Scars turn white, right? Well, not this one. For reasons known only to God, mine stayed proud and red as a banner and therefore totally dominated first impressions.
Your and my scars are ours forever, so this long, red stripe of mine became second nature, so much a part of me that I most often forgot I had it--until I was shuffled into new circles and met new people, including some few who would almost immediately blurt out the question--you know, "How'd you get that thing?" Seniors, for example, and little kids. From ten to seventy, we seem to grow enough decorum not to ask. It's not polite, after all, and your mother will, sure thing, let you know it.
Your and my scars are ours forever, so this long, red stripe of mine became second nature, so much a part of me that I most often forgot I had it--until I was shuffled into new circles and met new people, including some few who would almost immediately blurt out the question--you know, "How'd you get that thing?" Seniors, for example, and little kids. From ten to seventy, we seem to grow enough decorum not to ask. It's not polite, after all, and your mother will, sure thing, let you know it.
But seniors and little kids often lack shame and ask the obvious question first crack out of the box. "How'd you get that mean scar, fella?" When such questions jump out at you, you can expect the shameless to unclothe their own wounds and show you parts of their bodies you weren't asking to see.
Conversation goes something like this:
"Hi--I'm Jim Schaap, originally from Wisconsin, live in Iowa now. . .”
"Bill. Bill Sanderson--where the hell you get that scar? Good night, you ought to see mine.”
You learn to live with their affrontery, as with their indecency. I've so accustomed myself to such things that I avoid exposures by making a game out of the answer before telling him or her just what I imagine he would like to hear.
“Well, I was in Chicago one night. . . "
Tried that on the first basemen of a college team in South Dakota who asked me a what the heck had happened the moment I got to first.
"In a little fight," I told him. A lie.
"Oh, yeah?” he says, begging for the story.
When I started into a yarn, the chucker threw the ball to f1rst, and I was dead in the water. I wondered what the guy tried on the unscarred.
As I grew up, the storied means by which I had acquired the scar changed. When I was a little boy, some moms would always bring up a cat. My mom always felt bad about their wanting the story. Never bothered me too much--after all, it was my sister's fault for tossing me around.
Early adolescence was, well, early adolescence. People didn’t know what to think--I seemed too young for a fight and too old for a cat. And the dumb thing stayed bright red, like something lifted from a cop's car. It was tough on me back then--like talking about pimples, you know? I had this scar and I couldn't help it, so try not to stare, okay?
Conversation goes something like this:
"Hi--I'm Jim Schaap, originally from Wisconsin, live in Iowa now. . .”
"Bill. Bill Sanderson--where the hell you get that scar? Good night, you ought to see mine.”
You learn to live with their affrontery, as with their indecency. I've so accustomed myself to such things that I avoid exposures by making a game out of the answer before telling him or her just what I imagine he would like to hear.
“Well, I was in Chicago one night. . . "
Tried that on the first basemen of a college team in South Dakota who asked me a what the heck had happened the moment I got to first.
"In a little fight," I told him. A lie.
"Oh, yeah?” he says, begging for the story.
When I started into a yarn, the chucker threw the ball to f1rst, and I was dead in the water. I wondered what the guy tried on the unscarred.
As I grew up, the storied means by which I had acquired the scar changed. When I was a little boy, some moms would always bring up a cat. My mom always felt bad about their wanting the story. Never bothered me too much--after all, it was my sister's fault for tossing me around.
Early adolescence was, well, early adolescence. People didn’t know what to think--I seemed too young for a fight and too old for a cat. And the dumb thing stayed bright red, like something lifted from a cop's car. It was tough on me back then--like talking about pimples, you know? I had this scar and I couldn't help it, so try not to stare, okay?
My mother had a little box of pictures of her kids, a box I inherited when she died. It's hard to find any shot of her only son that doesn't feature the scarless side of my face. Mom used to "tint" black and white portraits. Mine, noticeably, are scar less.
One day in the seventh grade, we opened our books to a story in our reading class titled, "Old Scarface", about a whale, I think. I don't think I looked up from my book for the whole hour.
_________________________
One day in the seventh grade, we opened our books to a story in our reading class titled, "Old Scarface", about a whale, I think. I don't think I looked up from my book for the whole hour.
_________________________
just one more day of this embarrassment.
No comments:
Post a Comment