Come Back (18 page)

It would be more accurate to say that his face was divided in two. I noticed this because he would turn his head to take a drink and look to the side; but there was nothing to look at, so I was suspicious of this movement. When he did this, different parts of his face would hit the light. This was clearly an unfinished plastic-surgery job. One side of his face was perfect and the other looked like a barely congealed mass of ground chuck. It was hard to discern anything on the ground-chuck side. There was a lump where the side of his nose should have been. The other side of his face was perfect. But not in the way the Doll Boy's face was perfect. It was not seamless, not smooth and plastic, but instead perfectly human. It looked just like a real face. Was it possible that one half of his face had been dipped in battery acid and not the other? Well, why then could they not fix it? I had heard of instances where people had so many plastic surgeries that they became allergic to it — that their bodies rejected the chemicals that were inserted in them. Perhaps this was what had happened to him. Because it was as if a line had been drawn down the middle of his face, and one half of his face had been fixed, while the other had not.

After I had figured out what was going on, I looked back at Allworth, and realized I had been staring. But to his credit, he didn't chide me. I could see that he thought my interest in the lone creature at the table was a typical human reaction, and he forgave me for it. I wanted to make a remark about the creature's face just so Allworth would understand what was obsessing me. For Allworth couldn't see it from where he was sitting. But I'm sure he knew — even if he couldn't clearly see the creature's half-face — why I was staring.

I tried to remember that my own appearance was certainly more disgusting and off-putting than the visage of this creature who had perhaps become immune to plastic surgery. I was, after all, a creature for whom plastic surgery was hopeless. As you know, my bones are now so brittle they could not take any sort of bruising. So I am simply a living, breathing demonstration of human disintegration in all its glory.

His half-face reminded me of the mask worn by the Phantom of the Opera. I remember when I was recovering from one of my liver operations, in Dubai (the successful one), I woke up in a hospital bed. There was an episode of
Entertainment Tonight
on
TV
that featured scenes from
The Phantom of the Opera
— the hit megamusical at the time. I was experiencing one of those odd, dreamlike moments that you always remember. I was half awake and half asleep, very much in pain, and powerless to correct my condition. The scenes from
The Phantom of the Opera
seemed to be taking a terribly long time. They kept repeating themselves, over and over. I remember John Tesh or Mary Hart saying, “This play is going to revolutionize musical theatre.” I remember being vaguely interested (in my gormless state) because, of course, I myself had something to do with the development of the American musical when I was young. What, after all, might have been revolutionary at such a late date? I don't remember anything more about the program except that it became nightmarish to watch — and that it made me anxious. I do remember leaving both the hospital and Dubai, many months later, and asking someone — a male nurse who was taking care of me — about
The Phantom of the Opera
. The inveterate old fag said, “It was all stolen from Puccini and it destroyed musical theatre.” I didn't really understand. But it seemed a shame.

All this was running through my mind. And then, before I knew it, the Cantilevered Lady was sitting next to me. She had sprinted over from the other end of the bar. She was remarkably limber — though doubtless very old with that wreck of a face. So I was now sitting between her and Allworth. This was an impossible situation. Her comment the last time about “the man that got away” had made me very insecure. And it had been made about the Handless Man, who was now ignoring her. Was she
so very
unappealing as a person — beyond her deformity — or were they just not suited to each other? Well, anyway, there was something about her I didn't like. Unfortunately, it was
not
her face. Her face certainly appalled me, but only in the way one is appalled by a car accident. That's not hatred or moral judgement, just a visceral response. No, what appalled me was that I realized immediately she was a slimy character. It's the kind of thing one realizes all too quickly. This is partly, or even completely, because she pretended immediately that we were intimate.

This is perhaps the most repellent of human tendencies. I certainly experienced it when I was a star and I was never left unfazed. People would walk up to me and address me by my Hollywood name. I would turn out of politeness, and they would proceed, chatting away about their dogs or the weather. It really was amazing
and
frightening. They would then proceed to use my Hollywood name over and over, as if they were practising it, or savouring it, or, even more alarming, masturbating with it. I often felt the urge to yank out the hoary old phrase “That's my name, don't wear it out!” But, of course, my Hollywood name wasn't my name at all. Invariably the chat would be of the most mundane variety. It was as if it were a test. “How long will it be before she breaks, bolts or just plain hits me?” Yes, certainly, incidents like this were expected — part of the job. But surely they knew that I was caught, trapped,
because it
was
my job, and therefore I could not simply ignore them. Of course they knew, and they took cruel advantage. And on top of that, I was
such
a good little
MGM
girl. So I would just smile and search desperately for any means of escape.

The Cantilevered Lady began chatting in a similar familiar fashion (but, thankfully, without using my old star name) as soon as she was beside me. She spoke as if we were, in fact, in mid-conversation, as if we had only been cut off momentarily and were now back on track. She leaned into me intimately and whispered. It was disconcerting. I was worried she might wound me with part of her face. She spoke in a drunken tone. Allworth could not hear her little diatribe. He looked at us curiously, not sure if I had found a new friend or an irritating pest.

I couldn't believe what she was saying. She began by pointing part of her face in the direction of the Man with Two Faces. I suppose she thought this was more polite than pointing a finger, but there was really no difference. “Get a load of him, ” she said — or words to that effect. There was definitely something of the truck driver's moll about her, faintly reminiscent of Ida Lupino in
They Drive by Night
. “Can you believe it?” she said, referring to the poor man's face. “What kind of accident was that?”

I was truly appalled. Such situations are always very difficult for me, because I am, essentially, a nice person. I never want to be rude. So I smiled and nodded and even perhaps laughed with her. But it hurts for me to laugh. So I did not, thankfully, laugh too hard. I think Allworth recognized I was uncomfortable. But he didn't know what to do. Of course she kept going on and on — she was not the type to speak briefly or worry about taking up too much of your time.

As she continued, I began to think about the horrors of humanity — even to the point of pondering the Holocaust. It seemed to me that she was a person who was ultimately and pathetically
human
; someone who epitomized mankind's grossest evil. You see, though she was perhaps, other than myself, the ugliest creature on earth, she could not pass up this opportunity to make fun of someone who might possibly be perceived as less fortunate. She was not merely condescending to, or pathologizing, the creature in the corner; ultimately she was dehumanizing him.

And is this not, ironically, what it means to be human? Aristotle suggested that it was our ability to learn, or our capacity to reason, that ultimately separates humans from animals. But is it really that? And surely it's not just opposable thumbs! I would suggest, instead, that what makes us fully human is, paradoxically, our tendency to treat fellow human beings as if they were animals. Or worse. We love animals, and pity them in a way we do not pity other human beings. Perhaps one should say it is our ability to treat other human beings as if they were rocks or stones. Whatever tragedy had befallen the Man with Two Faces, nothing could be crueller, especially in the Tranquility Spa, of all places, than to make fun of him. The woman's jibes obviously forced a comparison: “He is so much worse off than I am.”

What is it? Do we so fear death that we must wish it upon others? Are we so superstitious that we imagine misfortune is like a malignant spell that might waft from someone else upon us? Is the only way to protect ourselves, therefore, to put a safe distance between ourselves and the “other” with mockery? Why does it invariably make us feel better to cause other people pain? Of course, my mother's heartless, unrelenting sternness in that room in San Gabriel is very much on my mind here.

I didn't know what to do; I had to get away. If I continued smiling and nodding, which was my deeply inadequate
modus operandi
, she might have gone on all night. Perhaps she might have slipped into pantomime, fully visible to her poor victim, and acted out her condescension and ridicule. I turned to Allworth and said, “Where is the washroom?” Of course, he knew at once this was a ruse, that I had to get away from the woman beside me. We couldn't simply leave — we had only just walked in. It seemed like the only solution. He pointed to a door in the centre of the wall opposite where the Handless Man and the Man with Two Faces were sitting. I am not capable of going to the bathroom in the way normal people do, in a public convenience. But there was no way this vicious, boring creature could have known that. I would just hide in the bathroom and wait until I came up with a better plan. Perhaps Allworth could tell her that I had been ill and we had to leave.

This plan was forming as Allworth offered to assist me in the complex process of disembarking from my stool, but I waved him away. It occurred to me that a couple of minutes alone with that monster would make what had compelled me to leave all too clear.

When I reached the washroom, the door was remarkably light. Was it made of paper? A good thing, at any rate, as I am very weak. Inside was like nothing I could have imagined. It's been a long time since I used a public washroom. And, of course, it has been many years since they abolished gender-specific toilets. I never seem to get used to the neutral streamlined atmospheres that are the typical twenty-first-century washroom environment. I long for the antique powder rooms — the baroque mirrors and makeup tables, comfortable chairs, curtains and attendants. There is nothing like that now. But it struck me as odd that the washroom was so very dark. Then suddenly it made sense. Obviously — although the backroom was “arranged” for people to have sex — it was the washroom where people more routinely consummated their assignations.

The room smelled heavenly, a mixture of cinnamon and coconut. A soothing music played. A laser light was aimed at the ceiling, shooting straight up from the floor beside the sink. It did not illuminate anything, just cast a pale blue. I made my way towards one of the two cubicles because it occurred to me that I might be able to gather my wits there. And I thought that perhaps the toilet seat might be low enough for me to perch on, not too uncomfortably. But before I reached the door, I noticed a movement beside the other cubicle — in a slender space between it and the wall. I took a few steps over and glanced into a sort of side area.

Standing against the wall in the corner was the Doll Boy. This was simply where he was. It wasn't as if it was natural for him to be there, but it certainly looked as if it was usual. And he was naked — from the waist down. His pants were in a little puddle on the floor. I couldn't help thinking about Dash King's poignant reference to the puddle he was allowed to make on his boyfriend's thigh. The Doll Boy looked amazing. Beautiful is perhaps not an accurate term. Although he was, technically, beautiful, the odd thing about him was that he could not really
be
beautiful because he was so obviously fake. But the fact that his skin resembled the surface of a modern plastic item, perhaps an airliner or an automobile (only, of course, more pliable), did not mean that he was not, technically, perfectly formed.

My surprise was more of a pragmatic kind. For though I was surprised to see him, it seemed somehow inevitable. He was offering himself — not to me, of course — but to any monster who might happen to wander into the washroom from the bar. No, I was surprised because it had been such a long time since I put myself in a situation where I might offer a man a blow job. In fact, it has been nearly sixty years. And back then I was certainly not as slumped over as I am now. Sixty years ago I was not in this depressing curlicue, and had only just begun to suffer from bad knees. Back then when I contemplated giving a man a blow job, I was taken aback by the anticipation of cracking joints — the pain, the sounds, the
awkwardness
. Too much. But imagine my surprise to realize I am, in fact, now the perfect height to offer a blow job to a perfectly formed man (someone like the Doll Boy, who is, I would say, approximately six feet tall).

And there it was, in front of me. The Doll Penis. It was not, I immediately noted, particularly large or small. I was amazed at the detail. It was uncircumcised. Obviously it had been fashioned by a superior, loving artisan, a stellar plastic surgeon who loved penises very much. This appendage must have been his crowning achievement. There was something Davidish about it. What is the essence of Michelangelo's
David
? As many have remarked, it is the epitome of youthful, coiled energy, the shaft resting so gently on the testicles, like a cobra disdaining the impulse to strike, brutally cognizant of its latent power.

It is important for you to take note of what I did next. I gazed at the Doll Boy's penis, somewhat dispassionately, musing over the practical possibility of an erection. Since the Doll Boy's entire body was encased in a kind of plastic, would it be possible for him to manage it? Wouldn't it rip the casing? There are men who experience a condition called paraphimosis, where the glans gets trapped behind the skin, and they cannot experience an erection. It was hard to imagine that the Doll Boy would have been afflicted with this, as there was something so perfect about the way his penis rested there. But was his plastic skin elastic?