We Could Fix You

Alan Sincic

Issue 16 ProForma Runner-Up

We could fix you if you gave us the chance. No. We really mean it. The others make a big show of the party they promise to make of you. As if your head were the head of a match they grab you by the heels and bam, strike you upside the pavement. You burst into flame. Talk about a thrill! We could do that too if we wanted to but then what? You didn’t think of that, did you? You with the zipper zipped and the bob in the hair and the ping of the silver buckle up under the fat of the bandolier, you with the boogie board clapped up top of the breaker and the pie in the oven and the lover in the hay and the barrel at the lip of the falls. Right-O. Cocked and at the ready. The armada off the port bow. The buffalo in the cross-hair. The sled all twitchy with the vigor of the malamute and the Husky and the half-breed that pummel the sky with a pillow of breath.

And then what? Nothing. Sure the city fell, the cure cured, the wink and the nod won you the girl. You stuck the landing, hit the note, snipped the wire that killed the bomb but lo, lo and behold, you’re still the same you. 

Could it be you’re not good enough? We never said that. As mammals go, as go your mammals, you’re plenty good enough. Toss in the marsupials, the fungi, the Dimetrodon and the Trilobite and the Pterodactyl, the Dodo and the Barracuda and the Chihuahua with the bulgy eyes and the hair-trigger teeth and by golly, a contender is what you are. Not a sequoia or a nebula, no, but pound for pound, a damn sight better than your lug nut and your geyser and your M1A1 bazooka.

So. Kudos to you. But how far does it get you? Unlike the bazooka with the bore slug and the T43 aperture sight, you got your limitations. Can you go the distance? If you had the optical reflector and the white phosphorous smoke head and the magneto sparker system on the wing strut assembly, maybe yes. But you don’t. You don’t got that. What you got is you. 

Not that you ain’t been nibbling away at the edges. What with the surgery, the steroids, the bonus appendage with the carbon fiber casing and the Magnum 357 dual-quad intake manifold in Amarillo yellow, you put the brandy in the candy. Ibid with the kudos! We really mean it. It’s just that—and fess up now, you know what we’re getting at, we can see it on your face when you think nobody’s looking, when the red of the laser range-finder and the ping of the sonar and the hot breath of the Aborigine tracker whiskers by without a quiver outta you—it just ain’t right, is it? Something ain’t right. 

Granted, you got a public. A public. Sure. True enough. But are they true? And how true are they? Rumor has it they’ve been seen of late with a better version of you—slimmer, taller, broader in the shoulders and fleeter in the feet. They nibble your ear, and whisper take me I’m yours, and you stir, and from out the covers you reach but — there they go, with a waggle of the fanny they out the door they go, in a sash-shay up the avenue as the bell-tower trills and the sun pummels the curb. You follow. You limp along behind as into the gate of the garden they go, into the chill of the cloister swim, up the adobe steps and into the bungalow to fondle the imposter, to canoodle in the nude with a more succulent version of you. Fickle they are, the public. Feckless.

Maybe they don’t mean it, you think. Maybe it’s a fling. The moon missiles overhead as you hug the ditch, as you hide in the blind, as you wait for the night to end. Out the window they climb, all lubricous and balmy in the red of the dawn. You pop out the bushes. Sound the alarm. Strike the gong. Fie and again fie—are they deaf? You limp-hop, limp-hop after them. Can they not feel it, here, when you hug them—the boom of the bonny bonny heart? Kiss me or kill me you say. You bare your bosom. Into their trembly hand you smack the butt of the pistol, and close your eyes, and pucker and—poof. Where did they go? 

But you were so close. And so trembly together. The Hurdy-Gurdy unlimbers and the hawk hovers and the champagne on a swing at the end of the tether smacks the hull of the baby destroyer, but then, ka-pow— the shoulder of a something intervenes. The mushroom snorkles up, the lunar lander powders down, the DNA hullabaloos round and around and then… nada. You wipe your brow with the back of your hand. What the hell you wonder. What gives?

Love is what gives. And love is what you got, no? You love yourself. You crimp the hair and brush the teeth and don the pearl-button high-collar Buck Owens buckaroo shirt-and-duster combo with the sequins and the bolo tie and the blaze of that red neckerchief and Roger, and All Systems Go, and you turn to greet the you that waits, all minty fresh and breathy, in the trusty mirror and lo. Lo and behold, a blank. The mirror is clear. 

You smuggle yourself into the belly of a Chinese dragon, centipede up the avenue with your compadres in tow, and when the cops pull you over and demand to see your ID a dragon you say, I am a dragon you liar you, you fibber, you fraud. 

You swab the deck, sing the chanty, clamor—between the teeth a dagger— into the crow’s nest. There it is you figure, a ways off yonder, from out the bitter sea—the brow that boulders up, and now the face, and the bosom, the knuckle, the knee—they belong to you, right? You is what they are, the isle is you, and big as a mountain, and all a-bristle with timber and tor and the scree of the gull and the clatter of goats at the edge of the bluff and – no. Oh no! Woe betide. Onto the rocks the vessel flounders. The rocks, the raptors, the bracken of the reef are not you. You figured it wrong.

You pose for the picture but the picture-taker’s a purist. She hates the camera. Churns her own butter. Hews her own wood. She makes it her mission to paint you. Flat black the color. A statement. She is making a statement. She lowers you into the vat. Creamy the blend, like butter. A baptism you say. You dog-paddle to tug at the hem of her skirt. Gentle, like you touch the part in the hair with a tap of the brush, she presses down with the paddle. 

Now take a deep breath. Into the womb you go. Here comes the ultrasound, that little tickle up the spine. You wave, you give it the thumbs up, you rascal, you wag, you criminal you. 

On the balcony of the mountain château you stand. The phone rings. You listen, with your ears you listen to the ring, but with your hands you shade your eyes. Busy is what you are. A day of slaughter. The bones of your foe you bleach in the sun. From out the fibula you—saucy fella you—whittle a pipe to puff in the chill of the night, you maestro, you maven, you maharajah with the otter-skin beret and the fanny pack and the Breitling Avenger Chronograph 45. The breath bodies up into a bigger you, broad in the shoulder, and supple, and buoyant above the critters that nibble the earth but no, that ain’t the real you, buddy, buddy-boy, not by a long shot. 

You receive a letter from a person who claims to be you. You suspect the person is an imposter because the handwriting does not look familiar, but when you sit down to write a reply, you discover yes, maybe there is a resemblance after all. The note is a ransom note. The tone is apologetic, even tender. The person addresses you as Dearest, and Regretfully Yours it says by way of a sign-off. The signature scooters along in a comfy loopity-loop you skate with the tip of the finger, fluid and firm, as if you’d traveled the route – the spin and the half-spin, the lutz and the triple-lutz— many times before. 

If you ever want to see yourself again says the note, you must—but here the sentence disappears. There’s a hole in the paper where Buster, your dog, who brought you the letter, who brings you all of your letters, bit down with so innocent a vim he swallowed the lede. Buster! Buster can tell by the tone of your voice that he’s failed you, betrayed you, fallen short of the glory of God. Bad Buster. Bad. 

You walk in your sleep, ring doorbells, drive cars, pick berries, give birth to children who people the streets. You scale the water tower with a megaphone and a bag of chips. In a loud voice and under an assumed name you petition God to modify the color of the moon. Between the prayers (on your lunch break) you broadcast the crunch of the potato.

The phone rings. You listen to it ring. You like the sound of the ringing, tuneful and rhythmic and in the key of C. You think of words to go with the tune. You open your mouth to sing the words but the ringing stops. 

You enter the cave with your hand on the belt of the tour guide. Deeper and deeper you go. His headlamp paints the roof of the cavern. Your breath billows out to cloud the cone of light. Down you go. At last you arrive. You light the torch. He kills the lamp. There on the wall above you the animals ripple, the rock wavers in the flame, the outline of an ancient hand shines out in a silhouette of ochre and char. From out the blowgun the brush of the breath. Ruddy the breath of life. You reach up. The palm up. You adjust the angle. Onto the cold of the stone you press your hand. So it’s true. The truth will out. The print on the wall of the cave belongs to—the records, the police report, the eyewitness testimony confirm it— you.

You flee to the shipyard, to the warehouse, to the forge. You pound on the door with the palm of the hand, the pudding— you little chubby you—of the palm of the hand.

“I’m worried,” you say.

“Not to worry,” we say.

“Can you fix me?” you say. 

“Are you fixable?” we say. How many parts, here on the list, are interchangeable? Hair—check. Teeth— check. Leg? We got wood, we got aluminum, we got carbon fiber with a titanium core and a Marquardt XRJ43 ramjet engine. Okay—wood. Larch, pine, oak, cedar, or mahogany? Mahogany it is. We don’t got any mahogany in stock right now, but here’s a loaner leg. No, no. You don’t need a shoe. That’s the beauty of it. No. Not a pegleg. That’s the old-fashioned word. We call it The Streamliner. 

For the lumbar vertebra we got a—Rover’s got a—bone. Rover! Go. Go fetch! We can wedgie it up into the spine and—oh no. Wait. Look at that. The rear bumper’s all saggy and—no. We can’t have that. That’s gotta go. Vinnie. Gimme the chisel. There we go. Now the crowbar. Louie. Go get me the – no. Not the sledgehammer. No. The nail-gun. 

Now we’re talking. Black rubber. Feel it. Feel the tread. Double the crumple zone. Mercy! Look at you. Just look at you. Now there’s a keister do you proud. Go now. Give it a waggle!

The phone rings. You answer it. Who is it you say. It’s me says the voice. A woman’s voice. Who are you? you ask. 

“I’m you. You is who I am.”

“Wait, wait,” you say. “What is your name?”

The voice says the name. The name is the name that you go by. 

“But that’s my name,” you say. “You can’t have that name. That is the name that I go by.”

“I would like to meet you,” says the voice. “We should get together some time. You have such a sexy voice. I know what you like. I could show you a good time.”

You blush. You’ve always been proud of your sexy voice, but never before has anyone – 

“Where are you?” you say. 

“I’m here,” says the voice.

“Here as in where?”

“On the phone, you silly boy. Why don’t you come get me?”

“Give me the address,” you say. You pat yourself down in search of a pen. With vigor now you give yourself a frisking. 

“I can do better than that,” says the voice. You hear the sound of a rustling. “Here is the map. Here I am. Here.”

“But how can I see…”

“It’s more fun this way, don’t you think?”

She hangs up. 

Off you go. West. The sun sets in the west. Follow the heat on the brow and on the back of the hand, the smell of salt in the air. West. To the sea—west. 

But hold on. Wait a minute. Whoa. Ain’t you forgetting something? Over here. Follow the sound of our voice. Easy now. Hold out your hand. You forgot the—feel that? That’s your new eyeball. All we gotta do is—what? Two? We don’t have a work order for two. Not to worry. Here. We got a extra one here. Open your hand. There you go. One, two. No. No it’s not a marble. Why would we give you a marble when—okay. So it feels like a marble, but does that make it a marble? A tumor feels like a tumor but does that make it a tumor? Maybe it’s a bruise, a lump of gristle, a ball of suet the Good Lord shoveled up under the liver there to feed the ravens in the day of reckoning. Off with you now, we say. Go.

The eye that feels like a marble but is not a marble feels like a pebble they tumbled in a tumbler or in the bed of a mountain stream. It rattles when you walk, rattles in the socket of the porcelain skull. The eye that feels like an eye is not—wonder of wonders—an eye. Heavy in the hand is what it is. Chubby. Sweet. A plum or a—no. You bite down. A fig! 

Life is good. Life is sweet. Off you go, down the road. Rattle-thump. Rattle-thump. A decade later you reach the sea. Not so much of you to go on these days, but by golly, what you got is a hundred percent of you. A splinter of a leg, chip of a skull, little nip of the lip. Sleek. Sleek and racy is what you are. 

Into the surf you rattle. Sink. Along the sandy bottom you squirt. Out beyond the breakers you bump the shell of a conch. Round and round and into the center you go. The beastie in the center nibbles away but you nibble back. Eat or be eaten. You break out the calipers. You figure up how much of a you you got left. How much of a muchness.  In the rise and the fall of the tide the hand of God. The voice of the maker in the murmur of the surf. Not with the ear do you hear it, no—the ear the sand erasered away an hour ago, no—but with the all of you you hear it, that shiver up the seam of the amniotic sac, that gelatinous hum, that buzz from out the body of a god bigger than a sea. Speak is what it says, is what you think it says, and you tuck and you roll, and up into a ball you gather that self of yours to muster, when the time is ripe, at the day of judgment, at the sound of the trump, from out the surge below and the gale above and the fizz of the breaker a breath, and from out the breath a voice, and from out the voice a word of wonder.