Quilight Time © The Face
You're traveling in a new creation, a city on a hill, a journey in a land of quiet constellation. In the still of the night, breath deep the gathering glow, there's light at the end of the tunnel- It's Quilight Time.
The Face, Joe Little (spellingprogress )
A disfigured subway beggar walked through the car specter-like, receiving occasional change or dollars. His face was horrific, so everyone else's turned away. Nothing foul in their turnings-away, just business the business of avoiding horror; nothing personal. It is, after all, human nature to avoid pain & suffering even that of another person.
The beggar had a homemade sign featuring a worn photo of his burned-beyond-recognition face and a short text regarding his plight. Few saw the photo-few saw the live version. They rightly feared coming face to face with him. He returned the favor by avoiding the horror reflected in their face. What he saw in his periphery - sides of faces, shoulders, arms or hands - were wary, turning away or tossing in move-along money. People, these people, aren't unkind. Indeed, they shouldn't be expected to suffer long a horror-man, let alone pay the freight.
This was a frightful freight but Gothamites are a steely steady sort: nobody gasped or fled, though by rights they should've. Even reaching toward the beggar to give was a sacrifice, not one for the timid. The last hand to do so, a hand not unlike the rest, placed a C-note in the beggar's bag - in a lingering manner, yet without fanfare. The lingering caught the beggar's eye as did the bill atop the others. The beggar, surely poor, wasn't hurting for cash.
Close up, the beggar's burned-off face paused, confused, not so much by the bill as by the virtually unprecedented lingering nature of the giving. The donor's face looked down to where his hand had just placed the bill. Casually, intentionally he glanced at the beggar, more briefly than he would at a normal beggar. Brevity in this case was less awkward than respectful.
"Thank you," said the beggar, looking down, "that's a big bill." His voice was a wisp, but the donor, looking at him straight in the face, heard it okay.
"You're welcome" said the donor as the train arrived at the station; passengers left en masse - especially by way of the door near the beggar.
"You almost done for the day?" said the donor.
"Yeh" paused the beggar, "done." As the announcer made his auto-announcements, new passengers glanced at the beggar and donor- then away from both.
"Where can I get a good slice?" asked the donor.
"Close to my, uh," said the beggar, pausing, "downtown."
"Is that in your neck of the woods?" asked the donor.
"Yeh," said the beggar who paused for a long moment. Finally, he added, "I'm down at the Mission."
"Old school," said the donor, matter-of-factly more than pleasantly.
"Old school," agreed the beggar.
"Take me to the pizza joint," suggested the donor, "I'll treat you to a slice and a coke."
"No," said the beggar as the doors to his station opened. "My treat!" It was an offer the donor could not refuse, and didn't, as beggar and donor exited the car.
As they pushed thru the turnstiles the donor stopped, turned to the beggar and said, "Fine but my name is Don. What's your name?"
"Ben," said beggar, not breaking his slow stride, "but that's not my real name. Throwin' you a bone."
"A bone from Ben," said Don, with mild satisfaction, "deal."
As they approached the stairs Ben fumbled with his old sign while preparing to grab hold of the handrail.
"Can I carry that, up the stairs I mean," asked Don.
"Ok," said Ben, who then asked, "You a preacher-man or something?"
"Nah," said Don, climbing the stairs, slowly, alongside his new acquaintance, "Just a guy with a bill burning a hole in my pocket and a few minutes to kill."
Both men reached the top of the stairs and the open air of Lower Manhattan,as Ben paused for several seconds, catching his breath. Don studied the sign, reading the text and staring at the photo of Ben's disfigured face, then asked, "How long ago was the accident?"
Ben didn't respond at all.
"Sorry," said Don. "My bad."
"It's ok," said Ben. "It was a time." He paused. "I was doing my thing in the train passing through the cars. Fell off the bastard." He paused, then added, "That's a bastard. The third rail is a bastard; waking up burnt, burnt to death, that is a bastard."
The last "bastard" was clearly a finale of sorts. Don's face, ashen, was highlighted suddenly by the hint of tears in his eyes. Ben glanced at Don to see his response. All Don could muster was, "That is a bastard."
They began walking, silently. As they approached the pizza joint, Don still held the sign absentmindedly, but loyally. Ben noticed but didn't say anything.
"Two slices and two cokes," he said to the pizza counter-man, who was used to Ben's daily, flush-with-cash arrival. 'Used to', yes, but clearly not inclined to it, as two slices and two cokes appeared, promptly. Cash was exchanged but no words. The face of a monster is bad business.
Ben and Don ate, in silence for a moment. Though Don's mind swirled with probing queries, he sacrificed them out of respect for the moment, respect for the food. Don't probe a man while he's downing a slice. The restraint wasn't unnoticed by Ben.
"I was dead," he said. "Dead, man-bad dead. Had to do something so I ast a guy to take my shot and make this sign. Been a burnt dead man ever since. Dead burnt, burnt dead- it's a living."
"That's dark, man," said Don, struck by Ben's ability to glean irony from horror. "Dark dark."
Ben managed a hint of a smile on his ravaged face, as Don continued to cradle the photo-sign-one hand on the handle with the other laying atop the photo.
"Yeh, nearly dark," said Ben. "Gotta get to the Mission. Curfew-," he was interrupted by Don's well-timed, "-is a bastard." Both chuckled.
"God bless you," said Don, who stretched out his fist toward Ben.
"I'm blessed," said Ben matching Don's fist with his own disfigured open hand. As they shook, Ben added, "I'll be more blessed if you gimme back my sign."
Don parted with the sign sheepishly, albeit reluctantly. "Maybe." he replied. He then added, "Thanks for the slice."
"Thanks for your kindness," said Ben turning from Don and walking, gingerly, away.
And soon he arrived at the Mission. Though life was a nightmare, Ben had long made a point of arriving on time out of respect for the Mission, which had long set aside a bed for him. The Ben-Bed, which he would exit daily to resume his haunting of the train - sign in hand - in search of something, someone, maybe relief,maybe restoration.
So it was with ambivalence that Ben climbed the brief flight of stairs, sign in tow, to give a perfunctory greeting to the same frozen-smiled desk clerk.
"I'm sorry sir; we're full and aren't taking newcomers,"said the clerk so casually that Ben missed the substance it.
"Say again," requested Ben.
"We don't take newcomers after a certain hour unless there's room which there isn't tonight."
"Newcomer?" said Ben incredulously. "Nothin' new comin' here. You high?" And as he said this, Ben's trusty photo-sign slipped from his grasp. It lay on the floor, photo and text facing up. As he bent down, the photo caught his eye: it was a shot of pre-accident Ben, clean, smooth and sober. He picked up the sign. Was that him? His confusion and recollection was interrupted by a thought as he reached up toward his face.
Ben the beggar. Don the donor- but who is the real donor? One thing is clear- face is king. Burnt face, loss of face, kindly face, an open face - these are the windows to the soul, conduits that break a man down- and build him up-and even return what is lost in the land of the living. Such a face is a rare, priceless gem. Invaluable truly, but available, for the price of a slice and a coke, at Quilight Time.