(SPECULATIVE FICTION)
OLDER MODEL
TREVOR KROGER
OLDER MODEL
TREVOR KROGER
Jerome’s knee started clenching again as the subway took a sharp turn through the tunnel. This always happened when he’d been standing too long - and “too long” was growing shorter every day. He looked around for an empty seat, or rather at this time of day someone willing to give up their seat out of pity for a pained old body. At these times everyone looked so much more closely at their phones and tablets, heads sinking down like turtles to avoid eye contact.
Jerome didn’t expect much more, of course. He’d been the same in his younger days - not that long ago, really - so he couldn’t hold it against them. Didn’t make his poor knee hurt any less though, and he couldn’t help his face twisting into a grimace as another jolt of the subway car gave him a fresh flash of pain.
At least he put on a good show. A small boy with a kiddie-hawk haircut and holograph of happy cartoon mutants on his shirt gaped at Jerome. “Mommy, what’s wrong with that man?” he asked in innocent wonderment.
His mother, one of those high-strung yuppie sorts with a severe haircut, reluctantly looked up from her phone. “I’m so sorry,” she said automatically. Adding, grudgingly, because it was expected, “Would you like to sit down?”
As much as he enjoyed watching these sorts squirm, Jerome’s knee just couldn’t keep up with the train today. “Thank you. Yes, thanks.”
The woman tried her best to politely ignore him once he was settled on the seat, between a grumbling fat man in a heavy suit and a fatter woman who sniffed with indignation at Jerome, the train, and just the whole world in general. They all tried their passive aggressive best but the little boy just couldn’t let things go - “But what’s wrong with him? Why’s his skin look like that?” His little voice carried up and down the subway car, even over the squeal of the rusty tracks.
“Mason, stop it!” his mother hissed back. And again to Jerome, she said with repressed bitterness, “I’m so sorry. He knows better than this.”
He clearly didn’t but Jerome just chuckled. “It’s fine, really,” he assured her, making a magnanimous gesture with one gnarled hand. Then, addressing the little boy directly, “Hey Mason, want to know how my skin got like this?”
The boy answered with an excited "Yeah!" while his mother tittered "No he doesn't – No you don't!"
Ignoring her, Jerome told Mason with more than a hint of pride, "I let it happen! I let myself grow old!"
Mason, his little face awash in confusion, asked, "Why?"
Jerome stroked his withered chin in thought. "Well, y'see, some folks can't afford to just buy a fresh body whenever they feel like it. Some of us need to take out a loan – like what they did in the old days for houses."
Of course little Mason couldn't be expected to know what a "house" was. Not in this day and age. And his mother's peevish look, twisting the expertly designed lines of her bluish skin, indicated she didn't care for her son to be learning about history and economics on the subway. Certainly not from some prol who hadn't bothered to plan for his own timely resleeving.
So Jerome continued. "And some of the loans take so long to pay off, you gotta take out a new one for a new body while you're still paying off the old one. Unless!" and Jerome wagged one knobby old finger for emphasis, "Unless you stick with that old body 'til you're all paid off and then some. Get your money's worth!"
"Yeah!" Mason agreed excitedly, much to the mortification of his mother.
As the train pulled into the next station, the woman pulled her son along by the arm while politely mumbling, "Here's our stop. So sorry to bother you…" As they were washed away in the rush of commuters getting off, she could still be heard scolding the little boy, "I've told you not to talk to strangers."
Mason responded, "I'm never taking out any loans! I'm keeping this body forever!"
"We'll talk about that when you're older…"
Jerome didn't mind the few stares he got throughout the exchange. Or after. Running out the loan on this body had given him enough time – and drawn plenty of other gawking youngsters – for him to consider such attentions terribly normal. So few people thought twice about resleeving when those first gray hairs and crow's feet appeared, even if it meant refinancing their older skin to buy new. Souls in their diamond-hard brain tubes, shuffling through one meatsack after another and trailing lifetimes of debt.
Jerome smiled to himself. He wasn't quite beating the system but he was putting up a better fight than most. And he'd be darn if he was gonna spend another life in hoc to those bankster swine…
It took more effort than expected to stand back up as the train sowed to its stop. Old knees that got older by the day – much faster than his first body. He'd bet what he still owed on his current meatsack that the engineered obsolescence was ratcheting up. As he hobbled off the train, Jerome ignored the pitying glances from all the younger, fresher models. Those that averted their eyes in disgust just made him all the more pleased with his scheme. Not much longer now!
Puddles from a recent rainstorm rested scattered across the subway platform. Depressions in the concrete the city council had been promising to refurbish since before Jerome's knee started to hurt. He stepped through them slowly, carefully, conscious of the brittle bones that had carried him so far. Very conscious of how much further he'd need to go.
But not too conscious of the slick handrails on the stairs leading down to the streets. Jerome's knee tensed halfway down, his hand slid clean off the rail, and he tumbled like a trash bag full of sticks and glass the rest of the way down.
As he lay on the grimy sidewalk, racked with pain and surrounded by gawkers, he reflected that at least he wouldn't need so much of a loan this time for his next body.
Jerome didn’t expect much more, of course. He’d been the same in his younger days - not that long ago, really - so he couldn’t hold it against them. Didn’t make his poor knee hurt any less though, and he couldn’t help his face twisting into a grimace as another jolt of the subway car gave him a fresh flash of pain.
At least he put on a good show. A small boy with a kiddie-hawk haircut and holograph of happy cartoon mutants on his shirt gaped at Jerome. “Mommy, what’s wrong with that man?” he asked in innocent wonderment.
His mother, one of those high-strung yuppie sorts with a severe haircut, reluctantly looked up from her phone. “I’m so sorry,” she said automatically. Adding, grudgingly, because it was expected, “Would you like to sit down?”
As much as he enjoyed watching these sorts squirm, Jerome’s knee just couldn’t keep up with the train today. “Thank you. Yes, thanks.”
The woman tried her best to politely ignore him once he was settled on the seat, between a grumbling fat man in a heavy suit and a fatter woman who sniffed with indignation at Jerome, the train, and just the whole world in general. They all tried their passive aggressive best but the little boy just couldn’t let things go - “But what’s wrong with him? Why’s his skin look like that?” His little voice carried up and down the subway car, even over the squeal of the rusty tracks.
“Mason, stop it!” his mother hissed back. And again to Jerome, she said with repressed bitterness, “I’m so sorry. He knows better than this.”
He clearly didn’t but Jerome just chuckled. “It’s fine, really,” he assured her, making a magnanimous gesture with one gnarled hand. Then, addressing the little boy directly, “Hey Mason, want to know how my skin got like this?”
The boy answered with an excited "Yeah!" while his mother tittered "No he doesn't – No you don't!"
Ignoring her, Jerome told Mason with more than a hint of pride, "I let it happen! I let myself grow old!"
Mason, his little face awash in confusion, asked, "Why?"
Jerome stroked his withered chin in thought. "Well, y'see, some folks can't afford to just buy a fresh body whenever they feel like it. Some of us need to take out a loan – like what they did in the old days for houses."
Of course little Mason couldn't be expected to know what a "house" was. Not in this day and age. And his mother's peevish look, twisting the expertly designed lines of her bluish skin, indicated she didn't care for her son to be learning about history and economics on the subway. Certainly not from some prol who hadn't bothered to plan for his own timely resleeving.
So Jerome continued. "And some of the loans take so long to pay off, you gotta take out a new one for a new body while you're still paying off the old one. Unless!" and Jerome wagged one knobby old finger for emphasis, "Unless you stick with that old body 'til you're all paid off and then some. Get your money's worth!"
"Yeah!" Mason agreed excitedly, much to the mortification of his mother.
As the train pulled into the next station, the woman pulled her son along by the arm while politely mumbling, "Here's our stop. So sorry to bother you…" As they were washed away in the rush of commuters getting off, she could still be heard scolding the little boy, "I've told you not to talk to strangers."
Mason responded, "I'm never taking out any loans! I'm keeping this body forever!"
"We'll talk about that when you're older…"
Jerome didn't mind the few stares he got throughout the exchange. Or after. Running out the loan on this body had given him enough time – and drawn plenty of other gawking youngsters – for him to consider such attentions terribly normal. So few people thought twice about resleeving when those first gray hairs and crow's feet appeared, even if it meant refinancing their older skin to buy new. Souls in their diamond-hard brain tubes, shuffling through one meatsack after another and trailing lifetimes of debt.
Jerome smiled to himself. He wasn't quite beating the system but he was putting up a better fight than most. And he'd be darn if he was gonna spend another life in hoc to those bankster swine…
It took more effort than expected to stand back up as the train sowed to its stop. Old knees that got older by the day – much faster than his first body. He'd bet what he still owed on his current meatsack that the engineered obsolescence was ratcheting up. As he hobbled off the train, Jerome ignored the pitying glances from all the younger, fresher models. Those that averted their eyes in disgust just made him all the more pleased with his scheme. Not much longer now!
Puddles from a recent rainstorm rested scattered across the subway platform. Depressions in the concrete the city council had been promising to refurbish since before Jerome's knee started to hurt. He stepped through them slowly, carefully, conscious of the brittle bones that had carried him so far. Very conscious of how much further he'd need to go.
But not too conscious of the slick handrails on the stairs leading down to the streets. Jerome's knee tensed halfway down, his hand slid clean off the rail, and he tumbled like a trash bag full of sticks and glass the rest of the way down.
As he lay on the grimy sidewalk, racked with pain and surrounded by gawkers, he reflected that at least he wouldn't need so much of a loan this time for his next body.
Trevor Kroger is a writer and librarian residing in Brooklyn. His first novel, Fiend, was released in November of 2010 and his second novel, One Nation Under God, in November of 2011. His work has previously appeared in Potluck Magazine, Babbling of the Irrational, and Blood Moon Rising Magazine.