John Pospisil

Here’s a very short story I wrote recently, after not having done very much creative writing for some time.

I visit Isaac every year on his birthday.

I bring him a gift and tell him how much I miss him, and how much I hope that he will get better soon so that he can come and live with me in the outside world.

He thinks he is my son.

They let you tell them that. In fact they let you tell them anything that makes the situation more bearable.

As I’ve watched Isaac grow into a young man, I’ve been thinking about how much he reminds me of myself when I was his age.

Every year the charade becomes more difficult.

This year I am bringing him an antique Rolex watch; it’s maybe a 100 years old, made in the 1950s. I’m going to tell him that it was given to me by my father, who received it from his father. The truth is I bought it on eBay just a couple of weeks ago.

I arrive at the clinic at 9.30 am. It takes half an hour to get through security. As the guard inspects my package he looks admiringly at the Rolex.

“Nice present; a bit much for a piece of meat, isn’t it?” he asks jealously.

“That piece of meat is my son,” I reply coolly.

The guard grunts “whatever”.

A very pleasant nurse escorts me to Issac’s room. She treats me as though I’m her grandfather, though I’m sure that her demeanor will change in the not too distant future.

Isaac smiles as I enter his room.

“Hello dad,” he says happily,” I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

“Don’t I come every year?” I ask.

“Yes, but I wish you would come more often.”

I shrug.

“I’d love to, but they still haven’t worked out a cure for your condition, and they’re worried that too much exposure with outsiders might aggravate your condition. We exchange emails regularly enough.”

It’s the standard lie. That’s what they tell all the clients to say to the so called meat.

I can’t help admiring Isacc’s youth. His smooth unwrinkled skin, his curiosity, his thoughtfulness, his idealism.

“I have something for you,” I say as I hand him the package.

He opens it and appears to be genuinely delighted by the Rolex.

“Your great grandfather gave it to your grandfather who gave it me. Now that you’re 18, I thought it was time to give it to you,” I explain.

“I believe your grandfather received the watch for selling more crap than any other salesman in 1958.”

He smiles at my joke.

Inwardly I don’t know whether to be pleased or ashamed about how well I lie. I wonder whether perhaps I’m a little perverted by giving him a watch of all things.

The Clinic leaves it up to you to decide whatever story you want to tell your piece of meat. You can tell them that you’re their parent, a sibling, or a friend. They don’t really care whether you visit or not, though they do recommend an annual visit so that you monitor the progress of your investment.

The clinic constantly reminds clients not to let themselves become emotionally involved – I think that’s why they call Isaac and others like him “meat”.

The Clinic does however guarantee a high level of care for your investment so that when the time comes there aren’t any physical or intellectual issues.

Why do I take on the role of absent father? Maybe it’s because I never had a real child, or a real father for that matter, and maybe Isaac is the closest that I’ll ever get to having a family.

Isaac puts the watch on his slim wrist; it’s a little too big, but that doesn’t stop him from calling in the nurse to admire the watch.

“Rachael, what do you think of new watch?” he asks her with adolescent enthusiasm. I think from the quiver in his voice that he has a crush on her.

“It’s lovely,” she replies.

As she leaves she gives me an odd look, which I’m not sure how to interpret. Is she quietly scolding me for indulging the boy? Or is she scolding me for indulging myself?

“Is this to help me count down the minutes until they find a cure and I can leave?” Isaac asks playfully.

“In a way,” I rely honestly.

Isaac and I spend the next two hours talking. He talks mainly about his friends at the hospital. Apparently some of his older friends have been struck down by the virus and have been moved to another facility.

As I’m leaving, Isaac asks me whether I will come to see him if he suddenly falls ill.

“Yes, of course I’ll be here right away,” I reply, knowing that I will be there when the time comes.

For a moment I want to blurt out the truth; I want to tell him everything, but the nurse, perhaps sensing my emotional unease, comes and escorts me away.

The nurse notices that I’m a little teary.

“Mr Abrahams,” she says,”don’t go thinking that he’s a real person. He’s a piece of meat. Yes, he’s grown from your DNA, but at the end of the day, we’re growing him to be a new body for you – he has no other purpose.”

I nod. She’s right. The law doesn’t even recognize him as a real person. He has the same legal rights as a pet. It’s a delusion for me to think of him as person, or as my son. He’s me after all. He’s me, but unburdened by the years of my life.

Later, alone at home in my apartment, I have a few drinks. The alcohol loosens up the tears, and I cry for the whole night, and for the whole of the next day. I cry until I have no tears left.

But I’m not crying for Isaac, I’m crying for myself, because I know that when the time comes, I won’t hesitate for a moment. Immortality beckons.