observations of a personality store

No one browses at the personality store

They all come in, ask to see the black binder with rings so large it sits at an angle. They go through each page in the front room with the uncomfortable blue chair, pausing at every person they could be, and they try to look like they’re browsing but they never are. 

At last, they find the one they’re looking for, and you can see the relief on their faces as it all becomes a matter of money, a matter of time. 

“This one,” they say. “I want to be this one.” 

But some of them don’t even want to do that much. They just sit there, head leaning against the off-white wallpaper, and try to get you to tell them the one they want. 

“I feel like I could be making more progress,” which means braver.

“I feel like I could be fitting in better,” which means friendlier.

“I feel like we’re not getting along the way we used to,” which means quieter.

“I feel like something isn’t working,” which could mean anything, but each of them means one and only one. The problem is, they’ll only believe if they hear it in your voice first. 

So you go under the knife yourself, to be a little more observant, a little better at picking up the hints they cast out like parachutes to save them. 

The surgery is simple enough really, and there’s a low chance of complication. 

The doctor you go to has chairs that are even less comfortable than yours, and the pages of his binder stick together. 

But it doesn’t matter anyway because you know what you want. 

When you wake up afterwards, the doctor has to tell you it’s done. 

He offers to show it to you, but you don’t let him. 

Nothing feels different until you realize how much easier it’s been to deal with the ones who want to talk, and you find that funny. 

Then there are the professionals, who’ve been through it all so many times they don’t even need to look at the tilted black binder. 

But even they sometimes make the mistake. 

“My therapist told me to come,” which means happier.

“My doctor told me to come,” which means calmer.

“My boss told me to come,” which means less. 

It seems everyone makes the mistake at least once. 

So you go under the knife again to be more patient with it, and when you wake up, you realize you made it too. You expected not to feel an absence in yourself. 

They tell you, “I want it all basically the same, with a little bit added,” and that’s the mistake. That you can change a personality without removing some of it. 

You tell them you can sell the piece you’ve cored out to someone who needs it, and it will give them a nice discount on the cost of the operation. They like hearing that part, even the ones who hated that piece of themselves. 

Especially them. 

The doctor shows you the refrigerated glass case where your impatience sits, soft and pink and still, and you smile at it. 

The regulars. 

The man who comes in to look at the binder. He reads every entry, the whole way through, but always stops on one, the same one. He hesitates on it a little, lingers. 

Then stands up and leaves. 

The couple who keep changing to fit each other, one always three months after the other, like clockwork. 

First one becomes tougher, then the other asks to like toughness more, then the first wants to like liking toughness more, and on it goes, never quite so simple, never quite in those words, but so obvious, even to them.   

The woman who comes in once a year, sometimes more. Who turns each laminated page of the binder slowly, as if distracted by something. 

Who never looks relieved when she finds the right page. Just nods. 

Who says, “I don’t need this one to last. I won’t be keeping it.” 

They all say things like that. 

“I just want to be changed,” which makes you sad. 

“I just want to be saved,” which makes you sadder. 

“I just want to be fixed,” which is saddest of all. 

So you go under the knife again to be a little less bothered by it all, and this time you’re looking forward to seeing the piece as they take it. You’re not sure why.

When a regular gets this one, you know you won’t see them again. It always ends with enduring. 

You’re proud of how much time you’ve saved, doing it so early. 

Everything’s so much easier, you barely notice any of it. 

But your favorite is the people who don’t want to buy anything. They just want to know if it’s been sold yet. When it hasn’t, they ask to see it. 

It’s a small and ugly little thing, scraped out like that, shrouded in its chilled glass case, and still they light up when you wheel it out, even the ones who pretend not to, like it was an old dog they hadn’t seen since they were children. Like they know it still remembers them, too.