Synopsis: a college student with a talent for mimicry applies for a summer job at a Niagara Falls wax museum.

 

Like a Candle in the Wind

by Laurie S. aka l.satori

Part 1

  

CHAPTER ONE

One final cut and the editing would be finished! I pressed down on the stop button one last time at precisely the right instant. Finally! Done like dinner! I could exhale. The sixty-second commercial was complete. As I replayed the musical message one more time in the computer's DVD drive, I felt some satisfaction. My creative blend of famous voices and songs was sure to get me a good mark in my New Media: Production course.

The instructor had asked for a series of commercials to promote tourism in Niagara Falls. I think I had delivered—with the help of my good friend Pete Winslow, a musical genius, who had provided me a great arrangement of one of Marilyn Monroe's most famous songs—'Diamonds' (are a Girl's Best Friend).

A quick glance at my watch told me I had just enough time to make my noon appointment. I quickly popped out the disc from the Pioneer DVD 'burner,' gathered up my belongings, and headed out of the Niagara Community College Media Center.

Over to the bicycle rack by the rear door of the main building, I slung my backpack over my shoulder, and then I quickly unlocked the chain on my old, Supercycle mountain bike. As I hopped on the saddle, I used my free hand to strap on my helmet and I was off.

After dodging a few vans in the parking lot, I headed down the Niagara Parkway. I was thankful that I wore a windbreaker as I rode into a strong headwind coming from the Niagara Gorge on a cool, overcast April day. Although the traffic was slow, I flew by the cars and sightseeing buses as I headed toward the town center.

At Clifton Hill, I turned up the street. As I passed the Haunted House of Horrors, an arcade, and some fast food restaurants, I thought about my impending interview in Clifton Hill—the junkiest, ugliest, tourist trap in Niagara Falls. 'The Hill' or 'the Hole,' as some of the natives called it, was the armpit of the scenic seventh wonder of the natural world, but that was where I hoped to find a summer job. Tourism was the number one employer in town. Dollars took precedence over beauty, especially when the Canuck buck was strong against the American dollar.

I hopped off my bike and leaned it up against one of the bicycle hitching stands. After I took off my helmet and secured the lock, I finger-combed my flattened helmet hair, using the reflection from a storefront window to check my appearance. As I approached Robinson's Wax Museum, I glanced at my counterfeit Cartier watch. It was 11:58 as I walked up to the entranceway of the museum. I wasn't really sure I wanted the guide/security guard position, but I didn't want to be late and create a bad first impression. On either side of the double doors were posters of famous people who were honored inside.

A pretty girl at the ticket wicket told me to go on through to an office on the right. A few strides down a wide corridor led me to the reception area of the office.

I knocked on the open door. "Are you Mrs. Robinson?" I asked in a cheerful voice.

"Yes," she replied, as she extended her hand. "And you must be Roger Baker."

"That's right. I am here to apply for the job." She had a firm, warm handshake and a kind face. Somehow I'd expected her to be tough looking, like a carnival barker, given her place in the tourist industry.

"Please have a seat over here," she said, as she indicated a padded chair in front of her desk.

Mrs. Robinson appeared to be in her mid-forties. She had mid-length brunette hair, a friendly smile, and must have been a knockout when she was younger. She still had a great figure that looked nice in her white blouse and dark blue leather pants. She was a petite woman, just a little shorter than my 5' 6".

Mrs. Robinson retrieved my application from her desktop. Quickly she scanned the details on the form.

"I see that you worked at a fast food restaurant last year."

"Yes. I really enjoyed my job at Tim Hortons. I learned how to make a variety of sandwiches, operate a cash register, and how to serve the customers."

"Well, that experience should be helpful in this job because you will be meeting tourists all the time."

"I'd like to get into a job where I interact with the public. I'm a student at Niagara Community College right now. Eventually, I'd like to get into either radio or television."

"In what capacity?" She seemed to be actually interested in me. My boss at Tim Hortons hardly knew my name. He'd called us by the job we did. The fellow who washed the floors was called 'bucket.' He called me 'donut' and not because I looked like the Pillsbury doughboy.

"I'd either like to become a DJ or radio announcer. Failing that, I'd like to become a radio producer." I didn't tell her that I really wanted to be in television, but I didn't think I was good looking enough to be in television. I always felt that being vertically challenged, having a slim, unimposing build, and lacking matinee idol looks would hold me back. I'd even dreamed of being an actor or singer before reality set in. As for radio, none of the stations I applied to had even given me an interview. All I got were form letters thanking me for submitting the job applications.

"You have a flair for show business, eh?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact I was working on a television commercial just before I came here." I read some disbelief in Mrs. Robinson's expression. "Oh, it's not a real television commercial. It's for an assignment in my media course at the Community College, but I think it sounds really professional. The video aspect is, at least, original. In fact, I've got it right here in my backpack."

"That sounds interesting," Mrs. Robinson said, seemingly intrigued. Maybe she thought there was a possibility I might have some useful talents. "Could I please watch it?"

My interest in working in her museum had increased. "Certainly." Looking over at her office computer, I asked, "Is there a DVD drive on that Dell?"

"Yes."

I fished the commercial out of my green canvas pack. "Here." I passed the DVD to Mrs. Robinson.

She pushed off with her foot, using the rollers of her chair to slide a few feet over to the computer terminal.

The screen saver disappeared as Mrs. Robinson clicked open the disk drive and inserted the commercial. A few moments later, the computer reacted to the inserted DVD and came to life.

On the screen, a detailed modeling clay figure of Marilyn Monroe launched into a song and dance routine. Mrs. Robinson smiled as she watched 'Claymation Marilyn' perform 'Diamond's are a Girl's Best Friend.' She strutted, she kicked, she pirouetted, she sang, and she moved her arms up and down and all around.

"This is really quite good," Mrs. Robinson said with a smile of approval. "How did you do the claymation figure?"

"I started with a wire skeleton, a doll figure, some plaster of Paris, and made a mould of the doll. Then, I fashioned the plasticine around the wire to make the body, legs, head, hands, and feet. The mould really helped to refine the features, especially the face. Although it took awhile, I was able to create a pretty good likeness. Actually, there were two almost identical figures, with slight differences in the face. One had the mouth closed. The other showed the teeth because I needed to show her singing."

"Very good! It's just like what we do here at the wax museum, although not as detailed."

"Also, I created a background poster. Using a digital camera mounted on a tripod, I took two photos of the American Falls from the Maid of the Mist dock. Then, using a digital camera, I took a series of action photographs of Claymation Marilyn. I alternated the dolls so that I could simulate the mouth opening and closing for her singing. Similarly I switched the background poster of the Falls so that it might look like the water was actually falling."

"That must have taken a long time."

"It did, but I enjoyed doing it. I tried to copy Marilyn Monroe's song and dance from the movie 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.' I had to move the arms and legs precisely to replicate a whole minute of the song and dance routine."

"Where did you get the music?"

"Actually, we weren't allowed to use any previously made recordings for this assignment. So, I had my good friend, Pete, create a karaoke version of 'Diamonds' on his synthesizer. I provided the macho announcer's voice and I also sang the song."

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You mean to say that was you singing?"

"Yes . . . I can do a variety of vocal impersonations; both girls and guys. You know—Jack Nicholson, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jim Carrey, David Letterman, Marilyn Monroe, Madonna, Britney Spears. . . ." It embarrassed me that I actually could do girls' voices better than the guys', although I didn't offer that opinion.

"But that sounded exactly like the real Marilyn Monroe."

"A kiss on the lips can be quite continental, But diamonds are a girl's best friend," I sang in a breathy, velvety Marilyn Monroe imitation. "A kiss may be grand, but it won't pay the rental—on your humble flat, or help you at the automat."

Mrs. Robinson smiled with delight. "Impressive, but why Marilyn?"

"There haven't been too many 'Hollywood' films shot at Niagara Falls—and only one entitled 'Niagara.' Besides, I'm into old films. One of my high school teachers told me you needed to have a sense of the past and an eye for the future to live properly in the present."

She nodded and I continued.

"It didn't take me long to find Marilyn Monroe on the Internet or at the video stores. She was the biggest sex symbol in history."

"Do you admire her?"

"She had such an interesting life. I've memorized some of her quotes. She said, 'There was my name up in lights. I said, 'God somebody's made a mistake.' But there it was, in lights. And as I sat there and said, 'Remember, you're not a star.' Yet there it was up in lights.' "

"Wow," Mrs. Robinson said, "you sound just like her."

I shook myself. Sometimes when I thought too hard about a person's feelings while I tried to impersonate them, I actually felt their joy, or in Marilyn's case her sadness. I had empathy for her sadness. I wanted to be an entertainer, but my parents thought I should do something much less 'frivolous.'

Someone knocked on the open door of the office. I turned to see a tall, stunningly beautiful young lady, who was about my age, smiling, as she came in, and then looked my way.

"Sorry to interrupt Mom, but what's going on here? When I passed by your office a moment ago, I thought I heard Marilyn Monroe singing and just now I thought I heard her talking."

"You did, dear. . . . Well, that wasn't really Marilyn. It was the talented young man sitting right here."

A look of surprise graced the girl's gorgeous face.

"Heather, I'd like you to meet Roger Baker. Roger is here to apply for a summer job."

As I stood up, beautiful Heather smiled at me and held out her hand.

"Glad to meet you," she said. An unmistakable spark of electricity passed between us as we touched.

"My pleasure. . . ." I struggled to find more to say. All thoughts about the importance of the interview had become secondary to learning about HER.

I took a moment to carefully take her in. Heather was tall, lithe, and athletic looking. She wore a dark-red halter-top and tight fitting Calvin Klein jeans. She kind of resembled a brunette version of a young Daryl Hannah, without the 'Kill Bill' eye-patch. Her beauty mesmerized me. Was it possible there'd been an extra friendly squeeze in her handshake?

"Oh, before I forget, Mom, the sales guy from Roswell Replicators is here."

"Darn it. He's late. He was supposed to be here an hour ago."

"He said he got tied up at Customs when he was coming across the Peace Bridge."

Mrs. Robinson headed toward the doorway. "Pardon me young fellow. I need to talk to this salesman. . . . Heather, could you show our new employee, Mr. Baker, around the premises, please?"

Did I hear that right? Had she said 'our new employee'?

"Yes, you have the job," Mrs. Robinson said with a broad smile. She must have read my mind.

"Great!" My face ached from my ear-to-ear grin. After talking to Mrs. Robsinson and especially after meeting Heather, landing the job carried huge significance. "When do you want me to start?"

"As soon as possible."

"Hmmm. . . . The final exams for my college courses end this coming week. Could I start next Saturday?"

"That would be fine."

Mrs. Robinson had left to find the salesman but Heather stood in for her and gave me a firm but gentle handshake to seal our agreement.

"Well then, shall we go for a little tour of the museum?" Heather asked.

"Cool."

Mrs. Robinson ducked her head back in the door. "Before you go, Heather, what's the name of the salesman again?"

"Here's his business card, Mom."

Mrs. Robinson glanced at the name. "Ben Sadler."

"Yes. You met him two weeks ago. Only this time, there isn't a big team of salespeople with him. I think he's the technical expert—he's a sales engineer."

"Okay, thanks. Now, you show young, talented Roger Baker around."

Heather grabbed me by the hand and led me down the dark corridor into the depths of the wax museum—it wasn't a tour of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.

CHAPTER TWO

I hadn't been in the wax museum since I was about eleven years old, so I wondered if I would form a different opinion of it now. Back then I had thought it was a dull, lifeless place. Sure there were famous people on display, but some of the faces didn't look real. I might as well have been looking at mannequins in the Hudson's Bay department store.

Touring the museum with Heather was bound to put it in a more positive perspective. The first section we wandered through was Movie Mania and the first wax figure to greet us was . . . Marilyn Monroe. Her lifelike statue wore a revealing white dress from the film 'The Seven Year Itch.' She had worn it in that famous scene where she stood over a subway vent. The moving trains below caused an updraft that lifted her dress high above her legs, revealing her underwear. The 'Marilyn' wax figure actually moved in response to the updraft, trying to hold the billowing skirt down. At first I thought it might be a real girl, but when the wind suddenly stopped, the wax figure froze. It was an enchanting surprise, but at the same time, it was kind of spooky to have a visit from the ghost of Hollywood past.

"You've made a few changes. I don't remember 'Marilyn' moving the last time I was here," I said to Heather, who looked good even in comparison to a woman named the 'Sexiest Woman of the Century.'

"When was the last time you were in here?"

My silence shamed me.

"We try to keep it fresh," she said, absolving me with a smile. "We're always adding stars. Over the last few years we added Angelina Jolie, Sandra Oh, Brad Pitt, Jude Law, Heath Ledger, Johnny Depp, Jim Carrey and music personalities like Jennifer Lopez, Shania Twain, Justin Timberlake, Beyonce, Gwen Stefani, Britney Spears and Avril Lavigne. Also, whenever something happens locally, we try to make an exhibit for it. When director James Cameron was in Niagara Falls, we introduced Leonardo Di Caprio and Kate Winslet to the public."

"That happened around the time I last visited the wax museum." I had driven my bike past Cameron's boyhood home nearly every day on my way to high school.

And there it was, just a few steps past the New York street scene of 'The Seven Year Itch.' Leonardo had stood at the bow of the Titanic and proclaimed himself King of the World. Then he helped 'Rose' (Kate Winslet) stand up on the wire rigging and spread her wings. In the background was a beautiful orange sunset above the breakers of the Atlantic Ocean. The display had it all. In fact, you could hear the waves and smell the salt of the sea air. Again, I was blown away. Definitely not dull and lifeless.

Heather beamed, showing her pride in her museum.

As we moved on, a few Japanese tourists posed for a photo in front of the Titanic display.

"Did you get to meet James Cameron?" I asked Heather.

"Uh huh. That was quite an afternoon. We had all sorts of press, radio, and television coverage. After all, he's probably the best-known celebrity from Niagara Falls—an Academy Award winner for directing 'Titanic.' "

"I loved that film. There was such attention to detail."

"I agree. Attention to detail is important. Actually, it's the key to success of our wax museum. We have to make the wax figures exactly right or the illusion falls apart. People are willing to suspend their disbelief to the point of an ocean liner existing in a museum, but there's a point where they will no longer enjoy the experience. Unfortunately for us, they are more demanding every year."

I nodded. I'd read in my media books that everyone in communication was feeling the need to get better.

"I guess the museum got a lot of publicity from James Cameron's visit." I could hardly believe that someone as pretty as Heather was spending so much time with me.

"Yes, but I kinda wish we could get Celine Dion to visit too."

"I'd come to see her. I've never seen her in concert."

She pointed toward the next figure. "Another recent addition to our Music section is Avril Lavigne. Of course, she's really popular among our Canadian visitors. Also, we have others in our Canadian wing: Mike Myers, Pamela Anderson, Gordon Lightfoot, Kiefer Sutherland, William Shatner, Keanu Reeves, Matt Perry, and Eric McCormick."

Perhaps it was the lighting, but the Avril figure seemed to have a glow about her. My eyes became fixated on the dazzling pop music star. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but the Avril wax figure looked like she was alive, and ready to come over and shake hands with me. Or spit on me if she thought I was paparazzi.

"Somehow these wax figures seem to be much more realistic than I remember from my last visit," I observed.

"There's a reason. The technology has changed; and we can now produce much more exact replicas."

I looked into the deep pools of Heather's eyes. She was more beautiful than any of the stars on display. I was really looking forward to working with her. . . . Does she have a boyfriend?

"What kinds of technological changes?" I asked as I averted my eyes from my stare at her, which was getting impolite.

"We used to use nothing but wax, but now we make use of a thin layer of latex painted on the wax base to replicate the texture and color of skin. At our peak usage of wax as our sculpting media, we must have had the equivalent of 6000 twelve-inch candles contained within our three hundred or so wax figures."

"You must have worn out a lot of bees."

"I never thought of that . . . honey." We laughed.

"But speaking of changes, the salesman my mother went to meet is delivering a new machine that we will be using to make even more lifelike replicas."

"I thought the wax figures were created by hand?"

"Computer aided design has arrived in architecture, engineering, animation, and any artistic field you can mention. It can save a lot of time and money."

"Well, I think the Marilyn, Shania, Leonardo, and Kate figures look amazingly real."

"The 'state of the art' technology is the reason. Also, it saves us incredible amounts of time and money. You know how much time it used to take to make a new figure from scratch?"

"Haven't a clue."

"Six months. Even when I was small I loved to watch the craftsmen work. We used to make a clay sculpture from as many as two hundred photographs of a famous celebrity. That was the first step. Then we'd make plaster moulds from the sculpture and pour beeswax into the moulds. This would create a facemask. The bodies were fairly easy to do. We'd use fiberglass for the body with a thin layer of beeswax on the exterior. You can't use wax for the whole body because the weight of the wax would cause the torso to fall apart. In fact, we'd mix a little bit of rubber into the beeswax to make the 'skin' more durable. Next, we'd have to match the color of the hair and eyes. The hair always took a long time. All the strands at the hairline were put in by hand. For the teeth, if possible, we'd get dental casts to be absolutely accurate. Then, an artist would use oil paint to get the texture and skin tones precisely right."

"It sounds like a painstaking procedure."

"It certainly was. I made a pest out of myself until my mom taught me the basics of each phase . . . but there was one more critical step involved. We had to get the right costumes. Sometimes, with the co-operation of the celebrities and studios, we would obtain the outfits they'd actually worn in their films. Otherwise, we would make the wardrobes ourselves. Besides being time-consuming, the creation of the wax figure cost about $60,000 Canadian to do the complete, whole process."

"I never realized there was so much involved."

"Well, that was the old way. We have a new way of doing things now . . . I'll show you. C'mon. Let's go see Mom and that salesman from Roswell Replicators."

Heather led me toward the back of the museum. "We invested heavily in high tech a few years ago to keep pace with our new competition," Heather said on the way.

"You mean 'The Hall of Fame' up the street?"

"Yes. When they opened up, they took a big chunk out of our revenues and profits disappeared. There was a great deal of curiosity to see the new kid on the block. Tour buses that had directed tourists to us were getting kickbacks to steer them to 'The Hall of Shame.' "

In a corridor that led to an emergency exit, there was a heavy security door with a red sign that said, 'Private.' The green metal door was equipped with a number combination pad. Heather punched in four digits. The door buzzed while we heard the sounds of a locking mechanism releasing. Heather indicated that I should push on the metal bar that would open the hatchway.

Behind the green door was a large workspace that was used to make and maintain the wax figures. In the center of a high and spacious studio stood Mrs. Robinson and a gentleman in a white lab coat, who was working on a machine that looked like a prop from a science fiction film.

They both greeted us with sociable smiles.

"Hi Mom, I thought I'd show Roger our workspace."

"Glad you could join us," Mrs. Robinson said. Then, with a gesture of her arm, she introduced me. "Roger, this is Ben Sadler. He's the sales engineer from Roswell Replicators. Ben, this our newest employee, Roger Baker."

We shook hands.

Ben was a bald, bespectacled man in his late forties, with a strong grip. In appearance, he reminded me of my high school physics teacher, Mr. Johnston, whom we had dubbed the 'Mad Chemist' because of his volatile lab demonstrations.

"I've been showing Roger around the museum," Heather explained to Ben.

"I've been quite impressed by the life-like figures." I added, "They look so real."

"Well, that might be because of machines like this one." Mrs. Robinson pointed to the large chrome dome apparatus in front of us.

Ben touched the machine with obvious pride. "This is the Roswell Replicator II, our newest model can do much more than the original version."

"Such as what?" Heather asked, although I was sure she already knew and was asking only for my benefit.

"Well, so far, you have used the original version to make wax figures for your displays. The type II program can go a step further. We have a new compound that replicates human skin. It feels like real skin, it breathes like real skin, it is flexible, and can be used as a mask on live actors."

"You mean we could put a mask on a person and that person could pretend to be a celebrity?" Heather asked.

"That's right," Ben said. "In Hollywood films like 'Charlie's Angels', 'Austin Powers', or various 'Mission Impossibles', masks have been used to create alternate personas for the films' stars. Similarly, we could put you in a mask and you could walk around the museum looking like Bruce Willis, Jim Carrey, Charlize Theron, or Britney Spears."

"That opens up a lot of possibilities," Mrs. Robinson added. "A few of our wax figures move now, like Marilyn Monroe, but this could be much more interactive."

"Yes, instead of having the visitors pose for photos beside a wax figure, they could talk to the 'stars,' " Heather said. "Maybe the pop music stars could even perform songs."

"Kind of like a 'Legends in Concert Show,' " Mrs. Robinson suggested.

"Yes, there are many possibilities," Ben said. "The Roswell Replicator II can give you all this and more."

"More?" Heather asked.

"Yes, the facemask is only the start. We have special figure shapers and adhesives that can help alter your actor's body dimensions to make them even more convincing. Plus, on our Digital Video Discs, we have complete body dimension information, photographs, film clips, and biographical backgrounds to help you transform a normal person into a 'star.' "

"Can we afford it?" Heather asked.

Given what she had said earlier about the museum's finances, her question seemed right on target.

"As I see it," Mrs. Robinson said, "it's an investment we have to make."

"It will help your bottom line," Ben said with enthusiasm. "As I told you, I'm trying to convince the guys in the ivory tower to sink more money into my division. This new machine is a prototype; and unless I can demonstrate real world practical applications—it could be the last of its kind."

"What about the voice?" Heather asked.

"Unfortunately, we don't have a voice changing device . . . but you can lip sync if you are going to put on an impersonation type show."

"Actually, we have a person on our staff who can do vocal imitations," Mrs. Robinson said cheerfully.

First Mrs. Robinson, and then Heather, and lastly Ben turned toward me.

"Yes, I suppose I can do imitations, but I don't look like anyone famous."

"The Roswell Replicator II can change you into any star," Ben said. "However, it works best with somebody who has the physical dimensions of the original star—someone who is about the right height and thinner than the real celebrity."

"Why thinner?" Heather asked.

"It's much easier to add padding than it is to compress somebody's body shape."

"How about Marilyn Monroe?" Mrs. Robinson asked.

"Could you change Roger into Marilyn Monroe?"

What? Me looking like Marilyn Monroe?

"Yeah! That's a great idea, Mom!"

Great Idea? I couldn't even look at Heather. Did I strike her as that much of a wimp?

"Perhaps," Ben said, with a look of surprise in his expression. "How tall are you?"

"I'm 5 feet 6 inches," I replied without much enthusiasm.

"How much do you weigh?"

"Exactly 123 pounds on my bathroom scale this morning." At 123 pounds I was one of the smallest male students in my college.

Ben went over to the Roswell Replicator II. He moved the mouse and keyed in some information.

"It says here that Marilyn Monroe was 5 feet 5 ½ inches in height. However, you're a little heavier than she was. She weighed 118 pounds and her vital statistics were 37-23-36 . . . Do you know your measurements?"

"I have a 26-inch waist. Yes, I know I'm skinny. I'm not sure about the chest but I take a size 36 suitcoat and my pant size is 30-32. My inseam is more like 31 inches, but cotton pants shrink when they're washed. Usually I have to buy pants with a 30-inch waist. I need the width for my hips. I find it really difficult to get clothes small enough around the waist to fit me in the Men's department. And I hate shopping in the Boy's section."

"I think we have a pretty good match here!" Mrs. Robinson chimed in. "A corset or a little bit of dieting and exercise will get that waist down to the right size in no time."

"Wait a minute! You can't be seriously considering turning me into Marilyn Monroe?" I checked Heather's reaction out of the corner of my eye. Being sized up as a grade A candidate to pass for a woman like Marilyn Monroe wasn't the kind of thing that would impress a girl like her . . . or was it? Heather's face was lit up with energy.

"Why not?" Mrs. Robinson asked, also looking quite excited. "You have the right physical dimensions. We know you can do the voice. And you're searching for a way into show business."

"Yeah, but if you haven't noticed, I'm a guy."

"We know that," Heather said kindly. "You're a very good-looking guy. But look, if I tried to look like Marilyn Monroe, I'd be too tall and too heavy. Also, more importantly, I don't sound like her. So you are the logical choice. It's Kismet. The day you walk into our place, Roswell Replicators arrives with a new machine . . . and a new star is 'reborn'!"

Heather had said I'm good-looking.

"We can pay 'Marilyn Monroe' a lot more money than Roger Baker," Mrs. Robinson said wryly. "You could become our star attraction!"

From what Heather had said about the museum's need for profit, I could be a hero in her eyes.

"Would I really look like Marilyn Monroe?" I asked Ben.

"The Roswell Replicator II will make you an exact duplicate of the original. Marilyn Monroe's last husband, 'Jolting' Joe DiMaggio, if he were alive, couldn't tell you from the real thing."

The 'jolt' would be on him. No, I had to tell them before things got out of hand. "I won't do it."

"Why?" Heather said with more disappointment than I'd expected.

"It would be too embarrassing," I said, surprised they didn't see the obvious.

"If impersonating Marilyn is embarrassing for you," Mrs. Robinson asked, "why did you make the commercial for your class with you singing 'Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend' in perfect Marilyn voice?"

I blushed at the compliment before responding. "That was different."

"Different how?" she demanded in a friendly, yet persistent way.

"No one would see me singing like Marilyn. Without anyone seeing me, I wouldn't be humiliated."

Mrs. Robinson smiled broadly. "Then there's no reason for you not to impersonate her. No one would see 'you.' "

"That's right," Heather said. "Unless you chose to tell everyone, no one would ever know it was you under the costume. It would be just like Halloween and you'd never take off your mask."

I was trapped. Either I went along or run the risk of Heather thinking I lacked courage. "Okay, okay, but assuming this works and I play the role of Marilyn for the summer, I don't want anyone to know that 'Marilyn' is really me, Roger Baker. I don't want anyone, outside of this room to know our secret. Okay?"

"Do you want that in writing?" Mrs. Robinson asked, seemingly ready to agree.

"No, not really. But, if the secret comes out, I think it could ruin my life, so please don't tell anyone."

Ben raised his hand in an oath. "I wouldn't tell anyone. I need this to work to save my division. I wouldn't do anything to upset the applecart."

"We won't tell anyone," Heather said with sincerity. "You could become our star attraction. It would be in our best interests to keep you happy."

"Well, what do you say?" Mrs. Robinson asked.

"C'mon, seize the day."

I couldn't pass up the opportunity for my Robin Williams impression. He was the teacher John Keating in 'Dead Poets Society.' "They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you." I thought about the irony. "Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you, their eyes are full of hope, just like you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because, you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it? - - Carpe - - hear it? - - Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary."

Heather, Ben, and Mrs. Robinson applauded me.

"That was wonderful," Heather said. "Robin Williams, right here in our museum."

"All right. Let's give it a shot," I said. The whole idea was absolutely insane! But so was I. There was zero chance that it would work, but I would look good in Heather's eyes for giving it a try.

CHAPTER THREE

The Robinsons didn't let any grass grow under their feet. Within five minutes they had me ready to try a transformation. Thankfully they agreed to give Ben and me some privacy.

After I stepped into the black rubber interior of the Roswell Replicator II chamber, the floor started to move on a turntable beneath the chrome dome. A red laser beam, mounted on a movable measuring standard, scanned me slowly from head to toe, combing over every nook and cranny of my naked body, creating a complete 3D record of my whole system from stem to stern.

When I stepped out of the chamber onto the worn plank board floor of the studio, Ben gave me a white terrycloth bathrobe to cover myself. Then I followed Ben over to the front of the high tech apparatus and looked over at the computer screen to see what had happened. There, on the display, was a 3D diagram of my body side-by-side with the 3D representation of Marilyn Monroe's form. Ben moved the mouse and left clicked the control. The Marilyn image was superimposed on top of mine on the display. Then, Ben compensated for the slight height discrepancy by punching in a vertical exaggeration factor of 1.015. This increased Marilyn's height a half-inch to bring her up to my height while expanding her horizontal dimensions by the same miniscule factor.

But Ben wasn't completely happy with the result. "You know, the half-inch difference in height is due to your legs. They are one-half inch longer than Marilyn's are. Let's try keeping the torso dimensions the same. The extra half-inch difference in leg length may be helpful because we have to hide your male genitalia and give you some female 'plumbing.' "

I nodded in dubious agreement.

"Also, see here," Ben said, as he pointed to my midsection on the panel. "You're wider than Marilyn at the waist. We have to compress your stomach a little bit --- just give me a moment. I need to get a few things out of my box of supplies in the truck."

Ben's little walkabout left me all alone for a moment. Where were the Robinsons? I'd expected them back sooner.

While Ben was gone, I looked carefully at the representations of my body and Marilyn's. My chest was less prominent than Miss Monroe's was. Also, my genitalia stuck out like a sore thumb. My shoulders were slightly wider than hers, but, for the most part, our profiles matched. And my skinny legs were the same length, but needed a little padding. Overall, the resemblance was uncanny.

Facially, I would have to rely on the mask to alter any dissimilarity. Our foreheads were very comparable. Her cheekbones were higher than mine, but the good news was that my nose and jaw line were not so large that they would ruin the illusion. Thank goodness I had had my wisdom teeth out a few months earlier. My front teeth looked, as far as I could tell, very much like Marilyn's winsome smile.

'You'll do just perfect, Sugar,' I said/thought to myself. The tone of my voice and the choice of vocabulary surprised me. It was as if someone else had said it through me, but I did see a possibility for this to work if Ben's machine was as good as advertised.

I had to do something about my eyes. I'd need to get cosmetic contact lenses to turn my brown eyes blue-grey like Marilyn's.

When Ben returned, he handed me a cardboard box containing a number of different items. "I needed to get you a corset type of undergarment. And I thought you might want to look at the artificial skin material and the adhesive we'll be using."

"Yes. I'd like to see what the mask material looks like." I moved in close for a careful examination of what he'd brought.

"Well then, let's start with the 'skin.' It consists of two very complex layers. The bottom layer consists of interwoven collagen, derived from cattle, and, in layman's terms, a sticky sugar molecule that imitates the fibrous pattern of the dermis. The surface layer is made of flexible silicon. With the proper pigmentation, it can be matched to either Marilyn Monroe's skin tones or yours. I think that it would be better to match the artificial skin to your tones. For one thing, there isn't a major noticeable difference between your light skin tone and Marilyn's. Secondly, the artificial skin will not be used everywhere. A lot of your own skin will be exposed. So, we might as well go with what will work best."

"What's this?" I held up a translucent plastic bottle.

"That's a special adhesive that will be used to bond the artificial skin to either your skin or a Spandex corset. What is special about this glue is that it has a negligible scent and it is water-soluble when mixed with a special catalyst. You can soak in a bath tub all day long and it won't come loose until you add the solvent."

"Will I be able to sweat in this to cool off my body?"

"For sure, it will act like gore-tex to wick moisture away from your body and won't come loose."

It appeared Ben's company had things thought out.

He continued his explanation. "The proper pigmentation will allow us to seamlessly bond the artificial skin to your body without any detectable ridge or line. It's a Japanese product, Sokui Biosynthetic Glue, that is derived from rice. The rice material is porous and can be shaped or molded easily. The beauty is it's a natural product that will not cause any chemical damage to your skin and can be worn indefinitely. You soak the artificial skin in water, add the special solvent, the adhesive will liquefy and the mask or body panels will come off easily and quickly."

"And what is this nylon thing?"

"Please try it on, Roger. Although the 'corset' looks very thin, our special waist cincher is made from a super high strength Spandex. Basically, it's like the panty part of pantyhose, only it covers you all the way to your ribs. It will shrink your waist, flatten your intestinal area, and, unfortunately, crush your genitalia. You'd better do something about your testicles and penis or it will be painful."

Do something with my testicles and penis? I wasn't ready for that.

"What can I do?" I certainly don't want crushed nuts with my cherry sundae.

"Well, I worked with the U.S. government once and they had me perform a male to female transformation on one of their agents. Although I can't reveal much about the details of the case, I can tell you that a man can retract his testicles. Apparently, it's an old Ninja assassin's trick. Before they would do battle, Ninjas would put their family jewels out of harm's way to protect them. So, please give it a try."

I had noticed, on occasion, when I had . . . ah . . . masturbated, that sometimes one of my testicles would retract when I was extremely excited. It was time to recreate that odd feeling and see if I could retract both testicles on purpose.

"Did that government agent suffer any long-term damage?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Ben added, not making me totally comfortable.

After a few minutes of probing self-exploration, I had succeeded. However, it was not accomplished without a little bit of pain.

Ben then handed me a roll of a skin-colored fabric bandage. He told me to cut off a strip and tape my penis to make it lie flat against my lower stomach.

Ben explained how the male genitalia would be transformed into a facsimile of a female's private parts. A catheter would be attached to the penis and that a false, shallow vagina would be created. I would urinate apparently in the 'normal' way, but 'real' sex would not be possible unless more extensive modifications were made. I thought about asking further, but decided against it. After all, I didn't think I'd ever have to simulate sexual intercourse.

Then I slipped into the super-Spandex corset with the 'false bottom.' Although it was tight, it was not horribly painful. My waist had compressed to a more Marilyn-like shape.

Once more I stepped into the Replicator chamber. The red laser beam scanned over every crook and nanny of my reshaped body.

I stepped out of the chamber and looked at the comparison between my body and the Marilyn image.

"We can work with these results," Ben announced, confirming what I was seeing on the monitor. "We can make moulds of your body and Marilyn's body. This will work!"

CHAPTER FOUR

On the way home, I decided to stop in at the public library. Located on Victoria Avenue, the building was designed with nature as the theme. Water ran through it forming fountains and pools with hundreds of plants surrounding the rustic walkways. Also, the Children's Woodland Garden, located at the back, added to the garden/nature feel.

Near the entrance stood a row of computers. Typing in the words 'Marilyn Monroe' on the catalogue computer produced an overabundance of book titles. I looked at the Dewey Decimal numbers and jotted down numbers 791.43 and 927.92. They would get me in the vicinity of some of the biographies.

After browsing for a few minutes, I selected books by Donald Spoto, Eve Arnold and George Barris.

Then I hurried to the circulation desk, extracted my library card from my wallet, handed it to a librarian, and was processed almost immediately.

Stepping through the electronic scanning gate, I wanted to take a final glance at the Marilyn books before putting them in my knapsack.

"Hey Runt!"

'Oh shit,' I thought to myself. 'There's only one Neanderthal who calls me that. Maybe if I ignore him he'll go away.'

"Hey Runt!"

Finally I turned around to face 'the voice.'

"Yeah, I'm talking to you!"

"I heard you the first time, Nate, but I'm kinda in a hurry."

Nate Jackson, a schoolyard bully I had the displeasure of knowing since elementary school, looked at me with that ever-present menacing sneer on his face. His only talent was an over-active pituitary gland, which had made him bigger than any one else around him.

"What you got there, Runt?"

Nate's long, muscular arms reached over and snatched the books from my hands.

"Hey, it's a library. You don't need to steal books from me. Really, they've got shelves full of them inside."

"Well, well, looky here at these." Nate scanned the covers of the three biographies. "I knew you were a faggot. Marilyn Monroe, she's like the idol of all faggots."

"I'm not a faggot. The books are for school. I'm doing research for my college course." I didn't want to take the chance Nate might ever find out about my new role at the wax museum.

"Yeah right."

"What are you doing here at a library anyway?" After I said it, I wondered why I would provoke him.

"Oh, you think you're so smart 'cause you go to college?"

"I never said that. But I've never seen you here before." I wasn't sure if Nate had graduated from high school, but it was unlikely he would be at the library doing actual research.

"I'm doing some work here, Runt."

"Work? You work here at the library?"

"I'm doing the landscaping outside."

"Oh, you're maintaining the garden? That's cool. The garden here is one of the best in the city."

"It's THE best," he said with indignation. "Yeah, my cousin got me into working for the City of Niagara Falls. So I do the yard work for a lot of the public buildings and parks."

"Good for you. Now, if you'd be so kind as to give me the books back. I'm kinda in a hurry. Isn't it time for your shift to end anyway?"

Nate looked at the clock in the lobby. "Right. I just finished. I came in here to use the washroom . . . but do you remember what I did to you back in grade six?"

"What're you talking about?" I had a bad feeling about where Nate was going with our conversation. Most of the sixth grade had been something I purposely forgot.

"Remember when we were in the schoolyard at recess. I grabbed you up in my arms and tossed you into a garbage can?" Nate laughed. His smile had a mocking twist to it. "I think I'll just deposit these books in the trash container for old times' sake."

"Nate, I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Why the hell not? Are you a man or are you a chicken?" Nate stepped closer to me and took a threatening stance. Even through his green coveralls, I could tell his muscles had tightened and he was ready for action.

"You work for the City. The books are public property. If you look up on the ceiling, beneath that black dome object is a security camera. I doubt that your employers would be impressed if you trashed their books."

"Huh?"

While Nate struggled to think things through, I quickly snatched the books back. "I'll see you when I see you." Hopefully never again. I walked away before Nate could decide his job wasn't worth not being able to bully people.

Since it was 'rush hour,' I stuck to the side streets as much as I could.

Although I tried to focus on the traffic and riding the bike, I couldn't get my encounter with Nate out of my mind. Had it been a preview of the grief I'd face as a Marilyn Monroe impersonator? If so, it was a bad omen.

Niagara Falls was too small a town for keeping secrets. Everybody knew your business. Sure there were millions of tourists in the summer time, but among the permanent residents, it seemed like everybody knew somebody who knew somebody. Would I be able to keep my Marilyn identity a secret?

Ten minutes later, I wheeled my mountain bike into our driveway, lifted the garage door, parked my bike, and locked it. All the while I brooded over my dilemma. In spite of the extra money I could earn as Marilyn, sticking to being a wax museum guide or security guy seemed like the best alternative.

Since it was around 5:15, I knew both my parents would be home. As I walked into the kitchen, Mom was placing the silverware at each plate, and Dad was already sitting at the dinner table, reading his newspaper.

"Hi Mom, Dad."

My dad glanced up from the 'Niagara Falls Review' and nodded back at me, before resuming his reading.

"Roger, I was beginning to wonder if you'd make it on time for supper," Mom said.

"I would've phoned if I was going to be late. I stopped by at the library before coming home."

"So how did your job interview go?"

"It was great. I got the job." I put all thoughts of Nate and my other concerns aside, as best I could.

Mom gave me a congratulatory hug. "Good for you."

"Mrs. Robinson is a really nice person," I began. "She asked me a few questions about my work experience. Then I showed her some of the work I did for my media course, and she seemed quite impressed. So you're looking at a new guide for Robinson's Wax Museum."

"Is the pay better than at Tim Hortons?" Dad asked.

"I think it will be." I wasn't really sure how much I'd be making if my Marilyn Monroe experiment worked out as planned.

"You didn't ask?" My father peered above his reading glasses as he shuffled his newspaper—shooting me a look of mild surprise.

"The pay will depend on my duties. I have to finish my exams first. Then we'll see what my job description involves." I quickly decided I didn't want to mention that I'd be dressing up as a girl. "But if things don't work out, I'm sure I can always go back to Tim Hortons. It's just that I want to try something else—vary my work experience."

"It's too bad you didn't get an interview with the radio station," Mom said. "That would've been nice."

"Or with the 'Review,' " Dad added, "although we're both pleased that you have a job lined up. It sure will help to pay your tuition."

"Not to mention my student loan." The extra money I could earn as an impersonator was tempting and suddenly seemed more important than any possible taunting from Nate.

My parents were ambivalent, at best, about the career path I had chosen. As a kid, I had wanted to be an actor or a singer. However, whenever I auditioned for roles in plays at school, I never got significant roles. The highlight of my acting career had been in the musical 'Into the Woods.' I played a tree.

At Niagara-on-the-Lake, when I auditioned for a role in a Shaw Festival production, I never got a call back. When a movie production came to the Falls, I appeared as an extra. I was among the hundreds of tourists gazing at the Falls. However, the film production ran out of money. It was never finished, never released, and I never got paid.

After tryouts for Canadian Idol were announced, I traveled to the Metro Toronto Convention Centre in T.O. What a zoo! Hours and hours of waiting to get a number, a return visit a few days later for a brief thirty second shot at glory, and ultimate rejection because the day of the audition, I had laryngitis.

My parents had encouraged me to go to university to prepare myself for a respectable career as a doctor, lawyer, engineer, accountant, or even as a teacher. Pursuing media studies at community college was a compromise. They were pushing me to get good grades and shift to university in something 'solid.' Work as a female impersonator at a wax museum was hardly the big break I had hoped for and was potentially embarrassing for my dad as a minister.

"I hope you feel like having pasta tonight," Mom said.

I looked at the lasagna warming up in the oven. "It looks good and smells great." The Parmesan cheese was melting on the tomato sauce. My mom was a great cook. "Do you need any help, Mom?"

"I'd appreciate it if you'd pour some coffee for Dad and me. And get whatever juice you'd like from the fridge."

"Okay."

Mom placed a large salad bowl in the middle of the dinner table while I poured the coffee for Dad, and then Mom. I got out the chilled Tropicana orange juice.

When we sat down to eat, my father said grace. After all, he was Reverend Ian Baker of St. Mark's Anglican Church.

Mom was Ms. Baker to her elementary school students and 'Charlotte' to everyone who worked with her for the District School Board of Niagara.

While we said grace, I wondered what people would think of my parents if it became public knowledge that their son was a Marilyn Monroe impersonator. I doubted that my parents, especially my father, would be pleased with the gender bending. Potentially, it could be a source of embarrassment for him. 'Your son is a drag queen?' At some point I had to tell Mom and Dad.

"…For what we are about to receive, let us be truly thankful. Amen."

CHAPTER FIVE

I returned to Robinson's Wax Museum early the next morning. It was a sleepy Saturday. I had exams coming up on Monday, so I was hoping that the morning fitting of my Marilyn Monroe mask would go smoothly. I needed the time to study.

Apparently, the body moulds and the artificial skin material of the mask needed some time to dry. Thus, I had not been able to see the results the previous afternoon.

I felt a little strange. The Robinsons told me to get rid of all of my body hair. Never before had I shaved away all the pubic hair around my crotch. Never before had I shaved my legs and armpits—not that there was much to shave. I'd been ultra-careful with the razor. I used a lot of shave gel and I took my time. And after I washed away all the foam, I was shocked by how sensually stimulating it was to have such silky, smooth skin.

When I timidly stepped into the workspace at the back of the wax museum, Heather, Mrs. Robinson and Ben were all waiting.

"Good morning 'Marilyn'!" they all called out at the same time.

"Hi there," I replied softly, somewhat overwhelmed by their 'in unison' greeting. I was anxious and in a toe-in-the-water mood, while they were apparently eager to dive in.

"Are you ready to be transformed?" Heather asked. She had grown even more lovely overnight.

"As ready as I will ever be." My tone carried my lack of fervor for our project.

Heather came over and hugged me, an extremely pleasant way to start a work shift. "Don't worry, you're going to be great."

To tell you the truth, I looked forward to the upcoming ordeal. I really wanted to see if it would work, but I had not slept well. I kept thinking about 'being' Marilyn Monroe. My middle of the night tossing and turning conclusion was I could do it, but I couldn't expect it to come naturally.

Ben led me over to where a few Japanese shoji screens had been set up to provide temporary privacy. Behind the protection of the white paper panels, I stripped off my clothes, and then placed them on top of the screen's black frame. At Ben's urging, I put on the special corset, going through the very private penis preparation procedure I'd learned yesterday. When I stepped out into the workspace again, I felt completely naked—especially in front of the ladies—even though I was as modestly dressed as anyone on the beach. My skinny, corseted body must have been a weird sight to Heather and Mrs. Robinson.

Ben, looking much like a 'mad' scientist in his long white lab coat, led me over to the 'operating table' in his 'lah-bore-ahhh-tory.'

"Now this is going to take a little while," Ben said. "So, just relax."

"Maybe I can catch up on my sleep," I mumbled.

I settled back down on the padded table and looked up at the light gray rafters of the high ceiling. Part of me wanted the experiment to be a disastrous failure. That little segment of my brain would've liked nothing less than a totally crestfallen Ben to throw up his hands in despair, pronouncing me much too manly to ever look like a woman.

"Roger, I need you to turn over."

I grunted as I complied with his request.

"You know," Ben began, "technology is an amazing thing. If you really wanted to avoid using the corset, there's a new medical procedure that targets 'stubborn' body fat."

"Liposuction?"

"No," Ben said, "the latest is an ultrasound device developed in Israel called Ultrashape."

"What does it do?"

"It's similar to the ultrasound technology used to destroy kidney stones, except it blasts away the fat."

"Hasn't ultrasound been around for awhile?"

"Yes, but the problem in using ultrasound to eliminate fat was the possible damage to blood cells and nerve cells surrounding the fat. The Israelis have invented a sophisticated, precise, three-dimensional tracking system. The procedure will feel like a normal scan, with the transducer being gently smoothed across the stomach or love handles. The acoustic waves rupture the fat cell membranes. Then the liquefied fat is excreted naturally by the body. Unlike liposuction, the procedure is non-invasive."

"How come you know so much about Ultrashape?"

"Roswell is a huge conglomerate. We're hoping to become the North American distributor for Ultrashape."

"It sounds pretty amazing," I said. "If I understand you correctly, I could lose that hard to get rid of fat without dieting or exercise?"

"That's true, although dieting and exercise is still recommended as preparation for the procedure."

"Wow! Sounds like you've got a winner there. Every horizontally challenged person in the world will love it."

"Ultrashape isn't Roswell's property yet. We're still negotiating for the distribution rights. There's a lot of competition as you can well imagine."

I wasn't thinking of the corporate competition. Instead, I was thinking of what could happen if Ultrashape was combined with the Roswell Replicator. Then, almost anyone could get into a bodysuit and mask and become somebody else. Suddenly I had visions of 'Marilyn' starring in a remake of 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers.'

Ben continued to work. Using the Sokui Biosynthetic Glue, he started to attach skin-colored 'panels' to my body and to the special Spandex corset. There were 'panels' placed around my rear end, my crotch, over my hips, on my legs, and on my chest. I was sure that I had been given womanly curves, although I did not have a good view of them yet, since I was lying supine.

It was surprising how quickly everything came together. Ben had planned his work well.

Next came the facemask. Ben spread his adhesive over my face and then the mask was pressed into place. The holes for the nostrils, mouth, and eye socket area fit perfectly. The 'skin' material felt amazingly thin and flexible. The mask covered the area from just below the chin and jaw line, over the face, up to the hairline. From there, the mask extended into a mesh, scalp cap covering my hair. A neatly fitted overlapping seam on the back of the ultra-thin scalp cap drew the mask together.

Ben stood back and proudly stated, "Use of the Roswell Replicator's face recognition software to create a perfect 3-D Marilyn Monroe mask to fit on top of your facial features is a marvel of modern technology."

I was in no position to judge and would hold my opinions until I saw the end product.

After allowing five minutes or so for the adhesive to dry, Heather began applying make-up to my face. She took about fifteen minutes to use eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, lipstick, blush, and finished by applying a 'mole' to my cheek with a dark pencil. Next, Heather delicately glued on false eyelashes.

I was not supposed to talk or move during the whole procedure. Ben said movement while the glue was setting would ruin the bond between the mask and my skin. This was particularly important at the edges of the mask, below the chin and jaw line, where the Sokui glue was used to blend the mask with the skin seamlessly.

Finally, I was allowed to sit up. A platinum-blonde wig was placed on my head, and attached to the scalp cap with matched sets of Velcro tabs sewn into the underside edges of the wig.

The transformation complete, I was led over to a full-length mirror.

There before me stood the sex goddess . . . Marilyn Monroe in her birthday suit! Even down to a false vagina—although there wasn't any hair. My knees buckled slightly and I sucked in a great deal of air.

When I moved, she moved. When I turned to the side to look at my profile, Marilyn turned to the side . . . and what a profile! Her breasts were astonishing. Her waist was tiny, broadening out to what the boys in high school had called 'child-bearing' hips. What sexy legs! I looked over my shoulder at her cute rear end in the mirror and felt a twinge of pain as my penis tried to spring to life beneath its confinement.

Then I stepped up closer to the mirror.

Her platinum blonde curls framed the most famous face in the world: the high arching eyebrows, the sensuous eyes, the high cheekbones, the mole on the left cheek, and the pouting red lips. They had made me Marilyn Monroe in the flesh.

The warmth from Heather's body alerted me as she stepped up close behind.

I turned to face her, with her face inches from mine. Her arms encircled me and she hugged me warmly, snuggling cheek to cheek.

"You look wonderful!" she said breathed into my ear. "And you feel amazing!"

"You too," I whispered into her ear, so softly that Ben and her mother wouldn't hear. "You too."

CHAPTER SIX

All through the next week of studying and writing exams, I felt distracted by thoughts of my new job.

Who wouldn't be—at the daunting prospect of impersonating Marilyn Monroe? In a way it seemed like I wasn't only going to impersonate her, but because of the amazing technological costume . . . I was actually going to become her. In the past, when I'd practice voices in my room recording them on my computer, I would allow my self to float into the person. That was my way of getting my mind into character. When I did women's voices I felt absolutely feminine. At times it would creep me out, even though no one was around. My new job would go way beyond a few moments of intense play in my room.

All through my childhood, I had been teased about being a skinny little kid. One time, when I was at the beach, a friend looked at my protruding ribs and cruelly called me 'xylophone bones.' I had been called a wimp, a coward, a nerd, a runt, an idiot, and a gay boy—and those were just the names that I'm willing to repeat. There were times I was told that I looked like a girl. Some kids labeled me a faggot, even though I had never exhibited homosexual tendencies that I knew of. The taunting tore at my self-image. Maybe I was over-sensitive, but I always wanted to prove to the bullies that they were wrong. So, to suddenly agree to dress up as Marilyn Monroe went against my better instincts—against every fiber of my being.

On the other hand, I knew that I had a gift of mimicry. My Dad preached often about the sin of wasting our talents, but would he support this particular 'nurturing'? Becoming an entertainer was a gamble. For every star, there were tens of thousands of wannabes. So far, my show biz experience was pitiful, but I was still hopeful.

My impressions had started back in elementary school, imitating my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Bond. Or, as we liked to call him, Bond . . . James Bond. Actually, he sounded a lot like the Elmer Fudd. He was easy to imitate.

I went on to work on imitations of cartoon characters: Inspector Gadget, The Jetsons, The Flintstones, Scooby-Doo and The Simpsons. I could do Fred, Wilma, Daphne, Scooby-Doo, Bart, Homer, and Marge. Inspired by shows like MAD TV and Saturday Night Live, I tried to imitate celebrities. I graduated to movie stars like Jack Nicholson, Jim Carrey, Tom Hanks, Eddie Murphy, Mike Meyers, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn. Then somebody said I sounded like Madonna when I sang along to her songs. Consequently, I started doing singers too. My talent became a way of escaping. I wanted to be a comedian, a movie star, a hockey player, a singer, a radio announcer, and so on; anything but Roger Baker—the skinny little runt.

The more success I enjoyed, the more I practiced. It compensated for being chosen last when teams were picked for football games. It made up for being bullied. When I was really good at imitating someone, my classmates treated me like a hero.

"Some time, Rock, when the team is up against it, when things are wrong and the breaks are beating the boys—tell them to go in there with all they've got and win just one for the Gipper. I don't know where I'll be then, Rock. But I'll know about it, and I'll be happy." My Ronald Reagan voice needed work. His speech patterns had changed over his lifetime. It was hard not to always do him as he was during his last few years.

So when I showed up at Robinson's Wax Museum the following Saturday, I was both excited and full of doubt. I wasn't sure I was doing the right thing.

I met with Heather in the 'Studio,' as she liked to call it—the large workspace at the back of the museum. Ben and Mrs. Robinson had turned the project over to the two of us.

After changing out of my street clothes, she propped me up again on the operating table, and then I went through the extensive transformation procedure once more. Although I felt a little uncomfortable that Heather was doing the whole procedure, she handled the 'operation' in a professional manner. Heather spread special adhesives over my body and face. The realistic looking skin-colored panels were bonded to my own features. A wig was attached and make-up applied. When I stood before a full-length mirror, I was overwhelmed once more by my amazing transformation into the diva of sex.

"Oh, I forgot one minor detail." Heather retrieved a small plastic case from the counter. "You'll need to put these contact lenses in."

I opened the small case and inspected the thin blue-gray films within their liquid-filled cup like enclosures.

Then Heather gave me a lesson on how to insert the lenses. Apparently she had experimented with cosmetic contacts before.

It was my first time wearing contact lenses. They felt like foreign objects in my eyes. I had to constantly bat my eyelashes—but it wasn't an affectation designed to attract the attention of a love-hungry men.

"Just call me 'Blinky' Monroe," I grumbled.

Heather smiled. "You'll get used to it. After a short time, you'll even forget that you're wearing them."

Next, I tried putting on the false eyelashes by myself. Somehow, I got it right the very first time. Heather showed me that the key was not using too much glue. Checking in a mirror, I found I needed to use eyeliner to hide the adhesive.

The Marilyn illusion was absolutely amazing! My eyes had become her mesmerizing eyes. The wavy platinum hair with the widow's peak, the high cheekbones, the sensuous lips, the distinctive mole on the left cheek, and a body to die for—I was the definition of narcissistic love.

"It's about time I looked like this. . . . " Why on earth had I said that?

Thankfully, Heather giggled. "Are you ready to put on some beautiful gowns?"

I had been standing with my arms crossed in front of me grabbing my shoulders. "As much as I admire my new body, I feel very uncomfortable without clothes on. I mean, I know I'm not really naked, but my eyes tell me something else." Could Heather see my deep blush through the artificial layers on my face?

"Let's try a few things," Heather said with eagerness that was infectious.

I found myself actually staring at my new wardrobe with fascination and desire.

"Yes . . . let's," I said in Marilyn's breathy, squeaky voice.

Heather jumped, and then caught herself. "Oh my. That voice is going to take some getting used to, but it's a good idea for you to get into your role."

Unlike the previous week, outfits had been prepared for me. The Robinson wardrobe staff had been hard at work sewing costumes during the past seven days.

My natural impersonation skills went into overdrive as I found myself talking and moving like I'd seen Marilyn do in all those old films. Heather acted professionally by accepting my new 'character' for what it was and not freaking.

First came the revealing white dress from 'The Seven Year Itch.' The yards and yards of slippery fabric felt like a billowing cloud around my newly rounded body. Looking at things from the inside out, I could see how the dress showed off every bit of Marilyn's . . . and now mine . . . femininity.

The dress required that I wear a bra. "It feels good," I said, as the strange piece of clothing lifted the weight off my 'breasts' and eliminated the discomfort of them pulling against my chest skin.

Then I tried on the red-sequined gown from 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.' It was harder to put on because it was much less forgiving. When Heather pulled up the zipper in the back, it felt like they'd made it too small, but in the mirror I could see it was a perfect fit and looked very 'hot.' An urge came over me to purr like a kitten, which I fought back. There was only so much I wanted to subject Heather to.

"The gowns fit perfectly," I smiled at Heather as I imagined a woman would, waltzing out of a department store dressing room with a perfect choice, "and so do the high-heeled shoes!"

"The shoes are a women's size 8C," Heather said, "not the size 7AA that the real Marilyn wore. Your feet are slightly bigger than hers, but not so much that anyone will ever notice. In a pinch, you could wear her shoe size."

"No, no, you know what they say about a guy's shoe size?"

"I haven't a clue."

"No, the bigger the shoe, the bigger the 'package.' "

"Oh, that package."

"Yes, although I don't have big feet or a hairy chest, everyone calls me Sasquatch."

Her laughter was music to my ears. She had the kind of laugh that made you want to hear it again, every day for the rest of your life.

"If you can make a girl laugh—you can make her do anything," I said to myself. Where had that come from? I normally would never think a thing like that.

Heather looked at my ears for a moment. "Speaking of size, I've heard the same thing said about big earlobes. We're going to have to have to pierce your Buddha sized earlobes." Heather had my face in her hands and turned me from side to side appraising my appearance.

My hands flew to protect my lobes. "Why?" My voice—not at all squeaky—had been a pure Roger Baker whine.

"All of Marilyn's earrings were made for pierced ears," Heather said. "The costume jewelry we've found for you is just like hers."

"I'm not going to do it. How would I explain that to my friends? People will see the gaping holes in my ears. That's too much to ask."

Heather took out her earrings and showed me that her holes weren't gaping, but I dug in my heels—high as they were.

"I draw the line at pierced ears," I said, making sure she knew that was my final answer, "although I do like the jewelry you picked out. 'Real diamonds! They must be worth their weight in gold!' " I'd quoted Marilyn from 'Some Like It Hot,' but my joke had gone over Heather's head.

"It's a good thing you like diamonds," she said. "If we have to staple them to your ears, you'll be wearing them."

I gave out a loud, Marilyn-like squeak and hid my ears with my hands, earning for me another of her perfect laughs.

"We'll figure out something," Heather said. "You're being so great doing what you're doing. I'll let Mom and Ben know that they shouldn't be so demanding." She stopped and took my hand. "I hope you understand how much your doing all this means to Mom and me. You could really help us draw in more customers, and we really need them." She squeezed my hand lightly before letting go.

I looked away and stepped out of the gown in order to change into a dancer's leotard; a stretchy ruby red Spandex material that hugged 'my' curvaceous contours. When I looked in the full-length mirror, in spite of my attempt to create a Zen moment of emotional detachment, I almost had an instantaneous orgasm.

Had Marilyn felt like that when she looked at herself? Why would've she, she wasn't a boy in a woman's body.

I wanted to spend the next few hours looking at Marilyn-me in the mirror, but we had to rehearse.

With the aid of several movie videos, a DVD player, and a giant television screen, I began to learn the dance routines. For the purposes of our first rehearsal, Heather was the instructor. Fortunately for me, Heather had taken dance lessons for many years. Her trim body hadn't been the result of aerobics classes. She had taken ballet, jazz, and modern dance lessons.

Heather had practiced the Marilyn Monroe dance routine many times already, having had a week to prepare. After a brief stretching warm-up, Heather led me through each step of the choreography.

Large mirrors had been set up along one wall of the Studio to help us master the dances.

It took me quite some time to get used to the high heels. In fact, after stumbling for the umpteenth time, Heather recommended that I take them home and get used to walking in them. Other than that, my body seemed to push me to move exactly like Marilyn's had. When I didn't think about what I was doing and went on a sort of autopilot, my dancing was at its best.

I had to adjust to learning the distinctive Marilyn Monroe walk. Rolling my hips was totally new. It was like a graceful stripper's bump and grind. Sexy, classy . . . and with more jiggles than a Hawaiian hula dancer. Working in front of the mirror I quickly found ways to make my new curves bounce—ways that looked almost sinful.

We rehearsed 'Diamonds' from the film 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.' Also, we put some practice time into 'I Wanna Be Loved by You' from the movie 'Some Like It Hot.'

"Have you seen the entire movies," I asked, "or did you just look at the dance numbers?"

"I watched all of 'Some Like It Hot,' " Heather laughed. "Of course, I've watched it about ten times before. Mom loves that movie."

"I'm glad I don't look like either Tony Curtis or Jack Lemmon," I said.

"What do you mean? They were both handsome men."

"Uh huh," I said, in perfect Marilyn voice, "but I don't want to look like a man in a dress, like they did."

"You don't have to worry about that. We'll make sure you're perfect, no matter how long it takes."

Suddenly I felt like being a little silly. "It's not how long it takes, it's who's taking you," I said quoting Marilyn as Sugar in 'Some Like it Hot.'

It didn't surprise me that Heather knew exactly what I was doing. She smiled broadly and fed me a line from the movie. "Look, are you interested in whether I am married or not?" She said it exactly like Tony Curtis had said it as 'Junior.'

"Oh, I'm not interested at all," I simpered as Marilyn had done.

"Well, I'm not." She had captured the hoity-toity fake nasal tones Curtis had used to mock Cary Grant.

"That's very interesting!" I said with the same excitement used by the gold-digging Sugar in the movie.

We both laughed and Heather once again embraced me, as one woman would do to another. This time it felt right and I returned her embrace as I thought Marilyn would have.

As we broke, I said another line from the film. "What is it?" Heather didn't seem to remember the scene so I added. "That fish hanging on the wall, what is it?"

That did it, she remembered. "It's a member of the herring family."

"A herring? Isn't it amazing how they get those big fish into those little glass jars?" I held my eyes wide open with the amazing innocence only Marilyn could portray.

"They shrink when they're marinated," Heather deadpanned, as Curtis had in the movie.

We laughed again as if we both were being tickled.

Then Heather's visage turned from a smile to a more serious look. "Although I've enjoyed the repartee, we need to get back to work," Heather said with authority.

"Ah, do we really have to?"

"Yes. All play and no work makes for a bad show."

"Wasn't it all work and no play . . . ?"

As the dance routine began to take shape, I felt encouraged by my reflection in the mirror. It was as if Marilyn Monroe had started to take control of my body. Roger Baker had never been as graceful as that wondrous woman in the mirror. I couldn't believe how well the rehearsal was going. After one solid hour of things Heather called step ball changes, pirouettes, turns, high steps, lifts and lunges, we were ready for a break.

"You're a natural," Heather said. "Are you sure you've never taken dance?"

"No," I replied in my breathy Marilyn voice, "but I've got an excellent teacher."

"Thanks."

"But you know, this whole thing is somewhat surreal."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, unreal. I look in the mirror as we're dancing, and I can't believe it's really me."

"I know what you mean. There have been times, when I look at you, I've had to remind myself that there's a guy named Roger behind the Marilyn Monroe façade."

My inner voice suggested that the spirit of Marilyn was moving me. It certainly felt as if someone else was guiding my muscle memory. The few girls who had agreed to dance with me had often been critical of my efforts. Why would I suddenly be able to learn a dance routine so quickly?

"Well, maybe I'm learning so quickly because I'm following your lead, but what would happen if you weren't here? Could I do it from memory? I don't know. At some point, I guess I'll have to try it on my own—to see if I really know it."

"I wouldn't worry about that right now. We have plenty of time to get this whole show put together. . . . For one thing, we don't even have a proper venue ready for you."

"I was wondering about that. Where will I perform? Surely not here in the studio?"

"Hopefully no. I had a chat with my mother just this morning. We've been holding preliminary discussions with the owners of the building next door, but they want too much rent and they'd like at least a one-year lease. That would be quite a gamble. The other alternative is to put up a tent covering on the rooftop of this building. We could put in temporary seating. The advantage would be a fairly low cost. The disadvantage would be that it would be a fairly short season. Although, in truth, the only profitable season for the Museum is the summer. As you know, not many tourists come to see Niagara Falls in the winter. Although the new casinos have led to more visitors coming in the off-season, they come to gamble. I don't know if we could get enough gamblers to come to our show through the winter months."

"Will there be any other performers?" I wasn't eager to be the whole show, but I also selfishly wanted to be Heather's only white knight riding in to help out their financial condition.

"Oh, perhaps. We'll have to see about hiring some male dancers, but we have to keep costs down. However, we may need to hire several musicians."

"My friend Pete Winslow is terrific on the keyboards. With his synthesizer, he can sound like an entire orchestra."

"Good. We'll have to bring him in and see if it'll work out. . . . But I thought you didn't want anybody in on our little secret."

"We don't have to tell him either. That is, unless he figures it out."

"Okay. But won't he recognize you?"

"When I look in the mirror, I don't see any trace of Roger Baker," I cooed in Marilyn's little girl voice.

"I know there's a guy in that get up somewhere, but all I see is Marilyn Monroe too."

"What about other celebrity performers? Do you want to bring in Elvis or Elton John or Britney Spears impersonators?"

"Not yet, unless you have other voices you want to bring to life."

"I hadn't even thought about that." Heather was forgetting that I'd have to be a lot taller to fit inside an Elvis costume.

"I could use the Roswell Replicator to see if I could impersonate Jane Russell."

"That would be great!"

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"I guess when I dream, I'm not afraid to dream impossible dreams," I said, thinking of Don Quixote, 'Man of La Mancha.'

"Neither am I. I'm willing to take risks."

"I can see that."

"You're a risk taker too," she said, with something that sounded like admiration.

The body panels held me from developing what would have been an embarrassing lump in my leotards. "Right . . . I guess we have a few things in common," I said hopefully.

"Agreed. But, enough talk. We'd better get back to work. We'll have to wrap it up within the next half-hour . . . I've got a lunch date with my boyfriend, Brad. He's been out of town for the last week, and I've been dying to see him."

Boyfriend? Brad? My head spun. Heather has a boyfriend. The romance I'd been imagining had taken a severe hit. "Then let's get going," I said trying to hide any trace of disappointment.

For the next fifteen minutes, we polished up the 'I Wanna Be Loved By You' song and dance that Heather had choreographed. Then, we switched back to the 'Diamonds' routine from earlier. Heather took the Jane Russell part. I could see real joy in her performance as we mimicked the dazzling production number from 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.' I had to fake any joy, still reeling under the shock of her being attached to some guy named 'Brad.'

Heather glanced at her watch. "Oh Marilyn, I think it's time for a costume change."

"But I thought you said you had to meet your boyfriend," I replied.

"I think we'll have just enough time for this. I want you to change into that sexy sheer gown that Marilyn Monroe wore when she sang 'Happy Birthday' to President John F. Kennedy."

"Okay," I said with a shrug.

While the movie DVD from 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes' kept playing, I stepped behind the Japanese rice paper screens and took off the dancer's leotard. The garment was so thin that it was almost transparent. After I slipped into it and stood in front of the mirror, I swore to myself that I would never wear it in public. It was scandalous.

"The body is meant to be seen, not all covered up." A voice inside me said. I was starting to talk to myself in Marilyn's voice.

"It's exactly the kind of dress the President had wanted to see me in," my subconscious admonished me.

Okay. Things were getting weird. I had never before identified so closely with anyone I was impersonating. On the other hand, I'd never been enhanced as I was by the panels and mask from the Roswell Replicator.

I shuddered, but then thought about ways to wear the dress that wouldn't be so bad. I took off the gown, and then put on flesh-colored tights so that at least Marilyn's private parts would be hidden from view. When I put on the gown again, I was pleased it appeared a little more modest, although the brown areas around my exquisite breasts were only partially hidden by strategically placed sequins. I knew from the Marilyn Monroe episode on A&E's Biography that Marilyn Monroe had been reluctant to wear the gown on the evening she sang to Jack Kennedy at a packed Madison Square Garden.

I heard some voices behind me. Heather's boyfriend, Brad, must have arrived.

Due to the active dance rehearsal, I needed to fix my make-up. I wiped away a little bit of smeared mascara, touched up the eye shadow, and applied some lipstick. This was the first time I had ever done it, but I had watched my mother do it many times. It wasn't at all like a totally alien act.

Finally, I pulled on my long white opera gloves. They were a nice classy 60's touch!

One last check in the full-length mirror. Perfect!

I stepped out from behind the screen and onto our 'pretend' stage once more.

In the middle of our rehearsal area was a blindfolded man sitting on a wooden chair. Beside him stood Heather, still dressed in her red dancer's leotard. She beckoned me to come over to her. The grin on her face begged me to play along with whatever she wanted.

She put her arm around my shoulder and whispered into my ear, "This is my boyfriend Brad Adams. It's his birthday today. Would you do me a favor and sing 'Happy Birthday' to him as Marilyn?"

I was absolutely shocked!

Before I could give her an answer, Heather whispered again, "I'd like you to stand behind him. Then I want you to take off the blindfold and sing 'Happy Birthday.' Don't worry! He won't move. I've told him that if he moves from that chair, you will end the performance. Touch him seductively on the shoulder, on the cheek, and then sit on his lap. Try to make him believe you're Marilyn Monroe and he's President Kennedy. Be just like Marilyn and tease the heck out of Jack."

Still in a state of shock, I nodded.

Heather scurried away to watch, hidden from view, behind the Japanese screens.

I stepped up to Brad. As I touched his cheek, Brad jumped a little, startled by the touch. I cuddled his cheeks for a moment with my soft gloves.

"Hello Brad," I whispered in Marilyn's sweet little girl voice. "I understand it's your birthday." I undid the knot and removed the blindfold.

"Uh huh." There was a look of shock and pleasure on Brad's handsome face when the covering was removed. He quickly looked around for Heather and appeared pleased, for some reason, when he didn't see her.

Heather had good taste in men. Brad was a real hunk! He kind of reminded me of a young Matthew McConaughey. Brad had a lean and muscular frame, but short, dark hair—not the longer curly locks of Matthew.

"Happy birthday to you," Marilyn sang slowly and seductively. I stroked Brad's neck and squeezed his upper body as I wrapped one leg over his shoulder, resting my high heel between the V of his parted legs. "Happy birthday to . . . you." I switched my position again, sitting on his lap and putting my arm around his waist. My other hand reached up to touch his lips. "Happy birthday . . . dear Brad." I undid Brad's shirt and, raked his chest hair with glove-encased fingernails. "Happy birthday . . . to you."

Everything I did felt right, including when I concluded by delicately nudging my smooth soft cheek up against his cheek, and then turning slightly and kissing Brad gently on the mouth.

Instantaneously, I knew I'd pushed it too far. Brad responded by wrapping his gorilla arms around me. Then he clamped his lips upon mine. I resisted as vigorously as I could, but Brad was much bigger and stronger. He could suck face like a vampire vortex. Brad's tongue pushed through my teeth and probed my inner sanctum. I gave up struggling against his superior strength. A moment of passion stretched to what seemed like a minute of unadulterated embarrassment! I could feel his penis spring to attention, pushing into my upper thigh while I sat sidesaddle on his lap.

I should have known better! I knew what it was like to be a guy turned on by a beautiful girl. I had had a bit of experience at wishing and hoping and groping and probing!

When Brad relaxed his hold momentarily, I broke the kiss. I pushed him away and sprang to my feet; so angry I wanted to slap him!

"That was some birthday kiss!" Brad exclaimed with a self-satisfied smile. "I don't know who the hell you are, but you can kiss me anytime you want!"

"Even a blind man would know who I am, Brad." Guys could be such pigs!

"She's our new star attraction!" Heather called out as she stepped out from behind the cover of the screens.

I turned to face Heather as she advanced toward us.

"I'm sorry Heather, but I couldn't hold off your boyfriend."

Heather eased my fears with her smile. "Don't be sorry, hon. You did exactly as I asked. . . . As for Brad, I should have known he couldn't keep his hands off you."

"Well, what did you expect me to do? I thought she was your idea, so I didn't want to ignore her. And when a girl kisses me, I do the polite thing and return the kiss."

I was afraid that Heather was going to embarrass Brad with the truth—that the sexy girl Brad just kissed was really a guy!

"A kiss is fine Brad, but violating a complete stranger is tacky, even for you." Heather paused to gather her thoughts. "I was hoping you could show some self-discipline! I was hoping you could resist her. I was hoping you could be faithful! However, the French kissing, Brad, was taking the entertainment a step too far! "

Brad countered with an attempt to blame Heather for putting "some sexy bimbo" up to singing 'Happy Birthday' to him.

Heather accused Brad of having wandering eyes and hands.

Brad complained about Heather being too high-maintenance.

While the two argued, I slipped away to my dressing area to sort through my disjointed and troubled thoughts.

(continues)

  

  

  

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