Читать книгу The End Specialist - Drew Magary, Drew Magary - Страница 26

Photo No. 3,650

I took my picture again this morning. Still the same. The nose. The eyes. The brow. The chin. Nothing has sagged. No creases have formed. I scrolled through the “Face” folder in my library to compare it with the others. There’s no real variation, except for when I get a haircut. That’s the only time there’s any noticeable difference. My hair gets a little bit longer and a little bit longer, then I get a cut and my image resets, like one of those antique typewriters that slides back into place whenever you hit the carriage return. Though the hair gets longer, not a whisper of it gets grayer.

One day I drew a star on my cheek, just to mix things up. You can see it fade over the course of a week or so. Everyone at work looked at me like I was an unruly toddler after I did that. I’ve tried to keep the same expression throughout the photos, as a control mechanism. But there are some photos where I couldn’t hide my mood. The ones where I’m hung over are fairly easy to detect. I don’t look happy to have my picture taken, even though I’m the pushy fella who’s insisting it be done.

So there are some slight differences there, but the fundamental aspects of my face are identical from each day to the next. If you made a flipbook of it, it would be the most boring film imaginable. The only exciting part is when the star pops up. I haven’t changed. I haven’t grown. The supposed character that aging features provides has not been bestowed on me. You wouldn’t know that I’ve lived ten years between the first photo and the last. All 3,650 photos could—if not for my hair—have been taken on the same day. The time span is invisible. It’s as if I haven’t lived at all.

I have a friend who struggles with his weight from time to time. He’ll reach a certain weight and then grow completely intolerant of what he’s become. So he’ll start running and eating nothing but grilled chicken and asparagus and baked potato chips. Then he’ll get down to a fairly acceptable weight, get a girlfriend, eat her cooking, and gain all the weight back. And once he’s reached his own personal critical mass again, he’ll do it all over. If you took his picture every day for a decade, it would be far more interesting. It would be like watching someone try to inflate a balloon without bothering to pinch the end between breaths. You’d see the history. You would get at least some semblance of the life he’s led and what’s he’s been dealing with. But you can’t see that with me. There’s no story. You can’t tell a damn thing.

Happy tenth cure day to me.

Date Modified: 6/20/2029, 12:14PM