The Scar
(c) 1-10-06 Jeffrey L. Snodgrass

I found myself staring at the thin pages of an old anatomy textbook, exploded views of organs, grinning skull, flared pelvic bones. The nerves of the penis as a fine mesh. The dim desklamp illuminated block after block of dense type. I dragged off my cigarette and gave the impression of serious study. I'd found the book at a flea market. Paid three dollars for it because the binding was still good. "That would look nice in a lawyer's office," the man selling the book had said. How long had this volume lain unread? Now my greasy fingers turned its leaves, as if looking for a clue or sign that my eyes might register as correct. And when I realized this truth I would suddenly discover, without pain or difficulty, that some invisible force was guiding me in this enterprise, slowly and gently leading me to the moment when I would say aloud and without feeling self-conscious, "A-ha!" And why shouldn't I be given such a moment? Why should I be denied the one true longing that I've had for so long, to understand? Never was I solely content with simply being, sitting slack-jawed in front of the television, going through life without questioning who I was or what my purpose might be. And I suppose this is how I came to feel lonely.

People are perverse. Many of them have secrets, things they've done, or not done but thought about. Like sleeping with a brother when old enough to know better, or shooting a police officer, or lying down, playing dead, when faced with combat. Most would agree that human weakness emerges from under duress but, in reality, I think boredom gives rise to the greatest acts of violence, boredom and a sense that things will not improve--not quite hopelessness but close to it. But no, that calls for desperation and desperate people are rarely bored. You know, a simple party game--playing William Tell with an apple and .357 Magnum--can lead to a bullet in the forehead. You may wonder why I even think of these things, of my death or other gruesome particularities that most people either ignore or relinquish with delight to therapists, pastors, spouses; well, I have no one. I have no wife, no lover, no friend, no pastor, no pet, nothing. I suppose it's by choice. You see, I want to be alone, like being alone. I'm used to being alone. My parents take no interest in me. They dote on my sister, fresh out of law school and on her way. What am I? A maintenance man at a local community college unclogging toilets and replacing fluorescent bulbs.

After I was dishonorably discharged from the army for trying to castrate myself, I sold mattresses. In the world of sales, this is the bottom-most rung of the ladder. Now, whenever I buy something, I always pay the asking price. I can't stand haggling. My boss at the mattress showroom would undermine my commission to make a sale. Our prices were already low. I just about starved doing that kind of business. Then I went back into the hospital, used my health insurance from work. Not the hospital in Germany where I was stabilized and discharged, no, this was a large hospital outside Trenton with lawns and circular drives and brick buildings with two-storey porches held aloft by white columns. The place looked nice considering how much suffering went on there. I suffered, yes, but the meds straightened me out pretty quickly and, before I knew it, I was on my own again, free. So what happened?

She happened--what else? Oh, I know, I said there was no other, and that's true--now, but then, not after my second breakdown, or whatever you want to call it. She spoke to me in the bar of the Thunderbird Motel (Color TV, Swimming Pool). I had just slid down to the end of the counter nearest the door, beside her, and away from the restrooms, which stank. I was putting Sweet and Low in my coffee when she said, "That stuff's rat poison. It'll kill you." She was lovely. Plump, yes, but sweet. As it turned out, she never used artificial sweetener but she did have a predilection for booze and pills and, somehow, managed to reconcile these things in her mind. She also smoked, the mother of all sins. Smoked long, thin cigarettes. For the first time in my life I found myself drawn to another person. She invited me back to her room. The carpet felt stereotypically damp and complemented the to-be-expected tacky artwork over the desk. I looked and there they were--two pineapple lamps with yellowed, crooked shades. The bathroom was in dire need of a tile job. A small pair of vice grips served as the hot water tap in the shower. "Are you going to come in here or snoop all afternoon?" She was naked on the nubby bedspread. I took her quickly and without thinking. Later, I would take her again, slowly, while she was dry, eliciting a sharp cry as I roughly entered her. She was cute. And sweet. And best of all, she couldn't see my scar.

I sit on a bench and think about the girl. Someone has been here before me. I see spit and cigarette butts on the cement. We would all like to think a bench is ours because we have chosen it. We would all like to think that we have some degree of control or influence over our lives because we think about them and plan and do all of the things we think we should be doing. But I know better--I know that, in the end, we are but images, pictures in an anatomy textbook, cadavers on dissection tables. I wrote my congresswoman. I'm hoping she can get me an honorable discharge. I'll take my government money and go out to Montana, or South Dakota, or Alaska, and try again. I'm young, only 32. We'll see.