Free Seconds by David Ely

from Latin America, but most of ’em are on the short side, and then the skin tends to be darkish. You can mess around with features all you like, but you can’t just slap on a coat of white paint and expect the survivors to be happy, can you? Well, we’ll solve that one, too, in time. As it is, we’re using the Latins for a lot of our second-class jobs, where details aren’t so important . . . Even so, Wilson, there are some slip-ups now and then. We’re only human. Last week, for instance, there was a big stink. This client said he wanted a real professional piece of work, which was understandable because he was ugly as sin. Well, as it turned out, the mechanics had some trouble with his nose, or maybe his jaw. They got off pattern somehow, but they figured he looked pretty good anyway, and so they finished the job and packed him off to his beautiful new life—with him looking like the image of Franklin Roosevelt. Not bad, huh? Except this moneybags happened to have been honorary Republican state finance chairman somewhere at one time. Boy, did he raise hell when he saw a mirror! But there was nothing they could do about it, so this rich bastard is out in the world today, I guess, a walking reminder of the good old New Deal . . . There’s a kind of poetic justice in that, Wilson, don’t you think so? . . . Wilson? Well, I see you’re asleep again . . . Guess I shook you up a little, didn’t I? They handed you all that crap about love and rebirth, and now you find out it’s just a butcher shop, like everything else, so you don’t want to hear about it . . .”
    F or the next several days Wilson remained in a state of lassitude, unvisited except by the nurse, who tended to his physical needs, and by the doctor, who occasionally appeared to poke the various bandaged areas, and to ask, “This hurt much?” Each time, the pain was less, and Wilson’s voice returned gradually, too, which he found convenient, since hitherto he had been unable to communicate his wants except by signs, inasmuch as his wrapped fingers were unable to hold a pencil for writing.
    On the fourth day, a little bushy-haired man entered, lugging what seemed to be a small square suitcase, which he opened on the floor, out of Wilson’s line of sight, and tinkered with for a few moments.
    â€œExcuse me, sir,” the little man said finally, straightening up and drawing a chair close to the bed. “My name is Davalo. I’m your guidance adviser.” He smiled in a self-deprecatory way at the use of the title. “I have reference to your future career.”
    â€œI’m afraid I haven’t thought much about that,” said Wilson, truthfully.
    â€œPardon me, but you have, sir.”
    â€œI’m sorry . . . ?”
    â€œPermit me, please.” Mr. Davalo stooped toward the hidden suitcase. There was a sharp click, followed by a gentle whirring sound like that of a recording machine, which Wilson deduced it was when he heard his own voice issuing from its general direction:
    â€œI want a big ball, a big red ball,” Wilson’s voice chanted solemnly. “A big big ball, a red one . . .”
    Mr. Davalo plunged at the machine. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, grunting with the effort of bending. “I’m afraid we picked you up a bit too early.” He cleared his throat in an embarrassed way. “We recorded this while you were under gas, you see, and there’s always a touch of infantilism to begin with, but later”—he stood up, slightly flushed—“we develop a more mature expressional infrastructure . . . and if you’ll bear with me, sir, I believe I have located it now.”
    Once more Mr. Davalo turned on the recording machine. His own voice was the first to be heard. In a wheedling tone, it inquired:
    â€œWhat would you like to do most of all? Most of anything