You Can Tell by Looking at Her
By Susan Rukeyser
Purity stood behind the counter at Wildfyre Drug, ready to assist Billionaires in possession of a valid pharmacy card and a signed Terms of Agreement, swearing that none of their purchases would be shared with members of the Worker class.
Occasionally, customers recognized her from her beauty product testimonials, which ran on true crime podcasts. Her niche was aggressive anti-aging for Billionaire’s wives at midlife and beyond.
Here in what used to be Los Angeles, known as The Angels since 2039’s American Language Act, the freezing haze hung low and yellow. The heavily armed security guard at the entrance wore a parka but not a respirator, although most people wore both.
“Men don’t need respirators. Their lungs are stronger,” Purity had been informed by Dotsie, a frequent customer of Wildfyre Drug and also sort of a friend.
Purity was the third wife of Skip Jenssen, an acquaintance of Dotsie’s husband, Dick. Dick and Dotsie were Billionaire class.
Dotsie appeared at the store’s entrance. The security guard recognized her, despite her respirator. Once inside, Dotsie removed it carefully, so as not to disturb her hat, which appeared to be covered in bald eagle feathers, velvety brown and white, very on trend for Winter 2051. Dotsie paired it with a long cashmere dress and vintage down comforter, redesigned as an oversized wrap.
Another employee, a kid named Link, stood across the store by an endcap of two new drugs from Compliance, Inc.: Smile4Me and ChillZout. Link was a Billionaire’s kid working off his community service for rape.
He said, “May I—”
“No,” said Dotsie, heading straight for Purity.
As Dotsie approached, Purity realized the hat Dotsie wore was a live bald eagle, now waking prematurely from sedation. It was secured by loops of brown ribbon. It could not move much, but it tried.
“What do you think?” Dotsie asked.
“About your hat?”
“No, about my Mommy Makeover!” Dotsie spun to give Purity the 360 view, holding out her arms—all four of them. “I splurged,” said Dotsie. “Two eyes in the back of my head, extra set of arms, and of course the entire line of detachable tits. Dick likes when I put a set on my back, ha ha.”
“You look unbelievable,” Purity said.
Dotsie blushed, pleased with the compliment. “So tell me, what’s new, overpriced, and fabulous?” She squinted at the products displayed behind the counter.
“Microrobotic lip enhancement,” Purity said. “From a brand called Face Invaders.” She handed Dotsie a red foil packet. “It’s expensive, but—”
“Purity!” Dotsie scolded. “Don’t be dreary.”
“Sorry. Just hold the packet open near your mouth. The microrobots locate your lips and access them through tiny tears—it’s not that painful, I swear! Then they travel around inside your lips, dispersing a proprietary blend of plumping agents and fillers according to specifications you pre-select in the app. Then they dissolve.”
“Sold,” said Dotsie, plunking down a credit card. “I’ll take five.”
Purity wondered how long it would be before Dick and Dotsie learned that Skip had accused her of adultery? That she now slept on the couch in her sister’s one-room Worker housing? Would Dotsie let her explain that Skip was the cheater, and he projected his guilt? That when he was angry, the first insult he hurled at her was “Worker,” contempt always just beneath the surface of his love?
Dotsie was a lot, but she was kind. She invited Purity to all her social functions, but some of Dotsie’s friends were sticklers about who qualified for inclusion. Some said, “You can tell by looking at her, Purity was not born Billionaire.”
“Is that one of those Traditional Values credit cards?” Purity asked.
“You are correct,” answered the card. “I am the Traditional Values card, Woman edition, crafted from a polished cross section of real human bone and carried by the wives of Billionaires of exceptional taste and worthwhile portfolio. I ensure the highest level of security for all transactions approved by her husband. When in use, I stream a live feed to both our monitoring station and her husband, offering the premier protection every Billionaire’s wife deserves.”
“Your credit card is a snitch,” Purity said.
“Proceed with the transaction,” said the card.
Purity scanned Dotsie’s human-bone card over glass, causing it to groan in a way Purity did not care for.
Before Dotsie replaced the card in her wallet, it said, “Dick says that’s enough shopping.”
Dotsie pressed her ear implant: “Hover sack, come.” A shopping bag appeared at the door and identified itself to the security guard. It flew to Dotsie’s side.
“Hungry,” it said.
Purity put the five red foil packets of Face Invaders into the bag, and it quieted down.
Dotsie put on her respirator and turned to leave. Then she turned back and said, “Purity, I’ve always known you were Worker class. It never bothered me. Skip told us what he did.”
“I understand this changes everything,” said Purity. “You don’t have to stop shopping here to avoid me. Link can help you.”
“Doubt it,” Link called.
“I don’t want to avoid you, Purity. I always thought Skip was a prick—don’t you dare tell anyone I said that. But listen: You are free. You have a job and you’re famous. You can do anything.”
“I’m not famous,” Purity said.
“You deserve better,” said Dotsie.
“Oh, please.”
“See, there’s your problem,” said Dotsie. “Mine too.”
Dotsie walked toward the door, her hover sack gliding beside her. The eyes in the back of her head stared up at the bald eagle, now wrestling free of its bonds, sending clumps of Dotsie’s hair flying. It let out a shriek.
“I hate this hat,” said Dotsie, but as usual, it looked like she felt nothing.
When she got outside, Dotsie untangled the ribbon and released the bird. It flopped to the sidewalk but swiftly recovered and flew off. Then Dotsie walked on and out of sight, her neatly pinned hair torn loose.
Susan Rukeyser writes and lives in Joshua Tree, CA. She publishes select titles as World Split Open Press and hosts the Desert Split Open to amplify literary work that is feminist, queer, and otherwise radical. Her second novel, The Worst Kind of Girl, is out now from Braddock Avenue Books. Find her here and there: susanrukeyser.com, IG @SusanRukeyser.
Photo credit: Birgith Roosipuu on Unsplash
A note from Writers Resist
Thank you for reading! If you appreciate creative resistance and would like to support it, you can make a small, medium or large donation to Writers Resist from our Give a Sawbuck page.