made redundant, in which case the Department would reluctantly pay me my fortnightly allowance, or I had to become some sort of criminal, a life for which I lacked many fundamental skills.
I had to take the job. I had no choice.
After some time had passed, I got up and walked to the shop and introduced myself, mentioned the Department, and handed over the piece of A4 paper. I made my mouth move into some approximate smiles, and expressed a dull sort of keenness. My keenness was, however, overshadowed by the enthusiasm of the two managers of theshop. They explained excitedly that the franchise was an entirely new concept in tattoo parlours, in that the tattoos already existed and were grafted onto the recipient. The tattoos were carefully sliced from the bodies of corpses, young corpses being preferable as the artwork would not have blurred and turned blue.
The corpses were stored in a refrigerated chamber at the back of the shop, where they lay stiffly, awaiting a wealthy customer who would take their illustrated skin for their own.
I thought back to the morning, when I had awoken at 10.30 and ambled across the town to sign on at the Department.
That life now seemed distant.
My tasks at the shop were not onerous, but I desperately missed my indolence. I was required to be at work early in the morning, when the streets were filled with strange smells and sounds I was unaccustomed to. At the shop I sat behind a desk and, when a customer entered, would talk vaguely with them, correlating their personal details with entries in a database. I saw the managers in the morning and at closing time, and at lunchtime they would leave the premises to dine in one of the restaurants.
I was not so lucky. The interruption of my routine had unbalanced my eating habits severely. A gnawing, acidic hunger plagued my belly, but the idea of eating my hastily prepared packed lunches was completely repellent. Consequently I began to focus unhealthily on what I imagined took place in the back rooms when the managers wereworking on the customers. During slack periods I would stare with unfocused eyes at the computer monitor, images of scalpels and the dark blood on green latex gloves washing against the shores of my mind.
I also thought often of Giros I had cashed in the past, each one like a beautiful girlfriend who had been everything I wanted, but whom I had never really appreciated. I hadn’t much cared for the Department, but from my chair behind my desk, behind the plate glass that glazed the shop, my memories grew fonder.
The idea of the tattoo grafts disgusted me. There was no art needed here. Despite what had been said to me, this was definitely not ‘just the thing for me’. I wanted desperately to be made redundant.
After several weeks the managers asked me if I would like a promotion. The franchise was going well, and one of the managers was going to open a shop in the next town. They were going to hire a new receptionist, and offered me a position on the team.
Darkly, in a gloomy corner of my being, I clutched at my Giro, but it was further out of my reach than ever. Somehow, a piece of A4 paper and a biro had altered my life profoundly. I had no idea how to undo the alteration.
It was growing dark outside, and I was led into a room that was artificially lit.
There was much to learn, and at first it didn’t seem possible that I would ever be on the team. But the manager who had remained at the shop persevered, and eventually his sometimes-manic enthusiasm paid off.
An effect of the arrangement that I had not considered was my increased wage. Startled, I moved to a nicer flat, and began to take an interest in shop-window displays. At lunchtime I went to restaurants with the manager who had remained at the shop and I developed an interest in dining that was wholly new to me. It was only occasionally now that I felt hunger, and those times were like a dimly felt nostalgia.
I bought a bicycle, and at weekends I
I had to take the job. I had no choice.
After some time had passed, I got up and walked to the shop and introduced myself, mentioned the Department, and handed over the piece of A4 paper. I made my mouth move into some approximate smiles, and expressed a dull sort of keenness. My keenness was, however, overshadowed by the enthusiasm of the two managers of theshop. They explained excitedly that the franchise was an entirely new concept in tattoo parlours, in that the tattoos already existed and were grafted onto the recipient. The tattoos were carefully sliced from the bodies of corpses, young corpses being preferable as the artwork would not have blurred and turned blue.
The corpses were stored in a refrigerated chamber at the back of the shop, where they lay stiffly, awaiting a wealthy customer who would take their illustrated skin for their own.
I thought back to the morning, when I had awoken at 10.30 and ambled across the town to sign on at the Department.
That life now seemed distant.
My tasks at the shop were not onerous, but I desperately missed my indolence. I was required to be at work early in the morning, when the streets were filled with strange smells and sounds I was unaccustomed to. At the shop I sat behind a desk and, when a customer entered, would talk vaguely with them, correlating their personal details with entries in a database. I saw the managers in the morning and at closing time, and at lunchtime they would leave the premises to dine in one of the restaurants.
I was not so lucky. The interruption of my routine had unbalanced my eating habits severely. A gnawing, acidic hunger plagued my belly, but the idea of eating my hastily prepared packed lunches was completely repellent. Consequently I began to focus unhealthily on what I imagined took place in the back rooms when the managers wereworking on the customers. During slack periods I would stare with unfocused eyes at the computer monitor, images of scalpels and the dark blood on green latex gloves washing against the shores of my mind.
I also thought often of Giros I had cashed in the past, each one like a beautiful girlfriend who had been everything I wanted, but whom I had never really appreciated. I hadn’t much cared for the Department, but from my chair behind my desk, behind the plate glass that glazed the shop, my memories grew fonder.
The idea of the tattoo grafts disgusted me. There was no art needed here. Despite what had been said to me, this was definitely not ‘just the thing for me’. I wanted desperately to be made redundant.
After several weeks the managers asked me if I would like a promotion. The franchise was going well, and one of the managers was going to open a shop in the next town. They were going to hire a new receptionist, and offered me a position on the team.
Darkly, in a gloomy corner of my being, I clutched at my Giro, but it was further out of my reach than ever. Somehow, a piece of A4 paper and a biro had altered my life profoundly. I had no idea how to undo the alteration.
It was growing dark outside, and I was led into a room that was artificially lit.
There was much to learn, and at first it didn’t seem possible that I would ever be on the team. But the manager who had remained at the shop persevered, and eventually his sometimes-manic enthusiasm paid off.
An effect of the arrangement that I had not considered was my increased wage. Startled, I moved to a nicer flat, and began to take an interest in shop-window displays. At lunchtime I went to restaurants with the manager who had remained at the shop and I developed an interest in dining that was wholly new to me. It was only occasionally now that I felt hunger, and those times were like a dimly felt nostalgia.
I bought a bicycle, and at weekends I
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