My scarred life -- iii

Everything changed in high school. I was the first to have a sideburn, even though I hadn't touched a razor blade. My shoulders broadened, and I began to grow into a normal human being except for the orange racing stripe running down my face. Sooner or later, most of the kids in the high school I attended knew some variant of the true story, but some macho seventeen-year-olds would say, "What the heck did you do to her?"

Thus began my life as a storyteller. In college I got marked up in a full-fledged barroom brawl, but the "passionate lover" was never fully put to sleep (it would be half a century before "Me Too.") Bigots claimed the perps were Black. Outdoorsmen, had me chasing a wounded buck through naked winter foliage. Girls, well, why let the cat out of the bag; half of romance was intrigue and the other half was deception. Besides, I told myself, really--who'd want to tell the real story? 

When, dutifully, I went to the Selective Service Office for the ritual, I was well aware that the lady behind the desk would ask a uniquely personal question. Three of us, born around the same time, went in together. I made sure the dutiful lady couldn't miss seeing the bloody thing running down the side of my face.

"James," she said, “any identifiable scars?" I swear she didn’t bother looking up.

I shook my head with appropriate reverence.

"You must have some scar somewhere, don't you?" Pause.

"I can't think of any."

A little help from my friends. “Oh, Schaap, come on—you must have a scar someplace.”

Hunched my shoulders, shook my head.

“Think hard,” she said, “—everybody's got a scar somewhere--maybe on your face?”

"You got a scar above your eye where you took an elbow in basketball,” one of friends said. Teamwork.

She rolled her eyes. “Something more obvious,” she said, determinedly.

The gig was about up. “Oooooohhhh, how about this one on my cheek?”

"Perfect!!!" she said. The only time in life my scar got earned that approval. 

I was 40 maybe, maybe older, when, going through customs at the Toronto airport, I was waylaid by a box of books I'd taken along to try sell at a couple of readings I had scheduled in Ontario. Books always were a pain—taxes, sales, even prices—“what are they worth?” someone official would say. Difficult questions to answer honestly. None of those books were marked with prices. I fully intended to sell them much cheaper than usual, didn't want to haul them back and go through the whole inquisition again.

So, this time 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 those Canadian taxes. . .

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

The two of us were in some back room, alone, 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,” a third guy says. He’s sitting behind a wide old desk. There’s a light on above his head made me feel 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. "Scar on my face's got nothing to do with writing books,” I told him, as if I was sharing a joke.

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

It's a joy to imagine the incredible stories that may have shot through the minds of some people who never told me what they were thinking or got any sense of the truth: "I was two, my sister was five, and it was a couple of days after Christmas."

I wasn't much of a veteran when I took my first teaching job, so one Friday--you need to write something every Friday, I told them, as if I knew--I told them the topic was how Mr. Schaap got his scar.

That was a mistake. 

It's  just that the truth is such a bore and I've never been much of a liar. Thus, it's better for everyone concerned if I just allow people to dream up their fantasies. If they ask, I'll tell them about a morning at Grandma's house and my sister and a board game--but not until I have to, and most often, I don't. 

Little kids and old people--they like to know right off.

Long ago--I think I was in college--my mother told me I could get that old scar taken off by a process called "sanding," she said. No reason for me to carry it along anymore, not with modern medicine. But somewhere along the line I figured I'd had it for so long that I wouldn't be me without it. I don't think Mom ever understood that.

But I got a hearty lesson from a photographer-friend, who took me out to the woods at Sandy Hollow once upon a time long ago. I needed a portrait for the cover of a book I'd written, something that made me look good.

My friend, who taught art at the college, made no bones about it. She took every last proof from the left side of my face. Finally, I thought I'd ask. "You're getting the scar side," I told her, thinking maybe she hadn't noticed.

"That's the you, Jim," she said, snapping away.

I'm not so joyful admitting it, but she's right. I been carrying it for 74 years. It's hardly as crimson as it was for so long, but it's still there. I suppose when I meet people, it's still what they notice about me right away. But I don't think much about anymore. Never did really, except maybe for that junior high story about "Old Scarface."

For good or ill, that scar's me. I don't know how be without it.

Thanks, Sis.