A Beautiful Face

 

            It was a half-light that greeted the day, punctuated by the happiness and songs of the small gray and white birds flitting from branch to branch in the back yard, occasionally dropping to the ground for a worm or otherwise. Alistair rolled to his side to watch the minute hand on his clock click from fifty-eight to fifty-nine, an ability he had possessed from his youth, somehow waking just moments before the alarm clock. Though seventy-two years old, he gracefully slid from his covers to stand at the bedroom window in only his boxers, joyful with the activity in the backyard, the start of a new day, and the list of activities waiting for him on the kitchen counter.

              Giving a loving pat on the top of the bust of King Charles as he left the bedroom, he released the quart of water that he had drank before bed the previous evening to then move into the spare bedroom for his morning prayers immediately followed by stretches. An elderly man by nearly everyone's standards, he had the body of a thirty-year-old, the fruit of a lifetime of diligence and commitment to comprehensive health. Still in his boxers, he sat on his back porch sipping a cup of warm water, putting off coffee until an hour after breakfast.

              Avoiding the news, he had grown tired of the clearly monopolistic and tyrannical nature of American politics, constantly pining for the old days of the monarchy, his thoughts going back to his one encounter with Queen Elizabeth upon receiving his Victoria Cross award for valor in battle. Finishing his water, he walked through the patio doors into his kitchen for his typical toast and peanut butter with a banana, still in his boxers enjoying the meal after returning to the patio.

              Doubly pleased to be joined by an individual squirrel who often accompanied him for this meal, to enjoy his own special treat from the nut bowl on the picnic table, he enjoyed his breakfast, watched the squirrel enjoy his and walked back inside to get dressed for his morning walk. He checked his schedule to see that his path was eastward this morning, a two-mile weave through multiple neighborhoods, avoiding the traffic of husbands going to work and of school buses shuttling children from home to education.

              He walked slowly, enjoying the peaceful solitude, watching as husbands kissed their wives, waving goodbye as they departed, everyone seemingly happy and content with their suburban existence. "This feels like an episode of 'Leave it to Beaver' but with a modern twist," he thought. Seeing more yoga pants than day dresses and pearls, he made mental note of particular families with whom he had become familiar, having the timing down perfect for departure times. Each house presented itself as if it were something from a home decorating magazine. Each lawn trimmed to golf course precision, each flowerbed full of bright colors and lacking weeds. Each window sparkling, holding various patterns of curtain behind each pane of glass.

              He reached his one-mile marker but instead of merely turning around and returning the same way from which he'd come, he walked a half-block north and turned westward down the alley between the houses by which he had just passed. Both surprised and not surprised at the stark contrast between the shiny happy front yards and the chaotic, unkempt nature of the backyards, he recognized the painful metaphor that these homes presented of what people in America were actually like. "A pretty and happy display but hiding an ugliness to which they would never admit," he thought.

              Continuing his covert surveillance, he saw more and more of the same, each home though beautiful on the front revealed their true selves from this alley perspective. Depressed after three blocks of immersion in this deception, he returned to the main street and walked home to make some progress on his list of to-do's for the day. As he approached his front door, he felt particularly moved to explore his own immediate neighborhood, circling around to the alleyway of his own block, which to his disappointment looked no different than all other alleyways he had previously been viewing, save his own.

              As five-thirty that afternoon rolled up on him, he changed into his exercise clothing and took his afternoon walk to watch the shiny, happy people along his route. He deliberately walked slower than usual, seeing the same faux happiness that he saw every other day, unsurprised at the reality of the situation that had been revealed to him earlier that day. He lingered for an hour at the local coffee shop and then returned to the alleyway to have his disappointment only amplified by the hostility and profanity that flowed from the back windows of these "perfect" homes.

              Despite his knowledge that each person has his own struggles, hearing the anger and hatred that flowed from them still shocked him. He saw too many weeping wives, slapped children, and kicked dogs for his own good, grieved by the internal depravity that certainly existed in most of his neighbors. The arrival of dusk allowed him to blend into the shadows of the alleyway, unnoticed in his observation.

              He circled the block again and took a seat in a corner booth at the local pub to enjoy a seltzer water as he wrestled with such a harsh image of reality. Knowing that he was not alone in his drive toward goodness, beauty, and honesty, he began to wonder about those he knew well or thought he knew well. "What kinds of secrets are people hiding?" he thought. Fully aware of his own sins, he cast no judgment on anyone but only felt sad for the darkened state into which much of mankind had fallen.

              He had conquered about half of his drink when a young woman approached his booth and asked if she could join him. He smiled and affirmed her request, motioning for her to sit. She was scantily clad, heavily tattooed and had a flat, dead look in her eyes as she made small talk with him. His immediate presumption of her line of work was almost instantly affirmed as he began making suggestive comments and physical contact. "At least she's honest," he thought.

              He continued the dialog with an attempt to sway it toward something valuable and enlightening. The woman clearly had no boundaries as she continued to drift back toward the abuses she endured, from parents, from former lovers, and from clients, describing in lurid detail all of her pain and suffering. Alistair did his best to encourage the woman, offering suggestions for making changes and improving herself, but his words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

              Like a light turning on, she suddenly seemed to understand that her forward manner was not being appreciated or desired. She patted him on the hand and rose from the booth. "If you change your mind," she said. "I'm almost always around here every evening."

              Alistair thanked her, wished her well and watched her drift off toward other men of like mind and the same interest, judging by their immediate responses to her attention.

              He returned home in the dark, making a decision to begin interacting more with more people, with the hope of making a change in even just a few people. "Even one person would be a good start," he thought.