One Man's Trash by Ryan Vance

Author:Ryan Vance [Vance, Ryan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lethe Press
Published: 2021-02-22T00:00:00+00:00

Lit by neon signage, Sally breathes mist into the night, pretending not to see the group of men swaying in front of us, pretending sobriety. She hates these shifts running security for Pink Salt; the venue insists on gender-balanced security, but would change their tune if they ever heard her staffroom banter. When she works the door for Pink Salt, she won’t talk to anyone if she can help it, so annoyed is she by the clientele. She leaves it to me, to ask the question:

‘You know what kind of night this is?’

The young men stammer yes, they know what kind of night this is. A tipsy riot of piercings, odd haircuts, secret bodies under shapeless coats. I step aside. They descend the stairs to the basement bar. They’ll fit right in.

The door below slams shut.

‘How long till the body’s yours?’

The bouncer job is easy and the high-collared uniform hides my scar, but ever since our first shift together, Sally’s been nothing but questions. There’s no denying the fact of my body, of course, but I’m prohibited from naming the scientists and doctors who gifted it to me. When documentaries are made about the miracle of me, my creators get to hide behind mirrored glass, or sit in darkened rooms with their voices altered. Their generous military benefactors are similarly cloaked in legalese. Much like the identity of tonight’s clubbers, Sally takes the ambiguity of my origins as a personal affront. What I first mistook for empathy has revealed itself as a sort of cruel interrogation, more interested in poking wounds than letting them heal. And they have healed: I finished the bespoke cocktail of hormones and drugs as of last month. I don’t tell Sally this, though; she gets off enough on my progress as it is, there’s no need to encourage it.

‘I’m just saying,’ she continues. ‘There’s more of it than there is of you. You’re the... er, foreign object.’

She huffs into her hands and rubs them together for warmth. My silence annoys her.

‘Whatever, man,’ she says. ‘Your life, your choices.’

‘It’s not like I had other options.’

‘Aye, you did.’

‘It was this or a casket.’

Sally looks like she has something more to say, but shuts up when another battalion of androgynes rounds the corner and sings towards us.

‘Bru-ucie! Big Brucie boy!’

A familiar laugh rises steep like an alpine climb. I force myself to remember my uniform, my function. What use is a shield that can’t take a few blows? The crowd parts and a queen limps to the front. Despite everything, she looks well.

‘Hello, Glenda,’ I sigh. ‘Long time, no see.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ she says. ‘I see you everywhere, all the time. You made the news. We were all so proud of you.’ She simpers close. I can see the glue along her lacefront, smell the grease of her lipstick, her pupils dilated so wide there’s almost no iris. She’s on more meds than I ever was, just to stand upright unassisted. ‘I mean, just look at you.

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