MyFace

I wake up fearful. As usual.

I decide to walk it off. I take my trash picker-upper device with me. I want to access my inner Catholic and rid the world of evil in the form of cigarette butts.

Down the hill, out of the rain forest toward the ocean. I’m headed through the heart of Roberts Creek toward the Georgia Strait. An eight minute walk.

Green explodes everywhere. The early morning slanting sun against huge cumulus thunderclouds is almost garish.

I need to soak up beauty. And pick up the cigarette butts. In front of the post office, in front of the Gumboot Café, and at the bus stop across from the Roberts Creek General Store. I exult in the knowledge that I am a fountain of tidiness. I exult in the feeling of moral superiority.

At age 13, I was told by the Holy Cross Fathers that I was too disfigured to be a priest. So I have never been given the power to forgive sins Too bad for me. But I’ve found something better as a substitute. I pick up cigarette butts.

Instead of looking for beauty, I scan the ground for trash and butts.

OK, to be clear, I only do this every few weeks. But I am not anal retentive! I keep my obsessions under control. Isn’t that natural for someone obsessed with control?

I get to the Gumboot. It turns out that someone has been there before me. A couple of weeks’ accumulation of butts is mostly gone. What a boost for my dim faith in human nature.

Onward to the bus stop. I think that this is penance for the 23 years I smoked incessantly and threw my cigarette butts all over Chicago and Bloomington and San Francisco. Like Robert deNiro in The Mission, who lashed his armor to his back in permanent penance for his sins. I have another 22 years of this to make up for the littering of my youth. Better than going to hell and spending eternity in the smoker’s bowge.

Down to Roberts Creek Pier and I can almost see people in the houses in Nanaimo, 22 miles across the Strait on Vancouver Island. High tide and heavy seas beat stray logs against the beach. The ocean is gray-green, not dull but vibrant.

OK, there is dog shit. I fantasize for the hundredth time about my plan to make little index card signs attached to popsicle sticks that will say, “Another gift from the dog owners of Roberts Creek.” I will stick one into each pile of dog poop. I fine tune the fantasy a bit by planning to laminate the signs so that they will be legible on rainy days.

Oh my god, I have forgotten about the beauty. I endeavor to self-exorcise. Begone, fantasy! And it works. At least until the next time.

Later I confess my fantasy to Laurie during our writing session. She suggests that instead of my ironic, passive aggressive approach, I do a “culture jam” by putting positive messages in the dog poop. Like “Be sure to take advantage of opportunities that come your way.” “Engage in random acts of kindness.” “Good fortune is yours.” “True love will come your way today.”

The end

Fudge and Forgiveness

On Sunday, Marlena and I arrived at Naramata Retreat Centre, where we were to lead a weeklong storytelling class. We brought our bags into Maple Court Residence Hall. After unpacking, I went to the common kitchen to stick a leftover sandwich in the refrigerator.

I happened to open the freezer, where I saw a white paper bag in the door shelf. It struck my interest because it was the kind of bag that candy comes in. It was sort of crumpled.

Aside from two ice cube trays, it was the only object in the freezer. I picked the bag up and hefted it. It held one object, weighing maybe half a pound.

Of course I was curious. Of course I opened the bag. Inside I found a piece of chocolate fudge in plastic wrap, with a label indicating it came from a candy store in Alberta.

We were in British Columbia, which meant that the fudge had made an arduous journey from another province.

The plastic wrapping was slightly clouded, perhaps with some condensation underneath, the kind of condensation that would form only after a period of time had passed.

Of course I did not open the package. I returned the fudge to the bag and to the freezer door.

*

On Monday, I didn’t think much about the fudge. I was busy with the storytelling class all morning. I did wonder why it had been in the freezer. Who keeps fudge in the freezer? Perhaps it stays fresher in there. But degree of freshness is not the main attraction when it comes to fudge. Plus, in the freezer, it gets frozen. Which means you have to thaw it out before you eat it. Who wants to wait to eat fudge? It was all very puzzling.

*

On Tuesday, during a free moment, I realized the white bag had camouflaged the fudge because it blended in with the white interior of the freezer. Which was probably no doubt why the person who put it there had forgotten it. Whenever that was possibly long ago.

*

On Wednesday, a funny thing happened. It turned out that I had been thinking about the fudge. I realized that, if it belonged to someone, that person would have taken it by then. A person who purchased fudge presumably liked fudge and would eat the fudge. Imagine my surprise when I happened to open the freezer door and saw that it was still languishing there. Whoever left it there possibly was not a serious fudge lover—like I am. This person did not have strong fudge needs. It came to me that I might probably need the fudge.

*

On Thursday, when the freezer door opened, the fudge was in the same place. There was no evidence that somebody cared enough about the fudge to be sure it was ok. I saw that the edges of the fudge were rounded, as if it had been handled carelessly before being discarded in the freezer.

I realized that not only did I deserve the fudge, but more importantly, the fudge deserved me—a person who cared about fudge, a man who could give that fudge what it needed.

The fudge spoke to me.

“Hello, big boy. Do you come here often? Listen, is it chilly in here or is it just me? Are you going to stick your hand in my bag? Oh, that’s nice and warm! Do you like to eat fudge? I’ll just bet you do. What do you say we go someplace where it’s a little more comfortable?”

I took the fudge to my room and set it on the dresser to let it warm up. Marlena spotted it an hour or so later.

“What’s this? Fudge! Where did this come from?”

“Umm, from the freezer. It had been left there some time ago.”

“Honey, this is nothing but chocolate flavored saturated fats and sugar,” said Marlena, viciously.

“Or one could simply call it fudge,” I responded, calmly.

“Hon? You’re not going to eat this, are you?”

“Perhaps not.”

“I’m going to throw it out.”

I said nothing for a few seconds while I wondered why God had led me to marry a fudge-hater. I sighed with dignity. “OK.”

“And I am going to unwrap it before I throw it out. So don’t bother looking for it.”

I was appalled by what seemed like a possible lack of trust.

*

On Friday afternoon I was making tea in the kitchen when Corinne walked in. She is a young, lovely, energetic woman who had been at the centre all week teaching world dance. She walked right to the freezer, opened the door and spoke.

“Hey, what happened to my fudge?”

My first thought was that I should tell the honest truth and say, “I didn’t eat it.” But I knew that would be similar to an untruth. I knew that I had to take a higher road.

“Maybe somebody cleaned out the fridge?”

“Oh, no! I was saving it for today.” Corinne frowned.

I decided I had to do the right thing.

“Tell you what, Corinne. Marlena and I are just about to walk to the bakery in town. Come on along and I will buy you a brownie?”

“Oh, you are so kind!”

I acknowledged her compliment with a nod and a smile.

At the bakery I bought her a piece of lemon cheesecake. She cleaned the crumbs up with her finger. We walked back.

“Well, that was very generous of you.”

“Well, thank you, Corinne.”

The way she enjoyed the cheesecake crumbs was troubling to me. Corinne had been working hard all week teaching world dance. At the end of the week she had come to get her fudge. Oh, well. She got cheesecake instead. There is a way in which it was doubtless God’s will.

At dinner I saw Corinne walking by. She was sweating after rehearsing for the evening’s performance. I was reminded of how hard she had worked all week

I jumped up and walked over to her.

“Corinne, you know that fudge? I stole it. Or, I mean, I took it.”

“What? My fudge?”

“Yes, but Marlena wouldn’t let me eat it and she threw it out.”

“You took my fudge?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I apologize. That is why I bought you the cheesecake. I was too embarrassed…”

She laughed. “It’s just fudge, David.”

She hugged me. “You’re forgiven.”

As she walked back to rehearsal, she turned and said, “You know, I’ve done the same thing myself.”

I knew that we were kindred spirits. Fudge lovers.

On Saturday, on the plane home, Marlena told me she had returned the fudge to the freezer. I was surprised by her duplicity. Maybe it will still be there next summer.

*

Marlena and I sit on folding chairs as kids spill into the gym. The noise level rises exponentially. I sit with my eyes closed so the students can stare at me.

Eighth graders get the privilege of sitting on the bleacher seats. The seventh and sixth graders sit in rows on the floor.

Two boys are by themselves. off against the gym wall, about 30 feet to our left. They look unhappy.

The assistant principal takes up the microphone. Nobody is looking, nobody pays attention. “Good afternoon, students!” he yells, and they respond. He does it again, more quietly, and they settle down. Teachers step into the crowd to shush a couple of noise pockets.

I am introduced and stand in front of the crowd. I pause for a couple of beats and begin: “I want you to stare at my face today.” They do so. A few grimace and turn away. I invite them to ask, “What happened to your face?” They shout in unison and are engrossed in my explanation.

They love physicality and humor, so my description of being a member of a gang consisting of Freddy Kreuger, the Beast, Frankenstein, Igor, the Phantom of the Opera and Quasimodo goes over well, especially when I finish with “and Michael Jackson,” and act out how my gang likes to play lurch tag while hanging out in the bushes at night.

I tell about how my parents supported me and how my grandmother (mi abuelita, my nana) reacted to the prayerful pose I learned from the nuns by jerking my chin up, up, up and yelling at me to keep it there and look people in the face. I act out her anger and it shocks them into silence.

Then comes the story of showing up, dressed as a clown, at a Halloween party that turns out to be my first boy-girl party, and the inevitable spin the bottle game which ends up in my being rejected by the cutest girl at Our Lady of Grace School.

All I do is tell stories and be as emotionally present as possible. I do indeed feel rejected as I kneel on the gym floor in my imaginary spin the bottle circle. A couple of times, students have come up to us afterwards and said, “Thanks for not telling us what to do.”

“Love at Second Sight” is all about appearance and acceptability, and that is also what their lives are about. They have to do math, but it is a secondary concern. They are trying to find their place in the world and much of it has to do with self image.

Next comes the story of how I sat on the couch with Carol, paralyzed with anxiety and self-doubt, wanting to kiss her but excruciatingly aware of having only one real lip. I finally do ask for a kiss and when she responds “I thought you would never ask,” a feminine “Aaaaw” arises. I look up and see a few boys staring wonderingly at the girls’ reaction.

They are a wonderful audience, reacting authentically to what we present. They are not yet practiced in being cool, in controlling their muscles of facial expression. They seem to radiate light.

I end by saying that my face is a gift because I have been forced to find my inner beauty, and how it has become a gift again in that I find I am able to see the beauty of others like them, that I know that I look different to them than when they first saw me. Some nod in assent. I say that they look different to me too, that I have seen the warmth in their eyes and their intelligence and that I want each them to hold their chin up and be proud of themselves.

I bring up Marlena and they look curiously as I put my arm around her.

“The first time I met David, I heard his voice before I saw his face.” Marlena shows how she walked away in shock when she first saw me.

Marlena’s is the true Love at Second Sight story of taking a longer deeper look, of looking for “the flash of gold” in another. It is all about how to relate to someone radically different and is the perfect counterpart to my story.

She asks, “Do you know how it is when you have a crush on someone?” and girls look knowingly at one another.

It is an afternoon assembly, the last period of the day, and the students are becoming restless. This can be like speaking to a big box of worms. But they are with Marlena when she describes her new awareness of how people like me can get stared at and affected by constant comments and pointing. This, too, is part of their lives and she acts it out well.

They become still again when Marlena tells the sickening feeling she had when Cheryl, her new best friend in high school asked: “Marlena, please don’t tell my parents that you are Jewish.”

She finishes by asking them to take a second look too. I rejoin her and the question and answer session begins. Some of the questions are asked most every time: “Did you tell Cheryl’s parents that you were Jewish?” “Does your face hurt?” “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

Boys tend to ask the more matter of fact, physically oriented questions: “Can you see ok out of your left eye?” “Did you play sports?”

The girls have other interests: “When did you get married?”

And always, some that surprise: “When did you first realize that you had inner beauty?” “If you could change your face by a special operation, would you do it?” When the latter question is asked, I look pensive and say, “Well, only if I could look like Britney Spears.” That gets a mixture of laughter and shock; I feel compelled to announce that I am kidding, that I would not want to give up what I have learned, that my face is a gift. But that I do wonder sometimes what it would be like to be normal. “Maybe I could have a six month trial period with a normal face?”

Then Marlena interjects, “Well, do you think he should change his face?”, knowing they always shout out, “No!”

Afterwards, we stand at the door of the gym to say goodbye. They pour past us; not everyone gets to shake hands. One boy returns to the gym door after having left. He looks tentative. He holds his hand out halfway. As I hold it, he flinches slightly. After he turns away, a teacher says, “That was amazing. Richard never lets anybody touch him.”

***