I could do that, thinks the mannequin, I could be a scarecrow. Change
would do me good—this plastic smile makes my jaw ache, constant dressing
and undressing, complete lack of privacy, and all the empty heads, vacant stares—

I need a new career, outdoorsy, lots of autonomy, casual dress code. I have a cousin
on a farm, maybe he can help me. Sure it's a big jump, fashionista to a post on the
family farm but I'm a sharp-eyed guy with ambition, a head full of ideas, and I'm
an expert at staking out a spot.

Say, with his brains and drive he'll make a first-rate scarecrow. If the farmer nails
him to the post trouble won't come within a mile of their fields. Once the crows
are dispatched he'll tend to everything vexing his farmer: rootworms, bankers,
land managers, bad weather? Not on his watch. Why, with him on the post,
we will have the safest farm in the county.

Then he remembers he's not we, he is him and no one's going to believe a plastic
scarecrow with a vacant smile, no straw under his hat. He may as well dream about
swimming the English Channel, at least he could float across. Impossible, he will
never know the sensation of being teased by the wind, or the smell of lightning and
rain in a corn field.

Looks like he'll be stuck in this plastic world under flickering fluorescent
lights for the rest of his days. But then, his head is empty and his plastic memory
is all short-term, by the time he's slipped into his next outfit he won't even
remember what a scarecrow is...Now if he could just find his swim trunks...