Trust Machines - Mail Order
Imagine, if you will, a large leather-bound portfolio. Inside it, carefully inserted into protective sleeves, are picture after picture of foreign women on heavy, glossy photo-stock. Some cute, some posed sexily, some barely smiling. Each picture represents a real girl, in the most literal of senses. They were turned into pictures of themselves for a year or more by a Venn Machine, and mailed to another country to find husbands.
After paging through the portfolio for a while, a question preyed on my mind. “What’s it like to be a picture like this for months?”
The middle-aged woman who was minding the store smiled as she answered. “A lot of people ask that. Our agency makes every employee spend a week in the catalog when they start, so we all know what it feels like. I can arrange for a first-hand experience, if you’d like. There’s a reason we set up shop close to Venn Machines.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think I’m quite that curious,” I said.
“Fair enough,” she replied. “It’s not a terribly interesting way to spend a week. You do catch up on your sleep, though. I’ve spent a few weekends in the book just for that. I could tell when people were looking at me, and you can hear it when someone’s flipping through the portfolio. They do get to come out from time to time, for face-to-face interviews, and we make sure they get at least a few hours out every month. Natalia here is due, would you like to take her on a date? On the house, if you’ll pick up the tab for dinner.”
What could I say? Of course I agreed. She looked pretty enough, and they promised that all of their girls could speak English. And she could, after a fashion. We had a very expensive dinner, and I returned her to the agency. The conversation had been pleasant enough, but she lacked... depth.
The thing was, I couldn’t stop thinking about all those girls in the portfolio. Every Sunday on my day off I’d return, and most times I’d pay a fee to date one or another of them. They’d all be very appreciative to be out of the book for a time, and yet... there was always some dimension missing.
I always asked them what it was like, to be in the book. I think they’d been coached in the answer, because they all said it was ‘very restful’, and little else. The thing was, I was in the oilfields at the time, working 60 or 70 or 80 hour weeks. Restful was sounding awfully nice.
So finally I asked the woman at the desk if they had a similar program for men. She said there was, but that the ‘shelf life’ was longer for men, as demand and supply were quite different than for the girls. Especially where I was at the time, as you can imagine.
I asked if I could get mailed somewhere that the ratio was better, and of course she said yes. I didn’t ask where. Didn’t care really.
The fee wasn’t even all that steep. Sure I lost out on my salary, but I’d banked a lot of what I’d made working those insane hours. Plus I wasn’t paying the insane rents any more. So I packed up what little I cared about in a box they provided, got a haircut and some nice clothes, and got myself turned into a picture.
It was just as restful as they’d said. It’s really easy to lose track of time when you’re an object - not just the minutes, but the hours and days, too. Time only seemed to pass when someone was browsing the portfolio, and the excitement of being pulled out of the sleeve was... well. Let’s just say I was just as appreciative on my dates as the portfolio girls had been, even though I knew I had a job I could return to any time I asked.
I never did ask. The dates were interesting, and fun. I got better at flirting, anything to stretch out the time. Eventually, one of the prettier girls came back and asked for me again. As usual, we met face to face with a Venn Machine interface between us. She’d set the duration to a month, this time, which really excited me.
“I have something odd to ask you,” she said.
I smiled, just happy to be moving. “Sure.”
“But you don’t even know... I’d like you to be my dress. I’m going to a wedding tomorrow, and I need a bridesmaid dress. The bride picked colours I’d never wear again, so you’d only be a dress for the night.”
“A dress? I’ve never been a dress before.”
“Please? None of my friends will even enter a Venn Machine,” she claimed. “I’d hoped that since you were willing to be a picture...”
What could I say? I shrugged, and smiled. “Sure, why not. It’ll be a change of pace, at least.”
“Thank you so much!” she cried, and moments later, I was a bundle of fabric.
So that was my first experience as a dress. I have to tell you, it sure beat being a picture. The wedding was lovely. I spent the next month hanging in her closet, and even that was an improvement. She’d touch me or brush past me multiple times per day. I think she’d forgotten I was a person, by the end. She’d found some cute guy at the wedding, you see, and they’d hooked up. The things you can hear from the closet... right, never mind.
I didn’t really hear what happened, but she was home crying her eyes out for a few nights just before I changed back. She didn’t react all that well to a man suddenly appearing in her closet. I nearly got maced. She was... quite surprised. And yes, dear, not nearly in a state ready to receive visitors, especially men.
That just made her seem all the more appealing. She was cute even when wearing just a robe and bunny slippers. OK, not all of that, but still. Yes dear, getting on with it, this is the point after all. I was seeing her at her lowest point, and all I wanted to do was hug her tight and make the tears go away.
Well, one thing led to another, and here we are today. So now you all know the story of how I came to this wonderful city and met the lovely Catherine. To my new wife, Catherine!
She’ll be wearing me later at the reception dance. Joke, joke, sorry dear. That’s for the honeymoon.