Body Of Science

Body of Science by Jeremy Morong

Landon always took pride in getting early to work. Every job he held was filled with those sad sacks that rolled in ten minutes late only to head straight to the coffee pot. But Landon was never that way, except, for, well, when things spiraled out of control.

But now he was back in control. He had been clean since he got out, and he would stay that way. He had no choice.

Still, when he showed up early today, he was not the first one. Not even close. Twenty minutes before opening and he was fifteen back in line. Fifteen! Who knew that donating plasma was such a popular life decision.

Fifteen back meant he was behind a bunch of scumbags, drug addicts, and alcoholics. In other words, people just like him. He wished he could be anywhere else, but he needed the fifty a week. Stocking shelves at Dollar Tree twenty hours a week just didn't cut it by itself.

He glanced at his watch – five minutes left to opening. He looked back to find that he was still last in line, but his eyes made contact with a young man holding a clipboard. He had long hair that crawled out from underneath a beat-up trucker hat. A hipster. And as soon as Landon made eye contact, the hipster started coming his way, wearing a broad grin on his face.

“What's up, man?” The hipster asked. “You donating today?”

Landon could feel the shame rising in his face. “Yeah,” he mumbled. He wished this guy would leave him alone.

“Cool, man. Right on,” the hipster said. “You gotta do what you gotta do, right?”

“Yeah,” Landon replied.

“Well, check it man. I've got something better than donating plasma. You got a few seconds?”

Landon cringed. What was this clown selling? But what could he say – he was fifteen deep in a plasma line. He had a few seconds. He had many few seconds.

He was trapped.

“Yeah, you could say I've got a few seconds,” he said dryly.

The hipster laughed, way too enthusiastically. Landon was certain he was an Amway salesman.

“Yeah, bro, I can see that!” he said. Landon cringed. He hated being called bro. But the hipster took no notice and continued. “Look man, my name is Steve.”

He stuck out his hand, which Landon shook. “Landon.”

“Landon, good to meet you, bro. Listen, I know you're busy but I kind of wanted to talk to you about something. See, I'm with this company. . .”

Landon cut him off. “Amway, right? I've heard the pitch, man. It's not for me. But thanks.”

“No. No, bro! Nothing like that! No, listen to me. Times are tough right now, I get it. I know! But listen. I have a way to make you the easiest $5000 you'll ever see. One hour, boom, five grand. You interested?”

Landon smirked. “Yeah, of course. But really? No thanks. Appreciate it.”

Landon turned and stepped forward. The door to the center was open now and people were starting to trickle in.

“So what do they pay you for this? Fifty bucks a week, right” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” Landon said, then smirked. “Well, and they give you snacks after, so that you don't feel light-headed. I always make good with the Nutter Butters. I love those things.” Why was he sharing this with this guy?

Steve laughed, and again he laughed too hard. “Yeah man, Nutter Butters! Now Landon, look, man, I know it sounds too good to be true. I know! But I'll make it real simple. It's this easy. You sign a paper, we give you five grand, and when you die – we all do, some day! – then my company gets your body for science. It's that easy! No different than what you're doing now, but we don't get anything until you're gone.”

He handed Landon his card. “Think about it, bro?”

Landon nodded, moving forward in line. “Yeah. I'll give it a thought.”

“Cool bro! You know where to find me. Have a good day!”

Landon moved forward, finally entering the center while Steve walked away.

*

Landon ran his fingers across the new band-aid on his arm. It was throbbing slightly. He discretely took another bag of Nutter Butters, watching some talking head going on and on about drug testing Welfare recipients on the TV in the lobby. He finished the last sips of his orange juice, threw the cup into the trash, and left the center behind.

He needed to find a pay phone, assuming there were any left around here. Or maybe Steve was still outside waiting.

He needed the money, and what was he going to do with his body when he was dead?

For once, he couldn't lose.

*

A gray-haired woman wearing a lab-coat walked up to Landon and handed him a clipboard.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Douglas,” she began, formally. “Thank you for choosing to work with MLM Industries today. Now to be clear, we are paying you for the successful completion of this survey. Any donation of your body in the name of science is a charitable gift from you and no monetary compensation is provided nor implied for such a promise.”

“I understand, “ Landon said.

“Good,” she said. She handed him a pen. “Just sign on the line and that will take care of that.”

Landon briefly scanned the document. It all appeared to be in order.

He signed his name.

“Now the instructions are quite simple. First, you will sign paperwork making MLM the recipient of your body upon death. Again, this is a donation. Then, you will be given a 50-question survey as part of our study. The questions are quite simple. Please answer them as honestly as possible. When you are finished, please leave the survey with me, at which time you will be given your check, which is given for participation in our study. Do you have any questions?”

Landon nodded. “No, I think it is all quite clear.”

“Good!” She handed over a freshly sharpened number-two pencil. As he looked over the survey, with its bubble spaces t answers, Landon felt like he was back in high school, taking the ACT.

Some good that 32 score ended up doing him.

Name? Easy enough. Height, weight, date of birth, social security number? Nothing he couldn't handle. Address? Had to think for a moment on that one. There hadn't been many reasons to use the address of the home where he rented an old lady's basement apartment.

The questions picked up a bit in the next section. Glasses/contacts? No. Allergic reactions? None. Well, alcohol didn't seem too react to well with him, but that was something else entirely. Seizures/Epilepsy? No. Concussions? Hmm. That made him think. He could think of a couple, years ago, back in high school football. Yes. Stroke? No. High cholesterol? No clue. Hadn't seen a doctor in years.

He filled in “No.”

The questions went on from there, and after a half-hour or so, he was finished. He fastened the pencil to the clipboard and went to the counter, which was separated from the lobby by a glass partition. He could see the gray-haired woman with her back turned, working with a copy machine. He waited for some time, not wishing to hit the little bell on the counter to get her attention. She'd see him soon enough.

One minute turned to two and two turned to three – how many copies was she making? Finally, after five minutes, he coughed softly, then a bit more loudly. At the last cough she turned, noticed Landon, and strode to the counter.

She pulled back the partition and took the clipboard as it was handed to her, flipping through the pages briefly to ensure all of the questions were completed.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Douglas,” she said. “This all seems to be in order.” She reached down to her desk and lifted an enveloped with his name typed across the front. She handed it to Landon, who accepted eagerly.

“Thank you,” he said. He opened the envelope and confirmed the check amount, then paused. There was something he had not considered.

“Do you know where I can cash this? I seem to be between bank accounts, at the moment.”

“Certainly,” the woman said. “City Bank and Trust. Their only branch is located on 19^th and Lincoln. They are used to getting checks from us. Just go there, show them your ID, they'll get your fingerprint, and then you will receive your funds.

“Be careful, though. That bank is not in the best part of town. I'd secure your funds as soon as possible.”

Landon nodded, staring at the dollar amount and feeling joy wash over him. $5000 would go a long way. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Have a good day, Mr. Douglas.”

*

The bank was crowded when Landon finally finished his mile-long walk to the branch office. He went to the end of the line, gripping the check in his hands. He was lost in his thoughts, seeing everything and noticing nothing, when his eyes finally settled on a man walking to a teller station.

It was Steve, the guy that had recruited him. He held a wad of bills in his hand, which he placed on the counter. Landon watched as the teller counted the money. It was taking her some time to count it all. Those guys must make some serious dough off of this.

The teller finished counting and began processing the transaction. Landon had no desire to be seen by Steve nor be called bro and dude, so he removed a safe deposit box brochure from a display and buried his head in it. Shortly thereafter, Steve walked by, never slowing his stride nor taking notice.

Landon let out a sigh of relief.

After some time, one of the tellers waved him to the front of the line, and Landon could feel his palms begin to sweat as he approached the counter.

“Good afternoon, sir” the teller said, a young girl who looked like she had enjoyed many sessions at the tanning booth. She was pretty, but in a way that wouldn't hold up as she aged.

“Hello,” Landon replied. “I need to cash a check. It's off this bank, but I don't have an account here.”

The teller took the check and his state ID as he handed them to her. She looked them both over, then typed the account number into her computer. Her long fingernails deftly glided over the keyboard. He never could understand how woman were able to type with those long nails.

“I just need you to endorse the back of the check and then put your right-hand index print on the front.”

Landon promptly did so. The ink felt greasy on his finger.

“If you just rub your fingers together, the ink should rub off,” the teller said.

“Thanks, Susan,” Landon said, reading her name tag. She smiled in a way that made Landon know that she did not particularly enjoy having strangers say her name. He wouldn't use it again.

Landon could feel his heart beat in his ears as she examined the check, holding it up to compare it to something on the screen. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was doing something wrong, though he didn't know exactly what that could be. What could be wrong about it?

Just as he started to think of ways to escape, the teller slid the check into some kind of machine. A mechanical printing sound echoed through the lobby and the teller reached into her drawer.

“It's a good thing someone just gave me a bunch of large bills,” she said. “Are hundreds all right, Mr. Douglas?”

“Sure,” Landon said. It was working! “Hundreds would be great.” Then he thought of something. “If you could break the last one into twenties, I'd appreciate it.”

“Certainly,” she said. 
 

*

Five-thousand dollars in his pocket and not a single thing to buy. He'd gone without for so long that his imagination for copious consumption was almost totally gone. He treated himself to a double Whopper – he'd always wanted to try one – but once that was devoured, the urge to spend more was sated, and the advice of the gray-haired woman spun through his head: “That bank is not in the best part of town.” The money in his pocket suddenly seemed a terrible burden, one he must be relieved of. So he decided to catch a bus and head home, his fingers clutching the currency envelope mashed in his jeans pocket.

*

Landon stepped through his apartment door and quickly shut it behind him. His fingers worked the lock, and for the first time, he even set the chain lock. He walked over to the windows, ensuring they were locked.

Nobody would have ever bothered about the meager possessions in his apartment before and thus no such precautions were ever needed, but things had changed.

*

One of the nice things about living in someone's basement is that he was able to tap into her cable feed. He had kicked back in a recliner rescued from the curbside trash – it leaned to the left and made a grinding noise when he rocked in it, but other than that it was perfectly fine. He spent the night watching a Mets-Padres game that had gone into extra innings. He didn't care for either team, but baseball was baseball, and who could resist the urge of extra innings?

The Padres won after a wild pitch brought home a run in the bottom of the 15^th, and Landon fell asleep in his chair, too tired to make the short journey to his bed.

*

The first thing he noticed when he woke up was that he had forgotten to brush his teeth before he fell asleep.

He hated when he did that.

The second thing he noticed was that there was somebody in his apartment with him. He jumped backwards in his recliner and fell to the floor. He scrambled to his feet, getting ready to yell out. But before he could the man was on him, holding his hand over Landon's mouth and a gun to his head.

“Shh,” the man said. Landon was terrified. What could this man want with him?

Then he remembered the money, still wadded up in the envelope in his pocket.

The man spoke. “Remember me, bro?”

Landon's eyes finally adjusted to the lack of light. The hand slackened over his mouth.

“Shh,” the man said. Steve. His name was Steve. He was here for the money.

What a scam.

Landon reached into his pocket to remove the money. He knew it was too good to be true, and he wanted to be rid of it. There was no need to get himself killed. Life would go on as it always did for him, and it would be like the money never existed.

He'd be back in line at the plasma bank on Monday.

“I don't want that, Landon. Well, not yet. No, I'm afraid to say it's you that I want. Well, not really you. I want your body.”

Landon felt the panic rise. What was he talking about?

“You have it already! I signed the paperwork,” Landon gasped. “As soon as I'm dead, it's yours.”

Steve smiled tightly. “Exactly. You said it. As soon as you're dead. The problem is, you're still alive.”

What was he talking about?

Steve continued. “They tell me I shouldn't do it this way. The instructions are quite clear: kill them while they sleep. One shot of poison and they'll never even know. And I did it that way once! But never again. Who wants their last memory to be a dream? No, everyone deserves one last chance to live.”

“I don't follow you,” Landon choked out. “Everyone wants to die in their sleep!”

“Wrong!” Steve yelled out, rather loudly. Landon imagined his landlord hearing the yelling, waking, calling the police.

“That's what everyone says, but who wants that? To die and never even know it? To go to bed, another day ahead of them, only to never awaken? Terrible! No way, bro. I'm giving you a chance, man. Make your amends with whatever gods you pray to, say your good-byes, and then. . .”

He didn't need to finish the sentence.

“But why now? Do they need bodies that badly?”

“Well, sort of,” Steve said. “It's your brain they want, actually. At least that's how it was explained to me. Concussion research is huge right now, bro! But there's only so many brains to go around. Junior Seau doesn't off himself for the cause every day, you know? Lot of big-time quarterbacks missing time because of concussions right now.”

Landon could feel the sweat dripping down his forehead. He thought back to, well, everything. All sorts of memories dashed through his head. But they were all fleeting. There was nothing to cling to, nothing that warranted slowing down the visions in his mind. Chaos, disorder, noise, pain, failure. Little more.

But it wasn't his time. Not yet. There could be more memories. Better memories. He was only thirty-five for God's sake!

Steve fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a hypodermic needle. Poison. It didn't really matter what it was. It would kill him and that was enough.

Steve began to raise the needle towards Landon's back. The killer was deceptively strong, and Landon struggled against his grip. The needle drew closer and Landon squirmed. It drew even closer, then it poked through Landon's shirt. It wouldn't be long now.

Steve drove the needle home, then let Landon go. It was all over now.

Except, it wasn't. The needle was protruding from Landon's back, but it was not embedded in flesh. His belt had saved him, the thick leather preventing any penetration. Landon pulled the needle free and flung it aside.

Landon sprinted for the door, undoing the bolt. He ripped it open, but it only went a few inches before stopping suddenly. Damn it! Why did he fasten the chain!

His fingers fumbled over the chain as he re-closed the door. But just as he undid it, the door swung open, striking him hard on the crown of his head.

Landon went down in a heap. Steve quietly walked over as a large man came through the apartment door. Backup. Just in case.

This was the first time he was ever needed.

“Well, looks like there's another concussion for them to study, bro,” Steve said. He withdrew another needle from a small case in his pocket while his cohort unrolled a black body bag, the zipper getting stuck on the same belt that only moments earlier had extended Landon's life.

“Bag him and tag him, bro,” Steve said. His cohort didn't laugh. He shoved Landon further in the bag, then ripped a blanket free from the bed while Steve retrieved the envelope that Landon had flung aside. The cohort draped the blanket over the body, lifted it over his shoulder, and carried it from the apartment.

“Next time, follow the instructions, Steve,” the man said, struggling under the weight of the body. “Kill them in their sleep, man.”

There was a trunk slammed shut, keys jingling as they were turned in the ignition, and the sound of the car accelerating down the street as it returned to MLM Industries.