Dodo Eraser

When the associate waved me into the mani-pedi palace, directing me towards a row of plushy chairs in the back, I gave her the gift certificate I’d stolen from Miss McClure on Teacher’s Day. She looked at the gift certificate then at me, something serious to her stare. One deluxe package? she asked.

My stomach sank. The deluxe, I said, yes, my voice shrinking to a quiet thing.

She smiled then plopped my feet into the steaming water, chuckling after I let out a low groan—it felt so good! The woman massaged my feet before she unfurled all her tools and began in earnest. Clipping my nails, large chunks flung across the room, and she buffed, vaporous nail detritus lifting up in sheets. I rested my head back and let time pass. She took care of my cuticles, shaved down my heels, filed my nails. I was enjoying myself so much that, at one point, the woman asked if she should keep going. Were we done already? I said yes, keep going. Customers filtered in and out, time passing, a new woman at my feet, my feet back in the water. Was it tomorrow? Clip, buff, file. Yet another new woman at my feet.

At the end of the row of plushy chairs was Amelia from school. She’d disappeared one day, stopped showing up to class altogether. Have you been here all this time? I asked. Her skin was pale and her scalp greasy, but her hands and feet looked baby-new. Fit to model bracelets and stilettos.

Yes, she said. And I’ll be here for the rest of my life. You got the deluxe, too?

I nodded, and when I got hungry, Amelia offered me complimentary mints from the fish bowl. Told me to slurp down some of the freshest foot water too. And she offered me pills as a snack. Her contraceptives. Some Vicodin she had from when she’d been hit by the school bus that one time.

You look older, I said to Amelia, taking stock of the ridges that puckered her forehead.

You do too, she said, and I rubbed at my face, feeling at skin rougher than I’d remembered, more like grown man dermis. How long have I been here? I asked.

Does it matter?

It feels so good, I said, my eyes falling back to my feet mid-massage.

One day, my mother hobbled into the seat beside me. Wrinkles fanned her eyes and mouth, hair all gray. She never got mani-pedis, an unnecessary extravagance. I can do it myself at home, she’d always said.

You’re here, I said. What’s the occasion?

My son is getting married, she said, patting away the crinkles of her dress with liver spotted hands.

Victor?

You know him? she asked. What a relief, after all these years. I never thought he would find someone.

I asked how old my brother was now.

He’s well into his forties, she said.

That means I’m in my late thirties?

She looked me up and down. Sure, she said, you look like you’re in your thirties.

My mother closed her eyes and let the woman take care of her. She looked uncomfortable the entire time, as if she found the experience a painful one. She emptied out her lungs when the woman was done, and gave me a nod before shuffling out.

I’m sorry, Amelia said. It’s how it is.

A new woman was at my feet.

Do we know who’s president? I asked.

We don’t have presidents anymore, Amelia said.

King? Queen?

Some robot, ever since they took over.

I twisted in my seat to catch a glimpse of the entrance. The usual slow sludge of people trickled past. Mall people, I thought, so reliable. The mani-pedi palace is better than what’s out there, Amelia said. Don’t you feel happier here than you ever did outside?

The pleasant sound of water gurgling, the sweet chemical smell of acetone in the air. I said, I’m surprised my feet haven’t fallen off.

I’ve learned not to question the deluxe package, she said.

Are they robots? I asked, looking at the two women huddled below us.

I think they’re just Eastern European.

Time continued its fast crawl. The days got longer, the sun brighter. When Amelia pointed out that the sun was getting close, dangerously so, I asked if she thought anyone we knew was still alive. She squinted. People can live very long nowadays, she said. Maybe.

Can’t the robots stop the sun from getting too close?

It’s all part of their plan. They’ll just shoot off into space. Leave all us humans behind.

That’s not very nice. Don’t crimes against humanity still exist?

They’re a superior species, Amelia said with a shrug.

But we made them.

I’m perfectly happy where I am. You should be too.

Soon, nights stopped altogether. The mani-pedi palace was getting hot. Sand drifted indoors. Was it all desert out there now? Amelia had moved to a spot closer to me. Her hair was wild and matted and her skin was cracked and flakey. In her arms was a newborn. Is that ours? I asked.

She cried happy tears.

But we’re all just going to die, I said.

We’ll die together, at least, she said.

The woman at my feet pushed my cuticles, though there was no need to, they’d been perfectly pushed for decades.

The baby was now a toddler, and she ran down the rows of chairs. It was so hot that the hair on my skin had been singed off. The toddler, now a young lady, sank in the crack between us. We held hands, the three of us, and the women at our feet held our feet. Any day now. Any da

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Joshua Vigil is a writer and educator living in New York. His writing has appeared in the Cleveland Review of Books, Joyland, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. His story collection, Bastardland, is out now