This Week's Story
Doll
There is a funny smell in the air when I wake up. I can’t place it at first. It is familiar and out of place. When I open my eyes, my eyelids made a strange noise- a little click. At first I think, there is something in there. When I try to reach up and wipe them, my arms and fingers are stiff. They aren’t sore- it’s just that I can’t move them.
I’m frightened. Have I been tied up? That’s my first thought. But no, I can move my arms, they are just heavy and inflexible. I try to remember what I was doing yesterday, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would make it hard for me to move.
Plastic. That’s the smell. The rubbery type of plastic that baby dolls and dressing up dolls are made of. Maybe it’s vinyl. Or just rubber. I’m not thinking of the barbie-types but the larger dolls that are supposed to look like toddlers or little girls. I raise my hand to my nose with difficulty and breath in. I smell like vinyl.
Swinging my heavy legs over the side of the bed I totter to the bathroom. I can’t bend my legs very well and although I’m not in any pain, I’m having trouble walking. My head hits the door frame. I am taller than I was yesterday. And wider too; it’s difficult to squeeze through the tight doorframe. In the mirror my face is not mine. I stare for a long time, twisting my head back and forth until I really believe what it is I’m seeing. I’m a doll. I’m not saying I’m attractive; I’m saying I’ve turned into a doll during the night.
My head is molded out of vinyl with wide eyes and extruded plastic hair. My mouth is painted and there is a seam around my neck.
I can feel my heart beating so that leads me to believe that I’m still inside this body somehow. I don’t have time to figure out how to get out of the doll, I have to get to work. Dressing turns out to not be such a big problem, my clothes have morphed as well, turning into the type of five-year-old dolly dresses that I remember my nieces playing with last Christmas. I put on the most subdued of the lot, a blue dress with white trim and try to buckle my shoes. It proves to be difficult and in the end I squish my feet into a pair of doll ballet flats. They are pink and they don’t match my dress, but I’m already late.
I’m halfway out the door when I realize I forgot my purse. It takes a good fifteen minutes to get back into the hall and to the hook where I hang it. It seems ridiculously small in my large cumbersome hands.
It is a relief to get out onto the sidewalk. There are very few people out and I have room to swing my legs out. I pick up my pace, gaining momentum as I sway side to side, twisting my torso to swing each leg out and forward. My shoes prove to be poorly made and by the time I’ve made it to the subway stairs they are torn in several places. There is no time to try and remove them now. I move onto the stairs and find them absurdly narrow. I can barely fit my foot on each step without teetering forward. I try to cling to the railing which is now slippery and also too small for my bulky hand. Somehow I make it to the bottom without falling. And as I stand there I realize I will never, no matter how hard I try, fit through the turnstile. I could hit myself on the head, but by the time I get my hand high enough the moment has passed. How am I going to get through?
As I get closer I realize that I am much taller than I used to be. I can actually, with a little jump, easily sit on the turnstile and if I keep the momentum going, I hope, I could, possibly, swing my legs over to the other side.
I lean against the edge of the stile and try to jump. Nothing happens. I try again, bending my heavy vinyl legs as much as possible. They bend slightly and when I release I bounce up higher than I expected. I grasp the slick metal top and plant my bottom on it, clutching the top arm for dear life. The only good thing about this is that I’m not sweating. Keeping the movement going I let go of the arm and lean back, swing my legs up and over the arms and pull myself forward until I slide off the other side. Unfortunately, I’m on the ground now. Grabbling with my hand closest to the turnstile I try to find something that will help me to stand up. I can’t bend my legs enough to lever myself into a standing position.
“Hey now,” I hear someone say, “There’s none of that here.”
Someone, I assume it’s the same someone, grabs me and hauls me up.
“Well, you’re a big girl aren’t you?”
I’m just about to give them a piece of my mind, big girl indeed, when a security guard comes over.
“Ma’am,” the guard says, “I’m going to have to ask you to go back out and enter with payment.”
I try to explain that I will not fit, when I realize something that makes my stomach clench and any feeling part of me go cold. My face is molded. I reach my hands to my mouth and try to run my finger over my lips. My mouth is molded. I cannot open it. I open my arms trying to tell the guard that there is no way I’m going to fit through there and then I notice my purse swing from my left arm like a spider web on a fallen tree. Slowly, so slowly, I paw through my purse until I find my wallet. I can’t open it so I hold it out to the guard who takes it carefully, as if she thinks I’m handing her a bomb. I wave my hand at it and she opens it, flips through the cards and finds my pass. She swipes it, puts it back in the wallet and back into my purse.
“Swipe first next time,” she says before she wanders away.
I have no mouth and that makes me think of the rest of my body. Do I have any holes anywhere? I didn’t want to start groping myself in the middle of the platform. I swung my way to the side and waited for the train. Would I fit through the doors? I didn’t know. It was late though. Rush hour was over.
If I have no holes for ears how can I hear? I don’t want to think about it too much because if I do, I might just go deaf. How can I see? My eyes are hard plastic now. I reach a thick arm up to touch them and realize I am touching the surface of them. I don’t feel it. I run my hands over the opposite arm and I cannot tell if I am feeling it or if I am imagining what it feels like. Somehow I am breathing. Or at least I’m alive. I can feel my heart beating and when I try to take a deep breath I can feel my chest and ribs expand and I think I feel the air going into my lungs.
One train has already passed. I shuffle closer to the edge of the platform. My train arrives and I trundle forward, wedging my broad body through the sliding doors. They close on me while I am still trying to fit through. The high beeping starts, making my heart beat faster. I try to pull myself through and finally another passenger, the only other one in the car, steps up and grabs my arm to help me. I try to smile at him but my mouth is only painted on.
Nervously I hover near the doorway. I have to be close when it’s my stop or I won’t be able to make it through in time. The man who helped me gets off. I have two more stops and then I have to move. Open, close. Open, close. I am relieved that no one tries to get in the car with me. I am blocking most of the doorway.
Open.
I throw myself forward, getting stuck partway through. But, I have built up some momentum and the piercing beep only goes off once before I burst out onto the platform.
Close.
If I could sweat I would be dripping right now.
Only one more set of stairs, a few blocks and then I’ll be at work. I’m a manager of an international food manufacturer. I should say I am the North American Head of Global Sales and Development of an international food manufacturer. That’s my title. North American Head of Global Sales and Development. Today is the big meeting. The Big Meeting. All the other heads of Global Sales and Development from around the world are joining us to plan our strategy and discuss tactical changes to our sales and development departments. There are thirty people supposed to be at the first meeting of the day. And I don’t know how many at the others. Lots.
All I can think about now, is how I’m going to make it up the stairs. They loom like a never-ending track sloping above me. I never realized how steep a set of stairs could be before. I think, if I turn sideways I just might fit into the escalator. Lining myself up with my right side facing the moving steps I tilt to the left and raise my right leg. Swinging to the right I stomp my leg onto the next moving step and swing up my left leg. I am going up the stairs. It is a snug fit and after a few seconds I realize my arm is stuck between my hip and the interior panel of the metal balustrade. It begins to squeak. The long-drawn-out noise of a squeegee against a window that is almost dry. I try to shift and almost lose my balance. My arm is still stuck, and the high-pitched squeaking turns to a whine and grows louder at I reach the middle of the long incline. The friction between my arm and the metal is pulling me backwards and I grab the moving handle on the opposite side. I cannot look around to see if anyone else is in the stairwell. I’m too big to budge. The pulling has unwedged me. I have room enough to move my hand and I reach it up to the handrail. They are moving slightly slower than the stairs. I have to continually lift my hands and move them forward. It is difficult to get a firm grasp. These steps are deeper than the stairs and fit my feet better. Finally, I am at the top.
I step forward. The street is fairly clear, I can see down the three blocks to the edge of my building. It is a hard grey stone and glass structure. The lobby is always cold. Today it seems warmer than normal.
“Good morning, Ms. Dupree,” Gus calls out as I pass by. No matter how many times I tell him to call me Alyce he always uses my surname. I give him a small wave and try to smile even though I know it is useless. I’m already smiling anyway, I think, remembering how I looked in the mirror, maybe he’ll think I’m smiling back at him.
The elevator has shrunk since I rode it last. I duck my head to avoid hitting it against the doorframe and scoot back. I have no idea what time it is. I didn’t even try to get my watch on this morning. I stand for a moment when the door closes and then remember that I haven’t pushed a button yet. Normally I go to the twelfth floor, for which I have to use my key card. Today we are meeting on the tenth. I lean forward and smash my molded paw against the buttons. Several of them light up, but ten is not one of them. I do it again, aiming carefully this time. Ten lights up. I wait. The ride is slow because I have inadvertently pressed many of the other floors as well. As the doors open I get glimpses into what the rest of the company is doing. People are quietly at their desks or hovered over a counter in a test kitchen. We have several floors of test kitchens in this building. Our president likes to work closely with the product development teams. I feel as if I am getting a glimpse of a television screen in someone’s house every time the door opens. I’m leaning close to the buttons, my arm right next to them so that I only have to lean forward slightly to press the close door button. Unfortunately I also end up pressing one or two other numbered buttons. I watch the floors pass. Ten. The door opens.
I tilt forward, almost falling through, getting stuck partway. It is not too difficult to get myself forward and when I look around there is no one in the lobby. Through the glass I can see Roberta at the reception desk. She is on the phone. I shuffle forward and lean against the glass doors. They swing easily open.
From behind me Mr. Stewart brushes in.
“Alyce,” he says, his voice as brusque as always, “We’re in room 305 instead of 309. Something about the carpet, I don’t know. You are up second and Eun [he stumbles over the name, as always] is after you. Pat and Jesse have just about finished. Have you done something different to your hair?”
He pauses just slightly and frowns at me as if he can’t remember what I’m supposed to look like.
I try to shake my head but he has already turned around and is striding down the hall. Ahead of us in the corridor is a group of employees that I don’t know very well. Secretaries and assistants. They start whispering as we pass.
“That’s a new look…”
“Showing off…”
“I think it’s cute…”
“Not something you see every day…”
“Is that even appropriate for work…”
“Very brave…”
I can’t decide whether I should stare them all down or not but the moment passes and we’ve moved on down the hall. To my relief room 305 has a set of double doors and Mr. Stewart opens both of them as we enter. He always likes it when a meeting stops for his entrance. I stutter in behind him. The soles of my pink shoes are almost worn away. I can feel the fabric flapping around my ankles and the bare parts of my feet drag slightly on the carpet.
The room is large but not quite large enough. There are people packed in, standing against the walls behind all the visiting foreigners, who are sitting at the long table. I try to keep up with Mr. Stewart but the small space slows me down and soon I’m forcing my way through the crowded alley between those standing against the walls and the backs of the chairs.
Pat and Jesse finish their presentation. I’m sorry I’ve missed it; they’ve been working on it for months now, wanting to get everything just right. We all went over it together a few days ago and it sounded great, but I know they were both still nervous. I can’t even give them a thumbs up or smile at them. Silently I watched them gather their things and move to the side. There is a smattering of polite applause. I think Pat sends a look over my way but I can’t be sure because Mr. Stewart is introducing me,
“…as you can see,” he is saying, looking over at the Finish representative [he’s heard they are serious about women in the workplace], “We hire all sorts here.”
I look over towards the woman from Finland and wish I could speak with her in private. But I can’t even open my mouth. As I step to the front of the room I cannot control the trembling of my stomach or my legs. I can’t even speak anymore. How am I going to give my presentation?
There is a long silence while I fight my way to the front of the room. Everyone moves out of the way but I’m still bumbling through the space between the front cabinet and the table. Finally I’m there.
The slides aren’t ready yet and Riley is fumbling with the laptop. Finally the first one pops up on the screen and I try to gesture at it but my arm has gone numb. I can’t lift it anymore. With my other hand I reach for the pointer that is on the table in front of me. It is only loosely in my grasp; my fingers seem to have fused together and the rubber or plastic or vinyl that is not my body is getting firmer. The pointer waves wildly around when I try to aim at the images. It smashes against the white board but leaves no mark. The next slide flashes up and there is a murmur through the room. I look at it and realize, my heart pounding painfully, that I can’t remember what I meant to say. I look at the slide and don’t even try to point any more. They are flashing past without me, not so slowly as to be boring but not so fast that people cannot read them. A couple time someone asks Riley to pause and people begin debating what I have put on a slide. Most people are taking notes. It’s a great presentation.
Everyone begins to chatter as Eun steps up to the front. I try to move back but my legs are even more inflexible now. I try to back towards the wall and I end up leaning backwards until Mr. Stewart grabs me and pushes me to the side.
Eun begins the next presentation. It is shorter than mine but, I think, better. The points are clearer and made more succinctly. This is a good meeting.
When Eun is finished everyone applauds, more enthusiastically than before. People are stretching and chatting and moving around the room. It’s lunch now. We are being served in the upper floor dining room, the one that has such a great view over the city. Everyone files out. I’m waiting until it is empty so that I can swing myself around and through the mess of chairs and tables that are in my path.
“Be a doll, would you..,” I hear Mr. Stewart say to someone, I don’t see who. His voice fades out the door and into the hall.
Finally, the room clears. The last person closes the doors and turns off the lights. I don’t call out. My face is painted on. I find that I can no longer move. The rubber of my body had hardened and any articulation I had has disappeared. I can feel my lungs moving in and out with my breath but I’m not sure where the air is coming from or where it is going. My heart is beating. I can feel it.
No one comes back into the room after lunch. They must have moved on. I lose track of time. The blinds are covering the windows and I’m surprised when the door opens and the cleaners come in.
“Tyne,” the taller cleaner says to the shorter one, “Look in the corner. What do you think that is?”
They move closer to me.
“It must be some kind of prop they use,” Tyne says, looking closely at my face. A hand reaches up and flicks my eyelids.
“Look the eyes move.”
“Let’s finish this room and get moving. That thing creeps me out.”
It isn’t long before the room is back in order and I am alone.
I’ve never been alone in the office like this. It is quiet. There is a clock ticking somewhere. The darkness cools and gathers around my legs. My heart is still beating.