Something I cooked up in the metro.
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It's dark outside, cold and lifeless; nothing extraneous to one such as me.
Most of my life, I have lived in the shade, in the cool shadows of shame for such a long time, it's hard to recall the last time my being was awash with light, with the purest of glows that is surely as necessary to the body as water to plants. Yet, by a strange twist of fate, I was denied such an existence, cast out of the sun to live amongst the pale, formless beings of the moon.
What? No, not at all; I fear you have misunderstood me, dear traveler. I am not a creature of the night, as exciting as it may sound; such a thing would be foolish, unworthy of our intellect, demeaning to the modern men that we are. These are nothing but fairy tales. No, I am speaking of a much deeper, graver problem, one that has been the cause of much strife in my life, much pain and suffering; a constant reminder that I was different, monstruous, unwanted.
What is it, you ask? Indeed, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with me - tall, broad shouldered, close cropped silver hair, well spoken, a true specimen of the modern gentleman. So what am I doing in such an unsavory place, eh? Call it an addiction; I'm not proud of it, of course, but it helps remind me of what I once was. Which brings us back to your question: what could cause such shame to a man of my stature? It is, at first glance, a benign thing - to the extent that I thought of it as such during the first years. At its core, however, it is an horrible phenomenon of nature, an accident of God - or a miracle of the Devil.
No, I am not Christian; it's only a figure of speech, good friend, nothing more - though my accident has since given me serious doubts about this. But enough, I will not dawdle any longer. You wanted to know what happened to me, man? See the raw skin around my mouth, my chin and ears? No, I did not shave too hard this morning, or scrub my face until I bled: I simply peeled it off.
Wait! wait! Don't think of me as a mad man; listen to my tale. I had good reasons to do such a thing. For you see, for years now, I had been plagued by one of the largest, thickest and dirtiest beard, full at that, mind you. The reason is quite simple: I could not shave, and still cannot.
Years ago, when my back was strong and my hands steady, I was working in New York as a clerk - oh, nothing fancy, a simple accountant, a job I had secured through a family contact. I had a good mind for mathematics, and excellent calligraphy. Back then, I shaved once or twice a week, being quite hairless facialwise. Never had I before had any problems with that, and I was not bothered by it at all. I was positively glowing with health and good fortune: a bright young clerk, content with his job and his books. Never had it ocurred to me there might be something else out there; this was paradise, lost and found again!
Needless to say, this did not last long, and for the strangest of reasons. Whilst I have no proof of this, I am quite sure that the jew had something to do with it. Oh, I'm sorry, I'm skipping ahead. This particular jew was a stocky, rat-like man with a pudgy nose, beady eyes and long, coarse iron beard; so long, in fact, that he tucked it in his wide, straining belt, which was no small feat, considering is considerable girth. I had met him previously during numerous meetings, yet had never had a chance nor the will to speak to him. He was Chief Clerk for another department - Chicago, I believe - yet he worked and lived in New York. How he managed such a thing was beyond me, though I now doubt he had other means of working.
Anyhow, as fate would want it, he came down to my office one day, brandishing a stack of paper, a mask of fury carefully propped on his tiny beetle's chin, ready to fall at any instant. As it happened, it did, clumsily sliding down as he saw me diligently at my desk, humming an old bohemian air. Underneath the mask was an oily smile, a teethful one at that, carnivorous and probably cancerigenous - though, back then, cancer was unknown to me. He winked at me in a conspirational manner and started to hum along. I, of course, stopped whistling at once, shocked to see such a man, one I deemed serious and hardworking, waving his kippah like a cowboy hat, softly singing my mother's song in a strange, archaic language. And thus was my career, my life as I saw it back then, ended, by the closure of my lips, by my inability to contain myself. The jew suddenly realized I was no longer whistling, but simply staring at him, dumbstruck, as if I'd never seen him. He suddenly seemed to grow taller and darker, as if swelling by absorbing the light out of the room. Out of his dark robes came a bony, bleached, accusing finger, its very crusty, yellow fingernail quivering with almighty rage, setting its dirty gaze upon my trembling figure. Yet, that was not the worst - dear God, oh no! it wasn't. For underneath his bushy, steely eyebrows, twin pools of black, oily fire stared back at me, fury incarnate, and I could see the thousand souls of madmen swimming and laughing hysterically in those nightmarish waters as I stared back - and all I could think of was of Nietzsche's famous quote, only now realizing its true meaning. And then he spoke, and the world exploded in a flurry of black feathers, filling my eyes, my ears, my mouth, my lungs, until all I could feel were black feathers (I'm sorry, ornithology was never one of my strong point). At that point, I passed out.
Wait! Don't go! I assure you, my friend, this is the truth! Admittedly, I might have deformed it a bit since then; you know how memory plays such trick on the weak minded, and God knows my mind was weak in the subsequent weeks. But you must believe me! Something did happen back then, back there, something that levelled my life and turned it to shambles.
It was the third week thereafter, the third week I had spent holed away at home, quivering in fear, unable and unwilling to sleep, for fear that my mind would conjure up these frightful images in an attempt to uncounsciously exorcise them; I much prefered living as a coward than face my fears, I am shamed to admit. Nevertheless, I would've eventually worked up the courage to go back, had it not been for a peculiar adventure. You see, I had not shaved for the past three weeks, and while I am not a very hairy man by any means, I now had a good, three inches beard, something I was not accustomed to. The problem was, I had an uncanny fear of mirrors ever since that faithful day, as if the jew's reflection would appear in my own stead's and drag me into nothingness. Having worked up the courage through means older than man itself - scotch and bourbon - I sauntered - a very popular means of walking back then, I assure you - to my bathroom and came face to face with the ruins of a battlefield. Deep trenches had been dug underneath my eyes, and tiny corpses of dust bunnies were scattered here and there. No matter, I told myself; I am here to shave, and shave I will! I took a deep breath, waited for my hand to steady itself, and slowly brought the blade up to my chin. One swift down stroke and - nothing. I had felt the blade go down, through my beard, yet nothing, not a breath of hair came out with it. It had passed as through water, barely disrupting the overall structure, which swiftly reforms itself afterwards. I tried again, to no avail. I ruffled it with my fingers - as soft as a duvet, as supple as rubber. I was flabbergasted for a minute, then shrugged and decided I'd try again later. My tired mind must have been playing tricks on me.
As you might have figured out, I was never able to shave it. Ever. I tried with knives, saws, scissors, my own teeth - anything slightly sharp. More than once I drew blood, yet not a speck of hair. I realize it might not seem so terrible to you, but believe me, it is. Beards are itchy, hot and oppressing; the fairer sex in general dislikes them, and more than once I was associated with the rabble on the street. In our society, shaving is a sign of the healthy - as they say, a healthy spirit in a healthy body. And I definitely had neither. I was soon driven mad; once at the restaurant, I almost killed a waiter after I found a hair in my soup. The mere sight of facial hair laying about, unheeded, was enough to drive me berserk. This beard had marked my downfall and - I'm sorry, once again I skipped ahead. You see, we had a strict dressing code at the office; jews were exempt because of their religion, but I wasn't, and full beards were more than frowned upon - I think someone spat on me, once. Before long I started finding razors in my coffee mug, my coat's pockets - even inside case files! It was as if the whole world had been out to get me, out to chew me up and spit me in the gutter, slimy and naked, apart from that damned beard! When I tried to explain myself, they wouldn't even listen to me - can you believe it? They fired me right away, without a second glance; me, their best accountant!
It wasn't until yesterday that it struck me. The beard isn't part of me, the beard isn't me; it's simply an extension of body, something that, if not shaved, can be pulled off. Yet I had tried pulling it off before, unheeding of the pain it caused me; I simply hadn't tried attacking the problem at the root. So I took up my knife and carved a new visage, the one you see here. I can even smile a little wider now! Don't you like it? Hey! Wait! Where are you going?
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It's dark outside, cold and lifeless; nothing extraneous to one such as me.
Most of my life, I have lived in the shade, in the cool shadows of shame for such a long time, it's hard to recall the last time my being was awash with light, with the purest of glows that is surely as necessary to the body as water to plants. Yet, by a strange twist of fate, I was denied such an existence, cast out of the sun to live amongst the pale, formless beings of the moon.
What? No, not at all; I fear you have misunderstood me, dear traveler. I am not a creature of the night, as exciting as it may sound; such a thing would be foolish, unworthy of our intellect, demeaning to the modern men that we are. These are nothing but fairy tales. No, I am speaking of a much deeper, graver problem, one that has been the cause of much strife in my life, much pain and suffering; a constant reminder that I was different, monstruous, unwanted.
What is it, you ask? Indeed, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with me - tall, broad shouldered, close cropped silver hair, well spoken, a true specimen of the modern gentleman. So what am I doing in such an unsavory place, eh? Call it an addiction; I'm not proud of it, of course, but it helps remind me of what I once was. Which brings us back to your question: what could cause such shame to a man of my stature? It is, at first glance, a benign thing - to the extent that I thought of it as such during the first years. At its core, however, it is an horrible phenomenon of nature, an accident of God - or a miracle of the Devil.
No, I am not Christian; it's only a figure of speech, good friend, nothing more - though my accident has since given me serious doubts about this. But enough, I will not dawdle any longer. You wanted to know what happened to me, man? See the raw skin around my mouth, my chin and ears? No, I did not shave too hard this morning, or scrub my face until I bled: I simply peeled it off.
Wait! wait! Don't think of me as a mad man; listen to my tale. I had good reasons to do such a thing. For you see, for years now, I had been plagued by one of the largest, thickest and dirtiest beard, full at that, mind you. The reason is quite simple: I could not shave, and still cannot.
Years ago, when my back was strong and my hands steady, I was working in New York as a clerk - oh, nothing fancy, a simple accountant, a job I had secured through a family contact. I had a good mind for mathematics, and excellent calligraphy. Back then, I shaved once or twice a week, being quite hairless facialwise. Never had I before had any problems with that, and I was not bothered by it at all. I was positively glowing with health and good fortune: a bright young clerk, content with his job and his books. Never had it ocurred to me there might be something else out there; this was paradise, lost and found again!
Needless to say, this did not last long, and for the strangest of reasons. Whilst I have no proof of this, I am quite sure that the jew had something to do with it. Oh, I'm sorry, I'm skipping ahead. This particular jew was a stocky, rat-like man with a pudgy nose, beady eyes and long, coarse iron beard; so long, in fact, that he tucked it in his wide, straining belt, which was no small feat, considering is considerable girth. I had met him previously during numerous meetings, yet had never had a chance nor the will to speak to him. He was Chief Clerk for another department - Chicago, I believe - yet he worked and lived in New York. How he managed such a thing was beyond me, though I now doubt he had other means of working.
Anyhow, as fate would want it, he came down to my office one day, brandishing a stack of paper, a mask of fury carefully propped on his tiny beetle's chin, ready to fall at any instant. As it happened, it did, clumsily sliding down as he saw me diligently at my desk, humming an old bohemian air. Underneath the mask was an oily smile, a teethful one at that, carnivorous and probably cancerigenous - though, back then, cancer was unknown to me. He winked at me in a conspirational manner and started to hum along. I, of course, stopped whistling at once, shocked to see such a man, one I deemed serious and hardworking, waving his kippah like a cowboy hat, softly singing my mother's song in a strange, archaic language. And thus was my career, my life as I saw it back then, ended, by the closure of my lips, by my inability to contain myself. The jew suddenly realized I was no longer whistling, but simply staring at him, dumbstruck, as if I'd never seen him. He suddenly seemed to grow taller and darker, as if swelling by absorbing the light out of the room. Out of his dark robes came a bony, bleached, accusing finger, its very crusty, yellow fingernail quivering with almighty rage, setting its dirty gaze upon my trembling figure. Yet, that was not the worst - dear God, oh no! it wasn't. For underneath his bushy, steely eyebrows, twin pools of black, oily fire stared back at me, fury incarnate, and I could see the thousand souls of madmen swimming and laughing hysterically in those nightmarish waters as I stared back - and all I could think of was of Nietzsche's famous quote, only now realizing its true meaning. And then he spoke, and the world exploded in a flurry of black feathers, filling my eyes, my ears, my mouth, my lungs, until all I could feel were black feathers (I'm sorry, ornithology was never one of my strong point). At that point, I passed out.
Wait! Don't go! I assure you, my friend, this is the truth! Admittedly, I might have deformed it a bit since then; you know how memory plays such trick on the weak minded, and God knows my mind was weak in the subsequent weeks. But you must believe me! Something did happen back then, back there, something that levelled my life and turned it to shambles.
It was the third week thereafter, the third week I had spent holed away at home, quivering in fear, unable and unwilling to sleep, for fear that my mind would conjure up these frightful images in an attempt to uncounsciously exorcise them; I much prefered living as a coward than face my fears, I am shamed to admit. Nevertheless, I would've eventually worked up the courage to go back, had it not been for a peculiar adventure. You see, I had not shaved for the past three weeks, and while I am not a very hairy man by any means, I now had a good, three inches beard, something I was not accustomed to. The problem was, I had an uncanny fear of mirrors ever since that faithful day, as if the jew's reflection would appear in my own stead's and drag me into nothingness. Having worked up the courage through means older than man itself - scotch and bourbon - I sauntered - a very popular means of walking back then, I assure you - to my bathroom and came face to face with the ruins of a battlefield. Deep trenches had been dug underneath my eyes, and tiny corpses of dust bunnies were scattered here and there. No matter, I told myself; I am here to shave, and shave I will! I took a deep breath, waited for my hand to steady itself, and slowly brought the blade up to my chin. One swift down stroke and - nothing. I had felt the blade go down, through my beard, yet nothing, not a breath of hair came out with it. It had passed as through water, barely disrupting the overall structure, which swiftly reforms itself afterwards. I tried again, to no avail. I ruffled it with my fingers - as soft as a duvet, as supple as rubber. I was flabbergasted for a minute, then shrugged and decided I'd try again later. My tired mind must have been playing tricks on me.
As you might have figured out, I was never able to shave it. Ever. I tried with knives, saws, scissors, my own teeth - anything slightly sharp. More than once I drew blood, yet not a speck of hair. I realize it might not seem so terrible to you, but believe me, it is. Beards are itchy, hot and oppressing; the fairer sex in general dislikes them, and more than once I was associated with the rabble on the street. In our society, shaving is a sign of the healthy - as they say, a healthy spirit in a healthy body. And I definitely had neither. I was soon driven mad; once at the restaurant, I almost killed a waiter after I found a hair in my soup. The mere sight of facial hair laying about, unheeded, was enough to drive me berserk. This beard had marked my downfall and - I'm sorry, once again I skipped ahead. You see, we had a strict dressing code at the office; jews were exempt because of their religion, but I wasn't, and full beards were more than frowned upon - I think someone spat on me, once. Before long I started finding razors in my coffee mug, my coat's pockets - even inside case files! It was as if the whole world had been out to get me, out to chew me up and spit me in the gutter, slimy and naked, apart from that damned beard! When I tried to explain myself, they wouldn't even listen to me - can you believe it? They fired me right away, without a second glance; me, their best accountant!
It wasn't until yesterday that it struck me. The beard isn't part of me, the beard isn't me; it's simply an extension of body, something that, if not shaved, can be pulled off. Yet I had tried pulling it off before, unheeding of the pain it caused me; I simply hadn't tried attacking the problem at the root. So I took up my knife and carved a new visage, the one you see here. I can even smile a little wider now! Don't you like it? Hey! Wait! Where are you going?