Cold Imitations
Skye Battles
3.19.15
(Graphic)
I had just woken up from a much-needed nap. It was six pm on a Thursday. I sat on the cheap-carpeted floor of my three by three foot closet. A blood orange box was sitting in its usual spot, a shadow-slicked crevice beneath my drawers. The box was filled to the brim with pornographic magazines that had carefully been organized into alphabetical order. On restless nights I would rearrange them in various ways.
I knew exactly what material I wanted to take with me on that fateful night: a copy of Mens World, Razzle and my favorite, Club International. Against the wall there was a two-ounce bottle of Cleanstream Water-based Lubricant sealed in a plastic bag. I decided to take that as well.
In the top drawer, there were three neatly laid out janitor uniforms. I slipped on my cleanest white button up shirt and navy blue Dickies pants. My nametag was placed on a shelf above. It read Janitor in big blue letters and my name, Hunter Anderson, below in significantly smaller letters. Among the shelf sat a recent purchase, a Rolex watch, rolls of unused film with a Canon camera still in its box beside it, rolling tobacco and a label maker.
I put on my clunky but comfortable work shoes, grabbed my nightly entertainment and left the closet. From the closet doorway, I could see my twin-sized bed in a cozy corner that hugged a dawning window. Above the bed was an inexpensive print of Roy Lichtenstein’s Drowning Girl in a decadent black frame. There were no other works of art in my bedroom but there was a full-length mirror that stood next to an industrial black desk.
The desk had three drawers, but honestly there wasn’t much in them. On top of the desk there were two moleskin journals, one for passing thoughts and the other for plans, along with a clear glass cup that held three black pens, a harsh metal desk light and cooling cup of coffee. I grabbed my journal for thoughts and went to the front door. There, I found my dark navy blue jacket, with a navy blue backpack to match, and a ring of clutter some keys. I put on the familiar accesories and locked the door behind me.
I arrived at a tall one-story building with a glass front that encompassed the entire door. A giant orange lit up C, for The Connor Cryobank, dangled above.
I assumed everyone had gone home from work, but unsure, I unlocked the front door and scanned the hushed walls of the building room by room. I passed offices, examining rooms, and stopped at the sperm storage room. Inside, the walls were lined with immense metal freezers that almost looked like high-class kegs. Each freezer contained five rods, and in each rod there were five culture tubes of frozen sperm. The tubes were marked with a neon yellow sticker and a number. The sperm inside wasn’t ordinary sperm; it was “genius” sperm. In fact, The Connor Cryobank only accepted donors that had an IQ of over one sixty.
I grabbed a single rod out of a freezer and placed it next to my bag on the glass table that stood in the middle of the room. I turned to the marked page in my journal that had math scribbling’s made by my neighbor, Christian. I paid him to do calculations on how many tubes I would need to fill and replace each evening. I trusted his calculations considering Christian was studying computer science at a local college, Capella University.
I know it seems outrageous, but it’s actually quite simple: in order to achieve the lifestyle I had become accustomed to as a child I had to discover other sources of income aside from my job as a janitor. My father was a workaholic and because of this my mother left him and I when I was four years old. My mother wasn’t maternal to begin with and my father, well, he just liked to keep himself busy with other interests, but he made up for it with cold hard cash and credit cards. When the big one eight hit and I didn’t go to college I was cut off completely so when the opportunity arose to make more money, replacing my sperm with genius donors’ sperm in order to make profit overseas, I grabbed it by the hind legs. I did this for a little over six months prior to that evening. For twenty-six weeks, five nights a week I went through the same process: replace, replenish, repeat. Every Sunday, I would send a cylinder shaped freezer containing five culture tubes of “genius” sperm from The C Cryobank to another cryobank in London. In return they would kindly send one thousand dollars. Now, all that’s left is nine hundred and ten women that were unknowingly impregnated by my sperm. And their, I mean our, children. After I was done, I had given the phrase “think about the children” a whole new meaning.
I grabbed a wooden holding rack from a cabinet by the door. The rack conveniently held five culture tubes. After filling the rack with various tubes of genius sperm, I took it with me to the canteen down the hall. The walls of the canteen were a breathless yellow and a blue corduroy couch made for two sat in a shaded cove. It remained vibrant even in the shadows. A metal dinning table sat in the center of the room under a pool of light. Grainy counters covered the bottom half of the right wall until it met an outdated refrigerator. The usual canteen items were in order: a sink, microwave, stovetop and snacks.
I placed my belongings on the table: a hollowed out Styrofoam box and a personal culture tube made of thick but cheap glass. The Styrofoam box held dry ice and a bag filled with smaller culture tubes surrounded by saran wrap. I took five out of the bag and placed them carefully next to the other tube. I took the other, thicker, tube and my copy of Men’s World to the corduroy couch.
I put the tube in a cushion crevice and began to remove my clothes. I stood over the couch, naked, becoming increasingly more aware of the violent white noise that penetrated the room. Before continuing, I placed my folded clothes on the ground according to size and density. Then, I sat my bare bottom on the couch and rubbed my hair-ridden legs against its firm stitching.
My eyes grew heavier as I began to feel more aroused. Anticipation rose as I flipped threw familiar pages but I soon found satisfaction in a blue-eyed beauty. I readied the tube for my intimate embrace. Afterwards, I remained naked and took the now somewhat filled tube back to the table in order to find its cap. Once everything was organized to my liking, I placed the rack of “genius” sperm in the microwave for one minute and twenty seconds. While still holding the tube of my own sperm, I put my clothes on and stood by the microwave.
There was forty seconds left on the microwave clock when I heard the faint sound of footsteps outside the door. A face popped out of the creeping door, it was Jolene.
“Sorry! I just came to get-Oh my, Are you okay?”
She was staring at my right hand. When she had opened the door, I panicked and unintentionally clamped my hand down on the glass tube. The top shattered on impact, exposing unforgiving shards while the bottom fell to the floor, causing a pool of glass and sperm to shine even brighter than the florescent lights above. I tried to reply through my agony,
“Nothing, nothing. I was just making some coffee.”
She stared at me puzzled,
“Hunter, it’s almost eight thirty.”
She had me there. As she darted her eyes around the room I knew she was beginning to piece everything together. Ding. The microwave went off and read, “Your food is ready.”
“What’s in the microwave?”
“I already told you. Coffee. Can you please just hand me a paper towel?”
She stared at the napkin dispenser and started to reach for it but paused mid way. Instead, she viciously slapped the microwave door, exposing five culture tubes of boiling sperm.
“What the fuck are you doing? You can’t microwave medical sperm!”
Air polluted by anxiety began to fill my lungs and suffocate me,
“You’ve got it all wrong! I-“
Her eyes glazed over as terror began to tower over her. She stared at the cum covered ground in disbelief she whispered,
“You and I both know exactly what’s going on here.” The next thing I knew, she was off running. The pitter-patter of anxious heals stabbed the confines of my mind until she reached the front door. I knew I did not have a moment to spare so I quickly grabbed one of my socks to wrap around my open wound. I was half way down the hall when I noticed that the blood from my palm had dripped down my arm onto the floor, causing a trail of red polkadots to illuminate the crescent floor.
Once outside, I saw Jolene standing on the corner and frantically talking on the phone. Her head darted towards me as my shoes scrapped the concrete floor.
“Oh, please come soon! He’s trying to get away!”
I managed to make it to my car. I paused momentarily, observing the new heights I had achieved in such an emotional state, but self-hatred soon took over. I desperately flailed around the drivers seat, harshly hitting my head and hands on the steering wheel. Tears bled down my face and washed away the view of the parking structure. Somehow, I pulled myself together and fled.
I hesitantly peered out of the car window as I drove by the familiar lit up C. It carelessly hovered above Jolene’s head like a halo. She wasn’t on the phone anymore and her gaze was fixed on the distance. She had drenched her rosy cheeks from bone to teeth, but they remained raw daggers that shined through her lips. Her mix of emotions confused me until I saw the high beams of a police car coming up ahead.