Day Two: Metamorphoses

Metamorphoses

By Ed Huyck

One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug.

Heh. Old Gregor had it easy. This morning I woke up and I was the July 1957 issue of Playboy, complete with staples that caused me great pain in what, I think, would be my back.

I woke on the couch, unable, of course, to move. The TV was still on, and the morning round of infomercials was already underway. Great, I thought. I can learn more about the Abdominator while I sit here without any abs to speak of. And while someone may enjoy flicking through a 1957 issue of Playboy, being it meant I couldn’t actually see any of it. Not that I had a way to turn the pages.

I sighed. Or gave a glossy paper version of it anyway. I closed my metaphorical eyes and hoped that this one wouldn’t last. While the previous week hadn’t been all that enjoyable, at least being a Roomba meant I could move around – and get some vacuuming done as well.

***

I was a man once, with a job and a girlfriend and some friends as well. I had a name too, though that really isn’t important anymore. Anyway, I went to work five days a week at Fractal Industries. They did… something big and scientific. I was just support staff. I could have been working for a bank or a producer of petrochemicals or anything else. That doesn’t matter. Really, it doesn’t.

And I had friends. We’d go out Friday and Saturday nights, and sometimes Sunday night as well. OK, Monday through Thursday were also a possibility. We all worked downtown and would meet after work, before grabbing the late trains back to our homes.

And there was my girl, Nancy. We’d get together when I wasn’t out with the guys; or we’d do something with my friends and her friends. We’d even gotten to the hanging out with family stage of the relationship.

That’s all gone now. I can barely remember what she looked like.

***

It’s Tuesday, the worst day of the week for me. That’s when my mother comes by, and here I am, a 50-year-old issue of Playboy. Now, I’m not worried she’ll toss me out – she can always recognize me, even when I’m a garbage can or a set of encyclopedias. It’s just… it’s always embarrassing when your mother finds your Playboys and Penthouses and the like; now imagine that you are actually one of those. Yeah, not fun.

The door unlocked. “Harry, I’m here,” she called. Ah, Harold. I was Harold. Right.

Of course, I didn’t say anything. That wasn’t unexpected. It was a rare transformation that allowed me to speak. My mother – short, nearly 70 and with a big head of blue-gray hair – approached to the couch. She saw the magazine, tisked a bit (she always knew what I was; must be a mother thing) and then set about tidying up. She came over once a week, bringing groceries that I may or may not eat; taking away the spoiled food from the previous week and generally chattering for a couple of hours.

This had gone on for years. I’ve lost track of time, but I’ve seen a number of seasons pass out my window. She came over every week and I knew she must have handled my bills – rent, electricity and cable. The phone was long gone and I really couldn’t use a computer enough to make it worthwhile. At least, that’s what she said.

She chattered away through the morning, talking about cousins that I barely remembered and the comings and goings in the neighborhood. She’d propped me up on a pillow on the couch and changed the channel to ESPN, which she thought I liked. I really didn’t, but it was better than spending the day with the Abdominator.

Finally around noon, she made lunch for the two of us. I sat on a chair in the kitchen while she ate. There were two plates. After the meal, she cleaned up, tossing away my food. She gave me a few more words of encouragement, replaced me on the couch and gingerly – with a pained looked on her face – kissed me on the logo.

***

I’d never read “Metamorphosis” before my own… condition started. Once, I was transformed into a kind of Tolkien Orc and I was able to get out of the apartment for a few days. During that time, I made a few visits to the library and found a copy of the Kafka, hoping there might be some clues to my own life and maybe a way to solve it.

I tore through the book sitting in the library, ignoring the looks from patrons and librarians who were shocked by my appearance (though I wore a heavy coat and hat) and smell (there was nothing I could do about that). I read it that afternoon, and was disappointed by the time I reached the end.

No answers. No clues. Just poor Gregor getting worse and worse until he died.

Great.

That hasn’t happened to me yet. Maybe the continual transformations keep me strong. Maybe I’m made of sterner stuff. Maybe Kafka was just a sad sack loser who couldn’t get a date.
***

Nancy split up with me in the second week of my transformations. I was a wild goose that day, which made it easier for her. All I could do was honk while she told me that it wasn’t going to work.

“It’s just… you’ve changed.”

“Honk!” (But we were getting so close. I even liked that family dinner we had last month, even after your uncle set the picnic table on fire.)

“I can’t do this. You never were that responsive to my needs.”

“Honk?” (But I did everything you asked, even took up yoga.).

It went on for some time like that. She’d list off my faults, from my love of going out and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon while watching bad local bands to the fact that I never swept very well and always missed the crumbs under the cupboard. My self-esteem would have been shot, if there had been any left to destroy.

“I’m sorry, Harry. It’s over.”

My plaintive honks were ignored as she returned my apartment key, and then took hers off the ring. “I don’t imagine you can call, but I’d hope that you wouldn’t when you can,” she said as she left.

I honked one last time in sorrow and went to drown it out with some fresh fish my mother had brought over for me to eat.

***

The afternoon is always the worst, especially when I’m trapped as an inanimate object. Creatures have needs – eating, shitting, sleeping and the like – that can be used to fill out the day. A magazine, however, can do nothing but watch. I can’t even truly sleep in this condition.

Instead, I watch the sunlight slowly grow on the stained carpet (even the best cleaners in the world can’t get pony droppings or the acid from a fly’s mouth out) and sometimes watched what was on TV. There was an early round of a golf tournament on today. I never had any interest in the sport, but endless days spent stuck in front of a single channel had made me an expert. So I hated every moment as I analyzed Tiger Woods’ game and wanted to shout at Phil Mickelson’s caddy as he made a particularly bone-headed club choice.

Alas, none of that for me. So I went back and watched the sunlight some more, wondering what the evening would bring.
***

The first time it happened it was a bit like poor old Gregor. I remember the evening of strange dreams and feeling odd in the night. When I awoke. I couldn’t get out of bed. I tried to push myself up, but my arms didn’t work the way they were supposed to. Then some – instinct perhaps? – made me rock side to side and I flipped over from my back to my, I discovered, six feet. I scuttered to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

Not a cockroach for me. Just a big fucking beetle. I tried to scream, but just some chittering came out. After that, I don’t remember much of the next few days. Of course I didn’t go to work and listened in vain as the calls piled up on my answering machine. My mother called in panic as well and then visited. She screamed when she came in and ran out right away. The next day, she came in again.

“Harold?”

I can what I thought was a nod. Somehow, she understood.

My mother didn’t touch me that day, but she did bring me some appropriate food. She called Fractal and told them I’d had a breakdown and would not be able to work for the next few weeks. She managed to get me sick leave – and then burned up my vacation days – before she admitted defeat. I “resigned” (as much as a six-foot long beetle could).

The next night, my dreams were odd once more. I awoke and felt different. More solid through the center. Was I back?

Not quite. That day, my mother found a small front loading washing machine in my bed. She understood right away, put me upright and then – always the practical one – did a load of my laundry.

***

Though I don’t sleep in this form, I do slip into a kind of fugue state. I was “awoken” from that in the middle of the night by the sound of someone forcing the door. It had happened before. The burglars would take a few things – there really was little of value – and go. Twice, I’d been creatures, which gave them a start, especially staring down a giant parrot who screamed “Gregor was a loser” over and over again.

There was just one this time. A man in his 20s it looked like. He saw that the TV was still on, but noticed that no one was about. The TV was an ancient model, so no one ever bothered with it. Instead, he grabbed a few spare dollars from my wallet (my mother always kept some in there, for hope I guess) and a pile of CDs I hadn’t listened to in years.

Then he saw me. And smiled.

“Hmmm,” he said, to himself I’m sure. “50 years old. Vintage. Worth something I’m sure.”

And he grabbed me and ran off. I was in a bag next to my wallet and a copy of Starship’s Greatest Hits, so I couldn’t see a thing apart from the fact that track six was “We Built This City.” I could feel the cool night air as he raced down the street and then got into his car.

Now I don’t know where I am. I think I’m in a footlocker that the burglar has. I’m next to a bunch of junk that he must have lifted from elsewhere. My back jostles against a pile of Xbox 360 games and when there’s light, I can still see my damned Starship case. Sometimes, he plays it and sings along in a tuneless voice. Other times, he pulls me out and uses the pictures of now dead or at least ancient women to play with himself. It’s not a pretty sight, and my pages are starting to get wrinkled.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I usually don’t stay as one shape for more than a few weeks. And there are odd dreams tickling on my consciousness. And the man never leaves the footlocker clasped shut.

Hmmm. There’s so many things I haven’t been before.

A panther sounds nice. Yeah.

So as I drift off into nothingness, I keep the image stuck in my head, and hope that when I come back I’ll have four paws.

And sharp teeth.