Cured

The blank-faced patient sat before the therapist; having just slit of a mouth in his smooth round face, to speak, to answer; no eyes, no nose, nothing.

So. How do you feel, asked the therapist. How do you feel today? What brings you here?

His mouth moved writhing in the smooth peach fuzzed face, saying, The quest to grow old through drugs is what brings me here, he said. The quest to grow old through drugs has consumed me. I need a morphine drip Doc—fix me up.

I’m not that kind of doctor, said the therapist. But why do you have this on your mind?

Because it is painful to have no face—I cannot see, I cannot breathe but through my mouth. I sit here.

Well, we are here to solve that—tell me more.

I just am in pain—I need—

All at once, a heavily lined forehead appeared on his face.

—I need the drugs—I—

 The therapist exclaimed, But look! A feature has appeared on your face!

The blank faced man’s finger came up and touched the forehead.

Ah—well. So it has—but, I still need the morphine drip doctor—I am still in pain—the pain of growing old, and nearing death.

You are not nearing death, said the therapist. He wrote something in his notepad and then said So go on—tell me more.

The mouth and forehead writhed on the patient’s eyeless, noseless, face. It did look painful. The blank faced man said It is all in the quest to eat the crust—the pot pies when serving four you always have to ask who wants theirs flipped and who doesn’t. I’m told it all lies in the quest to eat the crust and the need to grow old, with drugs—hey doc—how about a Percocet?

A chin formed under the mouth with a noticeable cleft and a small beard.

Look, exclaimed the therapist—look what has appeared! Touch your new chin! Touch it!

My God, said the blank faced man, touching his chin. Unbelievable! 

Yes, keep talking, keep talking, that’s your cure; go on.

The therapist wrote wildly on the pad as the blank faced man went on.

It comes to mind, he said—that Tare is a wild assed gypsy.

The therapist looked up. Who is Tare, he said, pen in hand.

Tare—Tare is the man who took my face, in a gypsy camp—a long, long, time ago. I lived in Hungary you know—I really lived in Hungary, and I knew Tare. He took my face with a mere wave of his hand because I beat him at cards one time too many. And I got home and looked in the mirror, somehow even without eyes I saw myself, and God! The pain started! I need a morphine drip, doc—this place equipped for that?

No, it’s not, said the therapist, waving the pen—just keep talking—keep on! Your cure is in your words.

The blank faced man raised his hands, saying, I used to be in a band before I lost my face—Alexis Texas and the Coroners—or was it the Coronets—I can’t be sure, but if I get my face back, I can be in the band again doc how about that?

Lips formed at that instant. The therapist waved a hand.

Yes! he said—you have lips now—feel!

Uh! So I have!

Keep talking!

I—uh—I can’t think of anything to say—

Well, you must!

Okay, it just came to me that I once saw Jackson Golden eat a crab.

Jackson Golden? Who’s that?

Singer. The singer in Alexis Texas and the Coroners.

With that, a nose and right nostril popped out. The nose was beet red and fat and porous.

Keep on!

Down Beat! I used to read Down Beat!

The left nostril popped out.

Doc—I can breathe again—I can breathe through my nose!

Never mind that. Just keep on!

As the therapist went on filling his notepad, the blank faced man said, I remember when I was a little boy, in the cellar was our old hand wringer washer, you know the kind, with the crank and the rollers it was down there and I used to play with it; it was white and it was in perfect shape I wonder what it would be worth today it would be an antique you know. Don’t you think?

At once, a right eye and eyebrow popped into view.

I—dear God, I think I can see now—

Never mind that go on!

And, I used to eat Rold Gold pretzels, you know, that brand my father always ate. That brand my father my damned dumb fucker of a father in Hungary used to eat.

The left eye and eyebrow popped out.

I—I—ahh–

The blankfaced man grew very agitated, flooded with light, and hesitated—

Talk!  Talk! cried the therapist. You are cured! Your face is complete!  

Well, good God, so I am, he exclaimed; as abruptly, the therapist’s pad and pen went flying, as his face became a many-louvered slotted surface, his chin, lips, nostrils and eyes trapped behind the louver-slots which, one by one, closed over, gone, from bottom to top, leaving his face sealed over, tight-smoothed and featureless, but for a tight thin slot of a mouth to struggle for breath through, unable to be opened further. As the doctor fell to the floor, struggling for air, tearing at where his face used to be, the patient rose, knowing that his new face, the therapist’s face, though not the most beautiful in the world, was better than none at all. Before turning away, he looked down on the therapist with pity, understanding how he felt, but there was no helping him. No changing what’s inevitable, which everything in his life’s all seemed to be. So, still needing that Goddamned morphine drip, he followed his new face to the door out toward the next problem to be solved.