I decided that he would not do. He was awkward and clumsy to a degree that made him worrisomely unpredictable.
I spotted the next potential victim in a mirror store. We strolled among the mirrors before he stopped to examine one that was full-length and three-way. Being able to see him from three sides simultaneously was wonderful; it gave me a more complete, well-rounded perception of my prey. What ruined it for me was a subtle movement he made, a mere brush of the hand against the back of his pants, but performed in a manner that did not please me. There was nothing horrendously vulgar about the gesture, but it was enough to make me decide he would not do.
I don’t believe I was being picky or trying to get out of my obligation. These last two specimens were clearly not possible, by any standard. I mean, if I had accosted the jump rope one, he probably would have said something like, “Am I on Candid Camera?” And this mirror guy’s response to my statement “I want you now,” might have been something like, “Why? Is it my appearance or my personality that attracts you?”
I had to find better. I wandered into a florist and spotted a man who struck me favorably. I stood behind a high-perched pot of daisies and observed him through the stems and petals. Now this guy was not like the last two. He looked sane and well-balanced, simple and straightforward, sensible, alert, confident, possibly intelligent. He did not hide in a corner of the store and knock pots over. His movements were efficient and coordinated, economical. No frills. He did not touch his own body appreciatively. Though he did have a rather nice body. He was tall, solidly built, with an okay face. When accosted, he was not likely to complicate the situation in some tiresome or whiny way. All in all, he seemed like a real “no-nonsense” type of guy. It was refreshing. I watched him for a while and he did nothing to disappoint me.
He left the store without buying anything, which was just as well since I preferred not to make advances on a man encumbered with a bouquet. I followed him down the street, suddenly nervous because I realized the time had come. I was not likely to find a more perfect accessory for my punishment, a more appropriate recipient for my offensive, than this man.
I trotted up behind him. My tongue stung and my heart was pounding. I was four feet away, my hand was extended toward him. I had to do it now. I cleared my throat and was about to touch his arm when he turned and entered a deli. I followed him in, hurried to the back of the store, and stood behind some jars of mustard. I would accost him as soon as he exited. My mouth and tongue were stinging more than ever, which was something that always happened when I was nervous, particularly before I got on stage.
He paid for his purchase and left. I hurried after him. This time I did not stall. I firmly placed my hand on his arm and said, “Excuse me.”
He turned and looked at me politely, considerately, and said, “Yes?”
Suddenly I wanted to chicken out by only asking him what time it was. No, not allowed.
Then I wondered if I could cut a deal with myself by toning down the punishment to asking him merely if he wanted to have coffee one day. I could then combine this semi-punishment with one of the others, like dumping garbage all over myself.
No. I had to do it: out of respect for my acting. And it couldn’t be a half-hearted attempt either; it had to be convincing. So I dived. I dived into his eyes and said, “I want you. Now or somewhere close. I can’t wait.”
He looked at me, almost with pity, I think, though this might be my imagination.
I placed my hand on his backside, squeezed it, and began to repeat “I want you,” when he slapped my face with the back of his hand.
I felt swatted. Like a mosquito. Or, to be fair, perhaps like something a bit worse: a wasp, or a flying cockroach. But swatted, definitely. It wasn’t a particularly hard slap. I don’t think it was meant to knock me out or anything, but he was wearing a rather sharp ring that cut my upper lip. When I touched my mouth there was blood. I looked up at him, stunned, but he was already walking away.
My lip hurt, and the blood was running into my mouth and down my chin. I pressed my fingers on the cut to stop the flow, but it simply ran down my wrist as well. Dammit. I couldn’t afford to have a scar on my face. My non-existent acting career would be ruined. I probably should get stitches. It was a drag, but I had to be conscientious, to minimize the wreckage.
Perhaps I should go home first and see how bad the damage really was. I hesitated. I was quite far from my apartment, and the hospital was in the opposite direction. I looked at the faces of people who passed me, trying to read from their expressions how serious my cut was. Was it really as bad as all the blood on my hands led me to believe?
Their gaits slowed, but steered clear. In their faces I detected shock, curiosity, and, to my surprise, fear. Why fear? Did they think I was dangerous, that I would attack them, that I had murdered someone? And yet there was no question that they were afraid of me, which was puzzling, until I remembered why and felt like an idiot: the fear of modern blood.
I finally just walked up to a parked car and craned my neck to catch a glimpse of my face in the side-view mirror. I was horrified.
I tried to hail a cab, but none stopped until I wrapped my scarf around my face and hid the blood. All I could think about in the taxi was that I would have a huge, disfiguring scar that would annihilate my chances at acting. A scar could never attain the same caliber, glamour, and cachet as a mole, even if situated in approximately the same place. Come to think of it, even a facial tattoo didn’t seem as tragic as a scar.
I went to the emergency room, and after examining me, the doctor said I didn’t need stitches, that in fact it was generally preferable not to stitch that area of the face. He said it was unlikely that I would get a scar, but that to play it extra safe I should avoid smiling or laughing for a couple of days. Talking and eating, however, were okay, he said.
He then went on to explain the situation in more detail. “Cuts on the mouth are a delicate case. One cannot completely rule out the possibility of scarring, because the mouth is an area that normally moves and stretches a lot, which can cause delays in healing. As we know, delays in healing can mean the formation of unsightly scar tissue, especially when the cut extends beyond the lip’s outer limit, as yours does, slightly. That is why I advise you to avoid all social contact during the next two days. If that’s not possible, then you should restrict your contact to people who are not likely to make you laugh or smile. I do realize that this may be impractical. If it can’t be managed, you have only one other alternative, and it is of utmost importance: you have to perform the MMO procedure.”
“What is MMO?” I asked.
“It’s an abbreviation for Manual Merriment-Obstruction. It consists in pressing the tips of your hands on either side of your mouth, like so, to obstruct the formation of a smile.”
He demonstrated the procedure on himself, which was very unflattering to his appearance.
He continued: “The MMO procedure must be performed each and every time anyone in your proximity says, or does, anything funny, and every time you sense you’re about to smile or to — God forbid — laugh. Obviously, alertness is of vital importance, because smiles can be diabolically quick. And be warned: you have to press hard — smiles have tremendous muscle, more than anyone ever imagines until they actually wrestle with one.”