Bodies For Sale

photo by Markus Spiske

The Bazaar is filled with things; old DVDs, vintage neon computers, tiny data chips, electronic instruments, dieting pills, vintage clothes from previous millenniums, hard drives with 90s anime, celebrity holograms, and most importantly: bodies. Natural bodies, synthetic bodies, silicone-based bodies, memory foam bodies, inflatable bodies, and spare body parts are all for sale. Eyeballs, nails, hair, thighs, legs, feet, toes, hips, full torsos, breasts, shoulders, hands, lips, ears, and noses — all labeled by size, shape, and color— all for sale.

Merchants didn't always dominate the body market. Plastic surgeons used to control the body aesthetics market. Vintage procedures like lifts, Botox, filler, fat transplants, and implants became extinct when a more 'frugal' option entered the market: spare body parts. Morticians and plastic surgeons worked together to preserve rudimentary body parts; noses, ears, eyes, and hands. They began experimenting and applying them to people that needed those parts. Burn victims and war veterans were soon able to receive life-changing procedures. The only sign of something unnatural would be the faint scar attaching the foreign spare part to the victim's body. Once the complex medicine and engineering had been standardized, people began to receive surgeries to enhance their beauty. Soon any body part one wished to have could be replaced with a simple transplant.

Jobs were few, and wages were low; deceased family members could sell their loved ones to morticians to extract parts. Often the sale would ease funeral costs or simply cover rent. As trends would cycle through, bodies would get dumped in landfills, some missing their noses, ears, chests, legs, etc. There was a sourness to the air and more rats than ever.

Some of the more real-looking bodies are expensive, while some of the genuine spare body parts are just for rent. At the Bazaar, the bodies are displayed in long tubes where they float motionless and serene. One could assume that they were alive; however, their harsh nudity and coldness of the flesh were always a characteristic of bodies that were produced for market. A farmed body is more expensive because these bodies were once alive; they were once people. These people had beating hearts, fresh air in their lungs, and had felt warm sun on their skin. They were human but not individuals; they didn't have social security numbers or passports; they had cattle identification. Mass-produced bodies were born in factories and never experienced consciousness — at least that's what the firms assured their customers. Instead, they were kept "alive" with electricity and I.V. tubes. Those bodies were green, pale, and resembled frozen corpses more than people.

“Often creating a defect in one area of the physique will lead to developing another, then another, then another, and another. And suddenly, the list of adjustments and spare parts I need increases and enlarges and evolves into a magnificent blurry mirage of someone I could be, someone who is faultless, someone who is…perfect”

Each merchant has a photo album displaying their diverse product catalog, "BODY56382-MODEL-4-35" the body's age, height, weight, and dimensions of all listed parts intended to be sold. "MODEL" typically means which ethnicity the body belongs to. A type of "MODEL" can go in and out of vogue within weeks. A decade ago, Iberian MODELs were in demand; five years ago, it was East Asian, and recently it's been North American Indigenous.

I want a new nose. That’s what everyone gets as a first spare part, my bulbous tip is a bit too big for my face, so I wish I had a slightly tinier one. Obviously, it would be much cheaper to get a permanent cosmetic procedure, but what if my natural nose becomes in vogue. I’d already have it. All I would have to do is place my old nose back on, and then all my friends and coworkers would compliment me on my natural beauty. “You’re so lucky, Lilo!” they would say. “You don’t have to go and buy a whole new nose!” Then I would buy a new pair of thighs and buttocks. Lately, most people want a rounder and larger-shaped derriere. However, I’ve always found the smaller one more fashionable. Besides, why would I get a permanent procedure that would change the way I naturally look forever when I could get something temporary that would satisfy all my immediate needs? I love my body… sometimes… only when it’s trending because I’ve achieved the beauty standard. Maybe I don’t love my body, but I love following the beauty standard. I follow the latest trends in clothing, makeup, and language. So I must be able to follow the body trends. The Bazaar has everything I need anyway.

My mother got a new face when I was 16; at first, I could not recognize her. The way her face moved was uneven and delayed, almost expressionless. She sounded like my mother, she smelled like my mother, but she wasn’t here. There was a piece missing that I never knew had been there before. Her eyes didn’t blink as quickly, and as curiously as they once used to, her nose ceased to twitch when she spoke, and her smile wasn’t as joyful as before. She soon existed in a permanent painless static that muted her authenticity. The following year, she received a new chest; while she looked more youthful, the “youth” she purchased was not juvenile or young but rather chemical and rubbery. My mother seemed disappointed in her results and decided to get new lips. These days, she rarely smiles, but she’s much more confident… I think…at least, I hope. Not all cosmetic surgeries are filled with vanity; some are life-changing. My friend Manon stopped getting back pains when she decreased the size of her bust, and another friend received new synthetic skin after suffering from a chemical burn at a body-making factory. Some genuinely are medical miracles, while other transplants are not necessary.

Despite the human body being one of nature's most incredible machines, it becomes delicate and vulnerable under the constant gaze of society. Even when one's own body operates perfectly, without cracks, blips, or bugs, society creates a fault in its natural aesthetics. Often creating a defect in one area of the physique will lead to developing another, then another, then another, and another. And suddenly, the list of adjustments and spare parts I need increases and enlarges and evolves into a magnificent blurry mirage of someone I could be, someone who is faultless, someone who is…perfect. Someone I could be... if I just worked more, made more money, and purchased some spare parts to crawl closer to the mirage of faultlessness. Yet, when I walk through the Bazaar, constantly making mental notes of what will get me closer to impeccability, I see women, men, and people mimicking my behavior. The most beautiful people, who I assume are perfect, look at the same pair of thighs that I've placed on my wishlist, and I wonder, haven't they reached perfection?

What comes after perfection? Perhaps it is holiness when one is so immaculate that their body becomes sacred. The sacred body is captured and detailed in pictures and sculptures of their likeness bound in precious elements: marble, diamond, sterling silver. And their bodies become immortalized in art, poetry, fashion, and time. I often sit in the park staring at the sacred bodies of these people whose names have been forgotten. The body is plump and round, her chest is sufficient, a short blonde bob frames her face, her red lips and blue eyes draw me in, her dress is white, and she smiles slyly at me. Diamonds surround her neck and a black mole sits on her cheek, “The Blonde Bombshell,” I read. She is beautiful, but she is not my definition of perfection, nor is she the standard of today’s society. She is much too round, her hair is too short, and her eyes are too small. But she was once the standard of a bygone era. Now women that look like her will spend countless hours working to purchase spare parts to un-familiarize themselves with this bombshell. Maybe if they were born during a different time, these women would be considered natural beauties, but today they are far from it. A pond surrounds her, and I stare down into it, I see my eyes, the shape of my nose, cheekbones, and shoulders, and I scan for faults.

“I stand in the mirror for my nightly inspection. ‘I will miss you, but you’ve caused me enough pain,’ I say to my body. I know I’ll be more satisfied once I am perfect because my metamorphosis from caterpillar to butterfly will be complete. But maybe I won’t look like myself, perhaps I won’t breathe the same way, laugh the same melody, blink with the same certainty, maybe when I look upon myself, I will find more defects.”

“Bodies for sale! Bodies for sale!” yells a merchant, “2 for 1, limited time only,” “Liquidation sale, everything has to go!” I don’t have enough money to buy a spare part, but I have enough for new hair and nails. “Hair! Miss, are you looking for some fine hair! We have some new 4C, synthetic, polyester, and real, perhaps straight, curly. Real can be loaned and returned – a great deal for special events...” I look at the jet-black hair on a mannequin, “Real or fake? The best fake it could pass for real, synthetics that don’t burn under heat!” the merchant replies. It was worth it, I thought. After all, it is my money that I worked hard for, so this would be my hair. If they were actual human cells, I would be a bit disgusted. However, the natural hair looks shiny and warm, and the synthetic hair feels distant. I buy it anyway.

I never felt like this when I was young. I never questioned how I looked; I don’t remember looking at myself critically until I was older. I hadn’t defined myself by what I lacked until others noticed before me. “Your legs are wide,” someone had said. There was nothing wrong with width, but I felt like they shouldn’t be significant enough to be singled out by a stranger, noticed, and considered a defining feature of my body. But they did become a defining feature of my insecurities, one that I begged the saints to change. I used to define myself by my hobbies, my favorite books, films, holograms, albums, colors, and jokes. Once I found a fault, I spent more time festering over its elimination that I forgot my favorite color. Then I slowly forgot my favorite songs, books, films, and foods. I defined myself by every fault I could find within myself and forgot what truly made me smile. But, I don’t have time for useless hobbies at the moment. I will focus on them once I become perfect. Once I’m perfect, I will be happy…unless I aim to achieve holiness.

I stand in the mirror for my nightly inspection. “I will miss you, but you’ve caused me enough pain,” I say to my body. I know I’ll be more satisfied once I am perfect because my metamorphosis from caterpillar to butterfly will be complete. But maybe I won’t look like myself, perhaps I won’t breathe the same way, laugh the same melody, blink with the same certainty, maybe when I look upon myself, I will find more defects. What if I cease to look human and find a fault within my uncanniness? What if my skin is no longer warm but cold and gooey like slimy eels? Would I be happier, Will I ever be satisfied? I’m too tired for this. What if I stopped focusing on myself? Maybe if I stopped looking into mirrors, going to the Bazaar, daydreaming of who I could be, and concentrating on something else, I wouldn’t be so obsessed with perfection. But this is all I am; I only exist to be pretty. What if I existed for something more? What if I existed to simply live? Would that be enough for my soul? Would the mirage that lurks behind me vanish? Would I finally be human?

I once sold my hair and nails. I didn’t mean to, but my mother was sick, and my job didn’t pay well. I work at a body-making factory, and I bathe the bodies. It grossed me out when I first started, not because of the sickly pale skin, their empty eyes, or gooey texture, but because I believed they were judging me. What I looked like, my hairstyle, my neon lime green uniform, and my white medicine shoes. Would they want to be my friend? Questions like these weren’t allowed to be expressed on the work floor. The first body I bathed looked like she could be my sister, the hair was straight and brown like mine, and her lashes were long, lips supple and shaped like a cupid’s bow. Her skin was meant to be olive-like mine, but the lab environment exposed her yellow undertones, making the body look like it was suffering from jaundice.

The body felt weak, underweight, and fragile. I picked the arms up and scrubbed delicately, afraid they would dissolve into the pond of medical fluids. I named the body, it’s against the rules, but her name is Izzy, like my sister. The company offered employees a Christmas bonus if we sold our hair and nails to be replicated; each worker had to stand in line and be tested. When I was selected, I was glad my body would be used in a new line of body part products. I expected to feel more confident and assured in my natural beauty; instead, I felt more connected to Izzy; I truly felt like she was my family. The firm forgot to disclose that they would need my hair and nails, the organic version I grew myself and naturally had.

I was stripped of my beauty. And as I walked home, I felt ill. My fingers were covered in bandages, and my head was wrapped in white medical linen. I saw the creature I had become, my bald, bandaged head exposed, and I wept in the mirror. I wept for Izzy, wept for myself, and wept until I passed out. I had become worse than I was before. I remember going to work the next day, and Izzy was missing. Her body had been removed; she was too young to pick; she needed more maturing. I searched for her, but I couldn’t find her in the factory or landfills where malfunctioned bodies went. Later that day, I went to the Bazaar searching for new hair. I had decided to be more positive and take this opportunity to go blonde. As I looked through the newly released bodies to get to the merchants that sell hair, I saw a familiar upper lip; a supple cupid’s bow, round eyes, light brown hair, and long lashes. A head floating in a pale green jar, “NEW RELEASE, HEAD00482-MODEL-2-15,” Izzy.

My feet were rooted in the ground, staring at my dear sister, and my vision began to blur. “Would you like to purchase this head!” Shouted the merchant, “I’ll give you a sweet first-come-first-serve deal!” I walked to the hair booth and saw another “NEW RELEASE” sign, and this one was natural hair; it was mine. The merchant yelled, “New! Fresh! Hair! Bodies for sale! MODEL-2-22-STYLE-LILO!” A lady was inspecting my hair, and she placed it on her daughter to see how it would fit, “I’ll take it, sir.” She handed the merchant her card, and the cashier passed it through the cash register. “Sold.”