The Pinkish Origins of Storytelling--iii

 

(continued from yesterday)

The scar has occasioned a few opportunities for laughs, not all of which came at my expense. One of the highlights of an American boy's late teens back then, had to come on or around your eighteenth birthday when you registered for the draft. Naturally, an important event like that is often discussed, and long before I ever went into the Selective Service Office, I was well aware that among other questions, one of the questions the lady behind the desk would ask was a uniquely personal and, at least to an eighteen year old, a question about identifiable scars. Three of us, born around the same time, went in together and cooked up a joke.

When it was my turn for questioning, I made sure the conscientious secretary couldn't miss the blazing sixteen-year-old mark shining on the side of my face.

"Yes, and Jim," she said, “--have any identifiable scars?" Didn’t even bother looking up.

I put my hand to my chin. "I don't think so."

"Oh, you must have some scar somewhere. . ." 

A perfectly plausible pause.

"I can't think of any."

Then, a little help from my friends. “Oh, Schaap, come on—you got to have a scar someplace.”

“Man, I really don’t think so.”

We wondered how long it would take for the her to become frustrated enough to take one daring step beyond politeness. “Think real hard,” she said, “—a scar somewhere on your body or on your face?”

Guys helped out. “You got a scar above your eye where you took an elbow in basketball,” one of them said.

She rolled her eyes. “You must have something more obvious than that.”

The gig was up, so I gave in. “Oooooohhhh, how about this little one on my cheek?”

 Heavy sigh of relief. Everybody was happy.

I was 40 maybe, maybe older, when going through customs at the Toronto airport, I was waylaid because I had a box of books along to try to sell at a couple of readings I had set up in Ontario, where people buy books. Books always were a pain—taxes, sales, even prices—“what are they worth?” someone would say. Those were difficult questions that required answers. It wasn’t unexpected that the first customs agent would point me in another direction, where I’d have to suffer through further questioning.

I went along with the program, tried to explain that assessing dollars-and-cents was tough when we were talking about my books. And then, of course, there was the Canadian taxes. . .

“Maybe you ought to see the guy in the desk in the next room,” the second customs agent told me, pointing. This was a level I normally didn’t achieve.

The two of us were alone now. I was a long way out of the flow of traffic. I knew I wasn’t in trouble—that wasn’t it. The question was, were they going to let me haul the books into Canada or not.

“So,” the third guy says. He’s sitting behind a wide and old desk. There’s a light on above his head. I felt as if I was part of a crime family. “You’ve got these books. . .” He looked over the report that came with me, then at me. “So how’d you get that scar anyway?” he said.

I was gutsy. I’ll admit it. I smiled, big-time. I told him I’d be glad to tell him the story, if he’d admit that my having a scar had absolutely nothing to do with what he needed to know. “My scar’s got nothing to do with this,” I told him, as if I was sharing a joke.

And, nodding, he took it that way. He flicked his head, smiling, all he needed to do to let me be on my way.

I sometimes shudder to think of what incredible stories may have shot through the minds of some people who never told me what they were thinking.

People—including my mother--have told me a hundred times that I could get that scar taken off by a process called "sanding," I guess. No reason for me to carry it anymore, not with modern medicine.

But it's still here. I'll take it to the grave, I'm sure. And thereafter? If there's a choice in such things, I'd just as soon keep it. I wouldn't know myself without it.