Scroll down to the end of the story to hear the radio play adaptation.
Giraffe. Porcupine. Dolphin.
I avert my eyes as I walk past the freezer of shrink-wrapped meats. Sure, it’s all vat-grown, but somewhere, some-when, an animal had to die to provide the cell cultures. Maybe it was just one penguin that became the ubiquitous party food, but that’s one penguin too many. The New Hipsters can choke on their curried circus elephant. And don’t even get me started on the rhino, exhumed from extinction not to be saved, but to be snacked on.
But anyway: eyes on the prize. There he is, the beautiful boy behind the counter with the tattoos and the pout. He is delicious to look at.
But what side of the store does he shop from? The vatting technology brings together warring factions of eaters to shop under one roof. Is he a status-seeking Hipster, going for the expensive and exotic meats up front? Or is he one of those dullards who dash fearfully to the aisles of school-cafeteria pseudo-chicken glued to a plastic “bone?” I can’t ask him out if he’s one of them.
He can’t be an old-school vegetarian, not here in a vat-meat specialty store. And he couldn’t be a traditionalist, either. Only our parents cling to those habits, every mouthful from an actual dead animal. They don’t shop here.
Could his tastes be like mine?
I make my way to the counter, feigning interest in a selection of pseudo-salami - but, yuck. There is no use pretending that I like anything on offer in the front of the store.
“Hey,” I smile.
“Find what you’re looking for?” he asks.
“I was in here to pick up a specialty culture yesterday,” I say. “But it doesn’t taste right this time.” I'm lying, of course. “I was wondering if I could have it redone.”
“Sure, no prob,” he says. He goes on apologetically about the no-refund policy, and how the results can vary, but all I really see is the muscle in his jaw sliding around under his skin. He pulls up my file and waves me to the sampling room.
“So,” I say, seizing the moment, “how’d you end up here?”
He shrugs. “It’s a job.”
“People sure do eat funny things,” I say.
His store-front expression bends into a confidential smile. “I had a lady last week ask me if I could clone butterfly. She even brought one with her, in a jar! I don’t know if that’s even possible. Or edible.” He pushes through the door into the tiny room.
“Oh my god, what did you tell her?”
“I gave her a copy of our policy and told her to try the Internet.”
I snort. You can find any meat on the Internet, but it always tastes like chicken.
The sampling room is empty but for a chair and a sink, meticulously clean. I sit down and roll up my sleeve.
“So what about you?” I ask. “You into selfies?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve got a culture in back,” he says, swabbing my arm. I look the other way when he unwraps the needle, but mostly it’s to hide my grin. He’s a selfitarian, too!
I walk out with a band-aid decorated with cartoon steaks and bacon. “You know the drill,” he says. “First cuts will be ready in two weeks.”
When I pay, I slip him my e-mail address. And judging by the way he smiles back, we may be tasting each other soon.