The Hippodrome
by Louise McStravick
When I first visited The Hippodrome I just knew; like if love at first
sight actually existed. I’ve never really known what I’ve wanted to do
in life. Always felt untethered like a balloon accidentally let go of.
School was as inspiring as the news, I did what I had to because I had
to. My grades were enough to get me through to uni. But they’ll take
anyone, won’t they? It’s all about the money. Isn’t everything? I
finished uni with a 2.2 in iPhone photography, (what a laugh), debt
that will last me a lifetime and memories that are as blurred as an out
of focus photo on one of those old cameras.
It’s all about life experience though, isn’t it? That’s what my sister
told me. But she works in cybersecurity for the government (or
something) so uni clearly worked out for her.
It’s hard to explain exactly how I felt on my first visit; it was like
when your hairs stand up and you feel you’ve been there before. The
round stage was at the centre of the building, in the shape of one of
those old bullrings, with concrete blocks for seats surrounding it in
concentric circles going upwards. There’s no real roof to the
Hippodrome, which makes it all the more impressive, especially at
night, in full view of the constellations.
I know I’m on the prettier side of average and with a bit of creative
license and a lot of contouring I could even be described on the warmer
end of the ‘hot’ scale. An 8 or 9, maybe even a 10 if it’s the right
light. Some of the girls I saw up there had less to work with than me.
I’m not big-headed or anything, but I’m real. My dad was Brazilian so I
have caramel skin and long hair with an enviable curl pattern. My green
eyes are large and framed with thick eyelashes that make my friends
jealous; my features symmetrical- unlike theirs. Nothing too offensive.
Anyway, with practice, I would be just like the girls at the
Hippodrome. Everything takes work, right?
The application process was easy, they didn’t care about my 2.2, they
were more interested in what I could ‘bring’. I had to send selfies of
myself in various poses to show that I could look good in a wide range
of real-world situations whilst showing personality. I wanted to stand
out so I made sure the backgrounds were interesting but not so much as
to detract from me. I took one in a car park next to some recycling
bins (current, ethical), one in front of a homeless person
(compassionate, kind), one in front of my old school (smart, studious),
one in the toilet of a bar in Brixton (energetic, fun, well dressed)
and one in the beer garden of the Prince of Wales on the River Lea
(outdoorsy, adventurous).
I wasn’t surprised when I got the text telling me I was through to the
next round. I had to record a fly on the wall vlog of myself on an
‘average’ day. This was to make sure I wasn’t a troll and to show me in
the most ‘natural’ (or flattering) light.
*****
I recorded myself waiting in the queue inside the bank to show how
patient I am; it was almost out of the place. I wore my most
non-interested expression and made sure I got the others in the queue
in shot, to contrast myself against. It was filled with the sort of
people you’d expect. Everybody knows the only people that still use the
bank are those that can’t afford decent enough phones.. Either that or
they are old enough to remember what paper money looks like and refuse
to accept that there are new ways of doing things. There were a few
single looking mothers with their babies in dated prams (who uses prams
anymore?!), people who smelled like they hadn’t washed in 3 weeks, old
ladies who all seemed to have forgotten how to use hairbrushes and a
man whose shouting at the cashier’s screen drew attention to the fact
that his brown trousers (urgh) were stained and ripped at the bottom.
I had on my favourite faux fur - a deep blue that compliments my skin
tone - black skinnies and red and white Nike 1000s. I needed to
disassociate myself from those people.
The next and final stage of the process prepared me to work at The
Hippodrome. I went to visit one last time for inspiration.
I sat looking down at the women, faces frozen into expressions that
seemed too impossible to be real. A stillness that could only be
achieved by being frozen in a photograph. They were like beautiful
statues. When would I learn to do that? Lips pushed forwards just
enough to make them appear swollen as if stung by a wasp. Their hands
at each side of their face, ironic, like that dusty painting the
Scream.
I thought of the time my mom took me to the circus. There were
elephants, one sat on the other’s back with its legs in the air. It
made me feel weird, a coolness that spread through my chest like
melting ice cream. I was too young to understand what that feeling
meant. The way it acted on command, decorated with some sort of red
jeweled headgear. It looked like a parody of itself, a bad joke. I
decided then I’d never go to the circus again and haven’t since.
The women standing in the centre of The Hippodrome were dressed in
oversized black plastic material, with holes in the arms that reached
all the way to the floor. The latest fashion. You could tell it was
expensive - all that plastic. It’s so hard to get hold of plastic these
days, the only way is to buy it at auction from people who held onto
the last pieces of carrier bags. Every square centimetre of plastic is
worth thousands. To make those dresses they would have had to melt the
pieces down.
*****
Only the top designers can afford to make use of it, and they reserve
each item for the most beautiful people so it doesn’t go to waste. Of
course the most beautiful really means the people with the most
subscribers but that goes without saying. There is a beauty in being
wanted, or only the most wanted things are beautiful. Something like
that.
Those women were at the top of the food chain. They were covered in so
much material as to make them look like a shiny black smudge with arms
and a head. They contorted their limbs to make themselves wrapped up in
it in the largest yet most visually stimulating way. Grouped together
on the stage they looked formidable as if they were a mass of the
darkest, angriest storm clouds.
The platform they were standing on revolved around and the iPhone x5000
circled around them to ensure every angle was covered. They stood in
perfect stillness, each contortion frozen until a buzzer went off and
they changed position.
It was as if they were double-jointed, their limbs went the opposite
way than they were supposed to. Would I ever be so skilled? I hoped one
day I would be swaddled in plastic.
The third and final stage was pre-training. If I got through this, I
got the job. When I arrived at the empty stage, I was stripped naked in
front of a panel of people, male and female. They asked me to turn
around whilst two more people with tape measures measured every inch of
me. Length and breadth. I almost recoiled as they went to measure the
circumference of my thighs. They have always been on the wider side. I
have never been able to get that gap that lets you see the sky between
them. The way they touch each other when I walk has always been a
reminder of how I have failed.
Once they had finished measuring, they pinched and poked at my skin. To
check for collagen elasticity and durability. They made notes on their
pads after each prod, filling in what looked like a table. As they
poked the dimples around the tops of my thighs. I shuddered. I’ve never
been able to get rid of the dents in my skin. Every cream, every
treatment, I would even rub my legs with coffee granules, but they were
like an antibiotic-resistant disease. I left feeling heavy yet empty,
like coming down from the high of eating a chocolate cake to myself.
Numbers revolved around my head like an annoying ride that I couldn’t
get off. I repeated positive mantras in my head like how they taught us
in school, I am good enough. I deserve this. I am a 10.
I got the acceptance message two days after the training, inviting me
to work at the Hippodrome that same day. It explained that if I took
more than an hour after opening the message to decide, my place would
go to someone else. That was how sought after my position was. I kissed
my mom goodbye and went there with my ID, some money and my phone. I
wore all black as requested and tied my curls up into a high, perfectly
messy bun.
*****
When I arrived at the Hippodrome, I was met straight from reception by
a short man with terrible posture and a blank look on his face. He
ushered me into a claustrophobic yet empty looking dressing room. Were
the walls padded? They didn’t look like they were made of brick. I
instantly got a feeling as if the walls were closing in on me, I had to
keep looking at them to make sure they weren’t. I was greeted by a
woman dressed in black with dark sunglasses on that made it impossible
to look her in the eyes. Her hair was pulled back into a plaited high
pony. She looked disinterested in a way that made me want to know her.
I tried not to look excited, so kept my smile down as I handed over my
ID.
‘Phone,’ she said, her voice was strange, like a car driving over a load of rocks.
‘Oh. Yeah sure, I mean do you want me to turn it off?’
‘Give me your phone. We have a no phones policy. The only phones allowed are property of The Hippodrome. For privacy reasons.’
‘Er, OK,’ I said, handing it over. I supposed that was normal in places
like the Government, so why should it have been any different there?
‘Take a look at the contract and sign with your thumbprint at the bottom.’ She said, handing over an iPhone.
I started to read but all of the words formed a river running down the
page. The font was tiny and cursive. I commanded it to zoom which just
made the letters look like code.
‘I can’t really read what it says. I think there’s something wrong with it?’
‘There’s a line of girls outside on the reserve list, we don’t have
time to mess around. It’s just the usual boring legal stuff, it’s a
permanent contract. You’re very lucky, there are people who would kill
for a job. Especially this one.’ She said smiling as if her lips had
weights in them.
I hesitated, my thumb above the bottom of the contract. I looked up at
the woman. Was it strange that she hadn’t introduced herself? I hadn’t
either but everything felt so quick. Her sunglasses seemed strange in
the dim light of the reception area. They covered her eyes only and sat
on top of her high cheekbones as if she were a character in one of
those films that people used to watch. She seemed to be looking
straight at me but I couldn’t tell. Her lips pulled into a horizontal
line as if glued together.
I shifted from one foot to the other. I had to remind myself why I was there. How much I wanted it. I am enough, I repeated to fight the urge to walk out. They picked me. That was everything.
‘Ok there you go,’ I said, handing over the phone.
‘Great. Follow me’
In one precise movement, she turned 180 and opened a door that looked
like it was part of the wall. The room we entered was covered in white
tiles from floor to ceiling. It had the effect of reflecting the
fluorescent lighting into my eyes. No wonder she was wearing
sunglasses; everything became coloured with bright spots. It was filled
with those beds you get at the doctor's when you have to go for your
monthly examinations. I became aware of my heart, beating out of my
chest as if I were in the middle of a 100-metre sprint. How did they
get the women in the Hippodrome to look like they did?
I was distracted by my own thoughts when I felt the shock of something
hitting me on the back of my neck. I brought my hands up and pulled
them back just as quick. I felt a sharp pain that radiated from my hand
to the top of my spine.
‘Strip down to your undergarments and lie down,’ a metal heavy voice said, as I felt myself lurch forward.
‘What is this?’ I said, trying to remove the collar around my neck.
‘It is part of your professional development, now strip down to your
undergarments and lie down!’ The owner of the voice said, a man dressed
in night-coloured overalls.
‘I don’t... What for? What sort of professional development? I’m already pretty qualified.’
The words seemed to disappear as soon as I said them. It felt like
there were tiny ants running from my fingers to my arms as I watched
him remove an Iphone from his pocket.
‘This is your fingerprint?’ He said, pointing to my fingerprint at the bottom of the contract.
‘Erm, yeah but…’
‘You work for us now.’
Before I could protest (or even think of a way of getting out of it as
I usually would) my hands moved, detached from my brain, as I stripped
down to my underwear. As I sat down on the examination table I told
myself, this is who I am, who I’ve always wanted to be. This is who I
am, who I’ve always wanted to be. Wasn’t it?
THE END
© 2021 Louise McStravick
Bio: Louise is a poet and writer from Birmingham, UK. She mostly
likes to explore the darker side of the mundane, but nothing is exempt.
Her first poetry collection, ‘How to Make Curry Goat,’ is out now with
Fly on the Wall Press.
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