Lizardman
The scales have spread across my cheeks, building outwards from my nose. I tell people I have eczema and have an old doctor’s note to prove it, but the scales are shimmering and green and tough as a leather hauberk. Day by day, I’m greener and greener. Shining in the sun. People avoid me. I wear hoodies in the summer. My doctor stopped seeing me, says I need to see a priest.
“You’re what?” the priest says through the screen at my first ever confessional.
“Reptilian. I think.”
“Say ten Hail Mary’s.”
I said a hundred. Still no dice. The only thing left to do is check myself into the zoo. I take my Cooper Countryman downtown and don’t pay for parking, because they can tow me for all I care, and go to the front desk. The employee can’t look me in the eye. To be fair, they’ve become slits, like a snake.
“Do you have any vacancies in the reptile house?”
She stares at me and radios something as quietly as she can. I retain my calm. This is a test, to see if I’m up to the standards of this fine residence.
“I’m sorry?” She says.
“I’d like to check myself into the reptile house. I believe I meet the residency guidelines.”
“I’m… what…” I know all the questions she wants to but can’t asak. In the age of heightened sensitivity, she can’t exactly ask what I am. I could sue her and own the reptile house by next Tuesday. And she can’t ask if I’m a lizard, because that’s not hip with it.
“I’m not picky on space, and my appetite has gotten much more… raw.” Another employee joins her at the desk, looking at me like I’m exactly what I am. “Or I can come back if there’s an open house soon.”
“Are you feeling okay?” The new employee asks. He’s older, rounder, balder.
“I’m feeling like a 3/10 human and a 8/10 reptile.” My tongue slithers out from between my lips and slaps my eyeball. It feels kinda good, actually. I didn’t know my eye itched so badly. Dryness, maybe.
“What…” The new employee takes a deep breath. “What exactly are you?”
“A reptile, I think. See?” I pull my hood back, show him how my hairline has receded to form more of a bramble of spikes going up over the crest of my now-finned head. “Can’t really explain it, so I’m just trying to make the most of it. Always the optimist, as mom liked to say.”
“Is your… can we call your mother?”
“I don’t see why that’s necessary, I’m over 18. See…” I pull back my arm to show them the tattoo of the little ghost I got last year but the scales had grown over it. “…ah, damn, nevermind. I have ID.”
“Why don’t you have a seat,” the employee says. “I’ll have the Herpetologist come have a look at you.”
“That would be lovely,” I said.
Josh Sippie lives in New York City, where he is the Director of Publishing Guidance at Gotham Writers and an Associate Editor of Uncharted Mag. When not writing, he can be found wondering why he isn't writing. More at joshsippie.com or Twitter @sippenator101.