“I mean, your new companion. Shawnetta Jones.”
“Whattup, Shawnetta.”
“Hi.”
"Can I call you Shawnie?” His voice was deep, his speech clipped. She detected a New York accent.
“Sure. That’s fine.”
“Solid.” He grinned, and she almost expected to see a glint of gold, but he displayed strong white teeth.
Now that he was awake, and she was staring at him face to face, Shawnetta decided that Rapsilico was the most handsome white man she had ever seen. Since she had never dated one before, she didn’t want to go with the Golfer, Computer Geek or Suave Businessman models featured on the NNI site. She’d specified on her order form that she wanted a clone that resembled the black men she was most attracted to – thugs. Her very own synthetic wigger. Fortunately, the White Man came with a Vernacular Adjustment Module on the back of his ear that she could press to calibrate his slang if it grew too jarring. She could just hear Claudine saying, “Why in the world did you pay over $3,000 for a fake nigga when you could get the real thing for free?” She realized that her choice was hypocritical, that she resented black men for dating white women with big butts and big lips, all wrapped up in the dainty gauze of street life, when they could have had a woman of color.
The clone, sitting amidst discarded wrappings, glanced at her, unblinking. Shawnetta remembered that her
White Man would not make a move until she ordered him to. She felt shy but powerful, a little girl who realizes her dolls are not harmless playthings oblivious to her words, but a brawny army that only she commands.
Pulling out a chair at her dinette table, she said, “Take a seat, Rapsilico, until we figure out what we’re going to do next.”
The White Man hopped to his feet, jeans sagging off his butt. His movements were not jerky and robotic as she had imagined, but feline. She scooped up the bubble wrap where he had lain, a plastic placenta, and was about to toss it into the box when she noticed another package at the bottom. Opening the item, she saw that it contained a pair of black tennis shoes, a white polo shirt and an owner’s manual. Wonder why they sent him half naked … unless they wanted to show off his body. But I don’t even need to worry about that. As nice-looking as her White Man was, she didn’t plan on having sex with a clone – if that was even possible. She might let him sleep in bed with her once she got used to him, if it wasn’t too creepy. But she didn’t need him to hold her or nuzzle her cheek as a real lover would.
You are strictly eye candy. She sat across from the Companion. He was her antidote to spinsterhood – someone who would make her feel beautiful and desirable, who had been programmed to treasure her blackness. He would set her apart from the platoon of lonely black chicks who roamed the streets of L.A. like foot soldiers of a forgotten war.
Shawnetta thought of the blondes and redheads at the production company where she worked, the ones with pictures of smiling brown babies hanging in their cubicles, the ones who let it be known that they had a thing for brothers, who frequented black nightclubs, spit slang and punctuated their sentences with a drawn-out “Gurrrl.”
Wait ‘til they see what this gurrl has up her sleeve. She smiled at Rapsilico, who reclined in his chair, awaiting his next directive. Wait until I show up at the holiday party with my White Man.
A few hours later, Shawnetta sat across from the clone in the food court of the Beverly Square Mall, biting into a vegetable burrito. For their first date, she had decided to take him out to dinner. Nothing fancy. They were still getting to know each other, or rather, she was trying him out. A plate of refried beans and rice sat in front of Rapsilico to make it appear he was eating. She skimmed the owner’s manual before leaving her apartment and discovered that her clone was self-sustaining, and it was not recommended for him to take in food.
A gaggle of overly dressed teens walked by wearing thick eyeliner and short skirts. They tipped across the tiles so as not to fall in their high platform shoes. Shawnetta dreaded coming to Beverly Square, but it was the closest mall to her West Hollywood apartment. As soon as she entered the plaza, she felt profiled at an invisible velvet rope. She always felt that she had to wear an expensive outfit and carry a designer bag just to go shopping, as if the mannequins would frown at her casually dressed self. But tonight, she wanted to be seen. Walking with Rapsilico made her feel high end, as if she belonged among the pricey jewelry and couture clothes. Before leaving the apartment, she changed into a slinky black dress with silver stilettos, swept her permed, shoulder-length hair to the side and pinned a rhinestone barrette to the bang. We look like we just came from the prom. She wanted to look dazzling as she paraded her Companion around. So the brothers can see what they’re missing.
“You got grease on your face. Let me get that, girl.” The White Man held out a napkin, patting her chin. The skin on the back of his hands was free of lines.
"Thanks, Rapsilico.”
She wanted to glance around to see if anyone had noticed his gentle gesture.
"Don’t want to mess up that pretty lipstick.”
Shawnetta blushed, keeping her eyes on her food. Two years had passed since she’d last been asked on a date, since a man had complimented her on her hair or her perfume. She wondered if the clone had the ability to tell her how nice she looked, if he really found her beautiful, or if even his praise was pre-programmed. But he was manufactured from the cells of a real, living man, wasn’t he? He had to have some memories or original thoughts.
“So, what do you like to do, Rapsilico?”
He said, “Oh, I’m down for whatever – shooting hoops, kicking it at the car show, paint ball. Whatever you like to do.”
“I like going to the museum. The California African American Museum has an upcoming exhibit on black surfers and skateboarders.” Feeling his eyes on her, Shawnetta tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Might be fun to go check it out.”
“Aight.”
She rose, and the clone leaned back to pull out her chair. She gathered their trays, but he shook a finger at her with a smile and took the uneaten food over to the trashcan. She watched him walk away, a slow-moving strut. Her White Man was sexy, and several women turned to stare at him as he shoved the trash – trays, silverware and all – into the metal bin. She knew their eyes would follow him back to their table, back to her. Had he been a living, breathing white man with those same chiseled looks and sex appeal, he never would have glanced her way. Now he stuck out an elbow, and she threaded her arm though his. She was glad to be able to lean on him, because the strappy shoes were squeezing her bunions. That same egg smell clung to his polo shirt. She wondered how often he self-cleaned. She would walk him through the men’s department at Bloomingdales and grab a few cologne samples.
An interracial couple was headed their way – a deep-brown woman wearing a yellow dress walked beside a handsome man with a goatee. When they neared, Shawnetta coughed to catch the woman’s eye, and the woman looked over. Her glance included Rapsilico, and she nodded at Shawnetta. Shawnetta nodded back. Some type of unvoiced kinship had passed between them, born of that simple nod. But was the stranger’s white man real? So busy was she calling attention to herself, she didn’t notice if he blinked or not. How many other black women were walking around with Naturally Nordic Companions?
“You know that chick, Shawnie?”
She stared at the stranger’s retreating back. “Maybe.”
It was a little after 10:00 when Shawnetta and the clone returned to her apartment. A pang of disappointment thumped in her chest. She had gotten a few curious glances from passing white women and black men as she and Rapsilico went window shopping after their meal, but not the envious daggers she’d been expecting. Some brothers had the nerve to glare at her as they strolled by with Becky on their arm, as if miffed that she had somehow rowed away from the isle of spinsterhood without needing their raft. Later for those hypocrites. She sighed as she bent to unfasten her shoe.
Rapsilico said, “Let me get that, girl.”
She started to decline, but then she said, “Sure,” and sat in a dinette chair so the White Man could remove her shoes. He kneeled and placed her foot in his lap. When she realized Rapsilico was about to yank off the stiletto, she said, “Not like that. See the strap? You have to unfasten it.”
“My bad.”
He fumbled with the buckle for a few minutes, finally easing off the shoe. He slid the other one free and placed the pair against the back of the couch – the temporary home for the shoes she discarded as soon as she came in the door.
He’s a quick learner.
“Can I rub your feet?”
Shawnetta faltered. “If you want to,” she said with a shrug.
“I like your toe polish.”
“Thanks.”
His skin was still oily, but the pressure he applied to her instep felt good. She wanted to cry. She was getting aroused by an artificial White Man, by the sight of his long, pale fingers kneading her aching arches. She wouldn’t turn him down if he offered to draw her bath.
But he didn’t. She realized that he’d be down there on his knees for hours, rubbing her feet until the skin flaked away, unless she gave him another order.
“That’s enough, Rapsilico.” She drew her legs in and stood.
“Aight.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
“Night, Shawnie.”
She picked up her shoes and headed toward the bedroom. She paused, her hand on the light switch. The White Man was still in the dining room on his knees in front of the chair, staring at the wall, unblinking. I can’t leave him there all night.
“You don’t have to stay like that, Rapsilico. Come here.”
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