You just laughed a bit. Admit it. But
let me tell you what a job is, for me.
It's picking a form. That includes
gender, skeletal structure, ethnicity, features, hair, the whole
thing. I have to know that form, down to the last epidermal
imperfection. I have to know the name, the voice, the accent, the
history, the walk, the little habits that you all notice so easily.
Everything there is to know about this
person, I have to know. Things that will never come up in
conversation, things the likes of which I have never experienced. I
have to know what this person likes for breakfast, for pastries, how
to make sure they can avoid coffee, tea and soda, how to make sure I
can consume alcohol while around others without arousing suspicion.
And I have to maintain this lie that
extends down into my bones, this fakery, indefinitely. Most of you
wouldn't notice a rhinoceros at your dinner table, but you will
notice if I forget whether the mole was on the left or right side of
my throat. You will spot inconsistencies in my stories, in my
behaviors, will focus in on them, become obsessed.
I always have to pick a history that
allows me to be uncomfortable with people. Orphan is good, or
Fostered. Shy away from questions about family in that situation and
people backpedal faster than an Olympic sprinter. Claim to have
grown up in difficult circumstances and they'll allow you some small
deviations from the norm without question.
But then you run into the other side of
the problem. The compassionate ones who want to help, or the smart
ones who are looking for places to slip knives, for levers and
pressure points. Those last I understand, and can deal with. But
the helpers, they mess me up every time. I get the genetic impulse
towards co-operative or supportive behavior, but only as an
intellectual exercise. I was born a hunter and a killer, and such I
shall remain.
So don't laugh when I shudder at the
thought of a job. Don't smirk when you hear me say that this is
something I dread, no matter how much I need it.
In fact, consider that I might be the
person at the next cube, the next manufacturing station, in the
office just up the hall. You know, the odd one that never quite fit.
The one nobody knows how to read. The one that, just a little bit,
gives you the creeps.
You can't know whether that's me or
not, can you?
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