Model Citizen

Model Citizen, Part 2

Scotty left the stockroom happy to have something good to tell his moody parents, but not actually happy to have a job. Still, he figured he'd better do the job well, so he wouldn't have to go back in a few days and tell them he'd been fired. Now that would make them moody.

So, having never spent much money or even time in Harness, Scotty decided to browse around and get to know the merchandise. It was when he was looking at a rack of men's skin-tight muscle shirts—the kind that made him keenly aware of his jutting ribcage—that he felt a slight phantom pressure on the back of his head. His first thought was that the manager was watching him, but then she should have been happy to see him taking an interest. The feeling Scotty had was not just one of being watched; he was being judged.

At the time, Scotty's worst-case scenario was that a girl was watching him check out clothes he could never make look good. Subtly, he glanced up and around, but no one seemed to be paying him any special attention. His second-worst-case scenario was that an undercover loss-prevention officer was targeting him, and Scotty was mildly amused by the thought of being tackled within minutes of being offered a job.

But no flying security officer appeared from between the racks, so Scotty kept browsing. He was running a finger over a crescent moon embroidered onto the back pocket of a pair of women's jeans when he felt the sensation again. This time, Scotty looked around more carefully. At the far side of the store stood three mannequins. They had grainy grey skin. They had sculpted muscles. They were wearing the latest fashions, and wearing them well. And Scotty could swear that they were the ones watching him. He could feel their eyes on him, which was particularly strange because mannequins don't really have eyes. And these mannequins didn't even have heads.

He knew it didn't make any sense, but Scotty could still feel an accusing gaze. He began to see eyes where there were none. He stared at the place where the tallest mannequin's head should have been, and moved to the left.

The eyes followed him. He could sense the eyes following him. As fascinated as he was unnerved, he started moving across the floor, keeping his eyes on the mannequins while the rest of him eased between tables full of V-necks and pre-torn tees. Soon Scotty was out in the middle of the brightly-lit store, surrounded by trendy clothes on all sides. Trendy clothes, and...

Slowly, carefully, he looked to his right. There, lurking amongst the bikinis, was another mannequin. He spun to find another cluster by the cash registers, and still more modelling the outerwear. It didn't matter what direction their bodies were facing; Scotty saw grey plastic heads all slowly turning to look directly at him.

~~

The journalist was writing notes frantically, paranoid that her voice recorder would fail.

"Don't get me wrong," said Scotty, "They were nothing special. Just mannequins, you know? I hadn't noticed them on my way in. Who did, back then? But suddenly, that day..."

He trailed off, and the journalist glanced up to watch as his hand gripped and released the cup of now-cold coffee.

"You gotta understand, it had been a bad couple of months with my parents and everything. And there was a girl at school— There was more than one girl I liked at school, but I hadn't even talked to them. Why would I make them go through trying to be polite to me, when there were all these guys around who had money and a future and could fill out those tight shirts?"

One of his fingers slid up from the rough paper side of the cup to touch the smooth rim.

"Those mannequins, they were nothing special. But neither was I, you know?"

~~

The mannequins were judging him. His sunken shoulders, his off-brand clothes, his below-average grades, his greasy skin, and worst of all, his face. Eyes too small, nose too big, uneven ears.