Scars and Other Distinguishing Marks Read online

  The man noticed the corners of her mouth twitch, her glance fall. "Were you close?" He was in too deep to turn back.

  She nodded, slowly, sadly. "Very. I know brothers and sisters always love each other, but we had something special. He was very likeable." She brightened. "Did you come from a big family?"

  He didn't respond for a moment. Then came a whispered answer. "Only child."

  He was exhausted and leaned his head against the window, trying to doze off. She watched him.

  "You know," she said, almost immediately, causing him to shake awake, "I really shouldn't pick at my nose like this." She smiled a charming, little girl smile. "There's tons of nerves that are very sensitive. You can paralyze your face."

  As the bus swayed, the driver's tired eyes crept upward to the visor rearview; bloodshot, blinking dully. He shifted his shoulders.

  "Never heard that," the man said, trying to tune her out.

  She pulled at the elasticized pouch on the seat before her and nodded seriously.

  "Most people haven't. But my aunt had it happen." She gestured to her face. "Can't even smile anymore. Imagine not being able to smile."

  The man looked over and the girl was blinking sadly at him. Outside a highway patrol car wailed by, sirens and lights carving the way. Then it was gone. Taking a deep breath, the man pushed his feet against the floorboard and slid up in his seat. He wanted to change seats and his eyes searched the bus. But there were no other seats and he decided to change the subject; she wasn't going to let him sleep.

  "Where you headed?" He rearranged his hair, which had been flattened by the window.

  "New Mexico. My dad's sending me to a private school out there. Hollister? Heard of it?"

  He hadn't. She wrinkled up her nose, collapsing the spray of freckles.

  "It's supposed to be real nice . . . horses, private rooms." She shrugged. "I'll miss my dog, though."

  He crushed out his cigarette. "What kind of dog?"

  She pulled a photo from her purse of a pretty young girl wrestling with a Golden Retriever.

  "That's him. And me."

  The man took the picture and held it. He pointed to a woman standing in the photo's background. "Who's that?"

  She crisscrossed the fingers of both hands into a delicate weave. "My mom. She's been pretty sick. That's why I'm going to Hollister. Dad figured the pressure of being around her would be too much for me." She smiled, weakly. "The doctors say her chances aren't . . . very good."

  The man felt bad for her and offered some gum. "Pretty rough year," he said, as they both chewed.

  Her eyes began to water. "It's been horrible. But my dad says these things run in cycles. The good will come back. That's what he always says. But I don't know. To be absolutely honest with you, I'm real scared. Seems like my whole life is falling apart."

  The man thought about that and looked at her, hearing her pain and fear. "I think your dad is right. The good never does stay away too long."

  She looked at him, wanting to believe every word as the bus hummed trance sounds.

  "I just love my mom so much," she said, embarrassed to self-consciousness by her tears. "I mean, most of the girls I know just barely tolerate their parents. But for me . . ."

  She began to cry and the man had to do something. "It sounds like you're really close."

  "Mothers and daughters should like each other. I guess I feel more that way toward her than my dad, even though he's okay, too. It's just I sort of idolize her." She suddenly seemed awkward with this candor. "Is that sick?"

  The man gave the girl's arm a squeeze and the two rocked as the bus leaned off the highway and slowed into a small town. A ghostly terminal was ahead and inside, white neon sizzled. Newspapers scratched over cement, benches sat empty. There was no traffic.

  "Briston," announced the driver, as he braked to a stop before the terminal, yawned and poured thermos coffee. Outside, wind rose, sounding like a woman moaning over a dead child.

  "My stop," said the man.

  "Looks lonely out there," she said.

  They both peered through the dirty window and allowed a personal moment to come and pass. Then, he nodded and slid past her legs, grabbing a duffel from the overhead rack.

  "Thanks for listening," she said. "Sorry I talked your ear off. Guess I've got insomnia like my brother's girlfriend or something . . ."

  He winked. "Good for watching old movies on TV." His smile was warm. "Hey . . . good luck, huh?"

  They looked at each other, and she grasped his hand. "The good always comes back, right?" Her eyes were weak and frightened, like she'd come a very long way.

  He nodded. "Yeah. It always does. Have fun at school."

  With that, he headed past the other sleeping passengers and out the door. Outside, the wind reached beneath his clothes and he hoisted his duffel, walking toward the deserted terminal, across the street. Suddenly, a voice called from behind and he turned to see her smiling face, chin resting on the window she'd lowered. He waved at her and over the sound of the bus rumbling out, she yelled to him.

  "Hey, what's your name, anyway?"

  "What's yours?" he yelled back, grinning.

  "It's a secret," she screamed, waving at him as the bus began to pull away. Its engines drowned her out as she yelled one last thing he couldn't make out.

  "What?" he screamed, standing in the middle of the deserted town's main street.

  "I said I really like you!" She was cupping hands to her mouth and grinning.

  Greasy exhaust washed over him as he stood there and smiled, watching the bus sway into the night and saw her run to the rear window. Her face filled it and she giggled delightedly, waving and growing smaller as the tail lights tinted her features red. He chuckled and waved back, trying to yell goodbye. But he never got the word out.

  He just stood there, feeling his throat grow raw, realizing from the moment she'd sat down, he'd never had a chance.

  SENTENCES

  Harry first noticed the advertisement as he rode on the subway. The ad made him straighten and take notice and he draped the paper in his lap, running his finger across the print.

  Do you want to know what's really wrong with your life? WE HAVE THE ANSWER! If you are tired of drugs, sex, religion, T.M., EST, psychoanalysis, etc. . . . NO WONDER!! None of these contain the answer! Only we have that. If you want your We to make sense to you, call the following number for a personal consultation.

  To say the least, Harry was jolted. He had been looking for something like this for months. He was, to the point of outrage, fed up with his life and felt it high time he get to the bottom of the shoddy hand he'd been dealt.

  Shoving and shouldering his way out of the subway at the next station, he placed a call to the number indicated in the ad, at a glass-enclosed phone booth. His call answered, he was calmly assured that the service specified was sincere and completely effective by a cordial secretary. He was also informed of the rate; a flat five hundred dollars.

  As convinced as was possible in so short a call, Harry made an appointment to come in the following day, stipulating no commitment. The secretary readily agreed to the terms.

  The following afternoon, Harry was sitting in the office of Mr. Lance Webb, one of the agent-counselors for the business which Harry had by now discovered was called Script Sure.

  Smiling, Webb sat behind his formidable pecan desk regarding Harry.

  "Well, I suppose you're here to find out how it all works," he said, "am I right?"

  "You are," replied Harry, "But before we get to talking, I'd like to know just how you are able to do what you claim in your ad."

  Webb smiled.

  "We prefer, of course, to have the payment first," he said, pleasantly stroking a thin moustache.

  "But . . . how can I be sure?" Harry's voice was rich with doubt. "I don't mean to be impolite, but if I lose five hundred bucks on some con-scheme, that'll be the last straw."

  "I understand your hesitation, Mr. Addley. However we at S
cript Sure are solidly backed by all of our customers. Some of their letters of accolade hang on the wall behind me."

  Webb gestured to several framed letters.

  "However, if you prefer declining our services I will respect your wishes and terminate this meeting." Webb was icily polite. "Others are waiting." Harry stared at Webb and the letters and thought for a good minute. He reached into his coat pocket.

  "Alright," he said, making out a check. "I'm afraid the fact of the matter is, I really haven't much to lose."

  Webb nodded approvingly as he examined the check Harry handed to him and placing it in a desk drawer, leaned forward in his chair.

  "I would like to take as little of your time as possible, Mr. Addley. Therefore, to be quite simple and clear," he said matter-of-factly, "your life, in its totality, is a script. That's the answer."

  "What?" said Harry, unimpressed.

  "A script," repeated Webb.

  "I don't follow you," said Harry, squinting with budding frustration. "What is this, Transactional Analysis or something? I've read all that garbage. I thought this was completely different."

  Webb laughed.

  "No, no, Mr. Addley. You see, this is completely different. The script I referred to is a tangible structure, not just a loose concept. You are living a script. It was written, by a writer, just for you."

  Harry stared at Webb, unflinchingly.

  "You're crazy," he said.

  "Less than you think," said Webb, happily,

  Harry eyed him for a moment trying to assemble a response worthy of reason. Instead he slammed his hands down on the armrests of his chair.

  "Oh, good God," he exclaimed, "this is nonsense." Harry was about to demand his money back but stopped for a moment. An idea was sifting through his mind and his mouth formed a stringent, knowing smile. He could beat Webb at his own game.

  "Well," began Harry, "if what you say is true, Mr. Webb, then perhaps you might have some idea as to how I could get my script changed."

  "Do you mean rewritten?" asked Webb, candidly.

  "Exactly," said Harry, his effective entrapment causing him to gloat as he crossed his arms.

  Webb didn't bat an eye.

  "That would naturally require an additional expenditure," he said, smoothly. "Another two thousand, to be exact. But if you are definitely interested . . ."

  Harry, surprised as he found himself by this reply, of course, was. Still much confused, he wrote down an address Webb read to him from a little black book and after suspiciously shaking Webb's hand, left.

  As he rode through the city in a dingy cab, Harry thought about the notion of his life being a script. He didn't believe it. But on the off chance that what Webb said was true, Harry knew one thing. His script was no comedy. It was more like a sordid, low-budget melodrama. Harry's script would definitely not have made a movie you could take your family to.

  The driver pulled to the curb and Harry got out and paid him. The cabbie roared away and Harry looked up at the sign on the store front. It read, 229 S. Maple ABE'S KOSHER DELI. Harry shook his head incredulously and walked toward the door.

  As he opened the door, he was met inside by a gust of chilly air-conditioning and the rich scent of cold cuts.

  He approached the front display counter and leaned over it. There was a butcher standing with his back to Harry, behind the counter. Harry discerned that it was likely Abe, himself.

  "Excuse me," said Harry.

  "Yeah, what'll it be?" asked the man, turning to face Harry, bloody cleaver in hand. He had a thick paunch and wiped his free hand of animal innards, smearing them on his starched apron.

  "I was sent over here by Mr. Webb at Script Sure," said Harry.

  "Oh, yeah, yeah," grunted the man, "you're looking for Eddie. He's upstairs. Office is the last one on the right," he gestured toward the upstairs area with his cleaver.

  "Thank you," said Harry, his suspicions of a clumsy con renewed.

  "And tell him we're out of sliced almonds for his ice cream, will you?" added the corpulent butcher.

  "Sure," said Harry, heading for the stairs, "why not?"

  Once upstairs, he easily found the office. As he stood outside its door, he could faintly hear the cadence of a muted typewriter clacking inside. As he knocked, he noticed that hand-painted on the glass pane insert was the name, EDWARD OMNEY.

  "Come in!" yelled a voice from inside the office. "It's open!"

  Harry hinged open the door and walked in.

  Inside he was met by a minuscule office virtually immobilized by disorder. The floor, cheaply carpeted, was covered almost from wall to wall with notebook binders of differing colors. The binders also covered the battered desk in the right center of the tiny office, barely leaving room for the worn typewriter.

  On one of two chairs before the desk sat a humming blade fan, tossing three ribbons tied to its front. The walls were a chipped caramel patina, coats of nicotine thin on their surface. Behind the desk, seated on a squeaking chair, was a tiny, harried-looking Jewish man about fifty. He was nearly bald and resembled a scaled-down Ritz brother with a manner suggesting the patience of a lit stick of dynamite.

  "Hiya," welcomed the man, with a teeter-totter Yiddish accent, "what's the good word?"

  "Good afternoon," said Harry, "are you Eddie?"

  "Last time I checked," said Eddie, dropping a heaping spoonful of bromo-seltzer into a glass of water. "You like vanilla ice cream?" he asked, as he stirred the frothing drink with his finger.

  "Because if you do," he continued, "I'm stuffed and there's a whole dish in my little fridge, there." He pointed over to the corner.

  "No thank you," said Harry, his appetite poor since the onset of his problems, "I haven't been eating well lately."

  "Sorry to hear that," said Eddie, "you ought to get a hobby. Myself, I do sit-ups. Lots of sit-ups. And look at me, I'm fit as a fiddle." He patted his stomach hard with his palm then leaned back in his chair and gulped down his fizzing seltzer.

  "By the way, the butcher downstairs says he's out of nuts for your ice cream," said Harry, as he watched Eddie finish the glass.

  "It's just as well," said Eddie, wiping foam from his lips, "they give me indigestion; can't write with indigestion. Listen, you sure you don't want some ice cream?"

  "No," said Harry, ready to get down to business. "Look, Eddie, I'll get directly to the point. I was sent here by Script Sure. I'm very unhappy with my script and I want it rewritten."

  "Naturally," said Eddie, "everybody's a writer. What's the matter with it?" he asked, muffling several burps brought on by the bromo.

  "What isn't the matter with it," said Harry. "My life is a disaster. Every day is more horrible than the one before it."

  "Oh, yeah?" said Eddie, beginning to get interested.

  "How could you do this to me?" asked Harry, miserably. "My wife left me for a trumpet player, my boss laid me off last week, my kid is on pills and I think I'm getting an ingrown toenail."

  "Right!" yelled Eddie. "Now I remember. That was a good one. Knocked the final draft out over a weekend, as I recall."

  "How long do you usually take?" asked Harry, deeply upset at having the approximate importance of a thrown-together high school book report.

  "A week or two," said Eddie, "give or take . . ."

  "And you did mine in a weekend?" Harry was beginning to feel more like the Cliff's Notes which inspired the book report.

  "Pretty sure I did," said Eddie. "The wife was out of town, seeing her mother, I think." He stared at the ceiling, trying to remember. "Or did I have the flu?"

  "Oh, great," said Harry.

  "Hey, don't be put off," said Eddie. "I do some of my best work under pressure."

  Harry made a displeased face.

  "Now what were you saying about wanting it changed?" asked Eddie.

  Harry realized that it was definitely in his best interest to find out how the company he was entrusting his future to operated. After all, he wouldn't buy a car without k
icking the tires good and hard, once or twice.

  "Not so fast," said Harry, "there's a few things I'd like to know first. Like for instance how long people have had scripts."

  "Long time," replied Eddie, "since the beginning I would expect."

  "Don't you know?" asked Harry.

  "No," said Eddie, lighting a cheap cigar, "not really, I just started on here a while ago."

  Harry was having a hard time absorbing this information and felt an ulcerous twitch.

  "Well, what did you do before?" he asked.

  "Oh, a little of this, a little of that," replied Eddie, "mostly just bummed around. Wrote poetry, taught judo."

  Harry visibly cringed at hearing this. There was minimal comfort in the prospect of having his future in the hands of a deadbeat poet who splintered two-by-fours with his feet. Harry wanted more from a rewrite man.

  "Look Eddie," said Harry, "I'm not so sure about your credentials. I mean your background sounds pretty shaky to me."

  "Big deal," said Eddie, "Lincoln was born in a log cabin. You gonna stand there and tell me Abe Lincoln wasn't a terrific president?"

  "Well, no, but . . ."

  "But nothing. I rest my case. What's to talk? Tell me what you want and let me get to work." Eddie sounded a bit testy at having had his probity slighted. Harry was getting confused and upset by everything he had heard. He was beginning to hyperventilate.

  "Look, Eddie, this is all pretty new to me. I mean I don't understand where this thing with scripts came from. Or whose idea it was for that matter. I don't get it. I just don't understand what the hell is going on." Harry's voice sounded almost crumbly.

  "I just never thought it would be like this," he whined, rising from his chair and walking to the window. He looked out onto the busy avenue. "I mean, it's crazy! It's totally crazy!"

  "Hey, come on buddy, it's not that bad. Take it easy. Hey, what's your name, anyway? You never told me."

  "Don't you know? I thought you knew everything."

  "Can't remember them all. I do a lot of scripts."