to breed. In their minds, having a clone of themselves for a baby took away all the guesswork about what their child would be like—and while a more ethically sensitive scientist would have taken some time to explain to these potential parents that having the same DNA would by no means make the child an identical person, these first pioneers were, as before stated, only in it for the cash. The burgeoning fields of clone counselors and precloning ethicists and the entire clone family-therapy industry (and related self-self-help books) arose as a direct result of this initial oversight. They didn’t do all that much good, because the sort of parents who would be grounded enough to realize in time that they were damaging their child with their impossible expectations were far too smart to do anything so narrow-minded as to clone a baby in the first place.