
ROBERT REED
TROUBLE IS
"THE TROUBLE IS," HE BEGINS. Then he unleashes his explanation, though I can follow precious
little of what he tells me. He recites ropes of numbers and random syllables masquerading as words. He
discusses protocols and conscious files and unconscious files, and there's talk about ether elves and tag
trolls, and something called a kick-ass intellect. He assumes that I am intimate with these terms. It's
touching, really, to see his earnest faith in my own kick-ass intellect. But in these obscure realms, I am an
ignorant-silly, and I lack the heart to confess my ignorance to him. I sit quietly, a pretty image nodding. I
try to act involved and erudite about everything he says. And then he stops talking for no apparent
reason, except perhaps that he is satisfied with his own cleverness. He smiles, happy to find my eyes
fixed on him. Then with a flirtatious wink, he says, "In the shell of a nut, that's your trouble."
"Gosh," I exclaim.
Which amuses him. He laughs and leans back in the chair that I wove for the body that he brought here.
It is a fit, modern body. It's the end result of much consideration, I'm sure. The man has a fondness for
thick blond hair and broad muscular shoulders, but the legs have been left long and thin -- appendages
rarely used in his sessile life. His face probably has a strong resemblance to his real face. The sharp
cheeks and a broad chin are most certainly invented. His even and unnaturally white teeth look equally
fictitious. But the mouth is a little too large and the nose is far too regular. I know more than most about
personal appearance, and I do understand men. This man has worked with one of the more popular
packages, creating an image that he hopes will impress me. He wants to look his best, no doubt. The
trouble is, he doesn't understand what it is that is best about him.
Smiling with my perfect mouth, I ask, "But can you help me?"
"Easily," he promises. Then he shifts his illusionary weight, betraying nervousness. "It'll take some time,"
he warns, fighting to appear perfectly confident. "But I can fix pretty much anything."
The trouble is, I don't know my trouble. Simply put, I am sad. Lately and for no clear reason, a bitter
malaise has been lurking in my soul. I can smile and laugh when necessary, and I can still perform without
betraying my audiences. But the old, reliable joy of my existence has been compromised, and that's why I
have resorted to this specialist. This man.
He stares at me. Smiling, and smiling.
I am pretty in all the easy ways, and I'm poised enough to lend a primness to this moment. My clothes
are casual and layered, the famous body kept hidden by the packaging. My famous hair is tied back in
the least interesting of buns. I have shrunk my eyes and dulled their irises without truly distorting my
appearance. My appearance is my life, and this is as homely as I can be. My life is appearance, and
nothing about this place or these circumstances should arouse my guest.
Yet he is aroused.
Again, he leans back in his chair. What he wears inside his trousers is ridiculously large. What is it about
men and their glands? Does he believe this will help me with my sad moods? Did I miss something in his
endless explanation?
"How long?" I ask.
His eyes become round. "Excuse me?"
"How long will your work take?" Then I remind him, "I have work today. And you said it will take some
time."
"Twenty minutes," he guesses. "Or thirty, tops."
In my realm, that is a very long time.
"Sit and talk with me," he adds. "Really, that's all you need to do."
"I need to do that?" I ask.
Perhaps he can read my face. But more likely, he knows a thing or two about a woman's rejection. Either