Once Upon an Argh in a Land Scar, Scar Away

On a scary, scary night

Photo by Aimee Vogelsang on Unsplash

My body is riddled with scars and I wear them proudly.

Most of them are small, rather dainty spots where basal cell skin cancer was cut or burnt off on my face, chest, or back.

These represent moderate infractions — parking tickets, little white lies, gossip, taking pens and paper clips home from work. That sort of thing.

Though there is one scar, on the cusp of my shoulder which, though small, looks like the cartoonish exaggeration of Frankenstein’s, with its stitch line hanging down on either side, thanks to the pull of gravity.

It marks the time I inadvertently sent a friend a stack of poems that contained one that referred to her in an obvious but unflattering way.

It took a lot of ‘splaining, apologizing, and an intervention to get back in her good graces. No doubt she’s scarred too from that, though we live in different states so I really can’t say.

However, the grand prize winner of them all is the one running from just under my breasts to the top of my pubic bone with a cute little detour around my belly button.

That would be the one.

The one that represents my marriage and all the ways the not-so-passive and most certainly aggressive acting out I did ultimately sabotaged our relationship.

Fitting it’s on my torso connecting these erogenous zones like an interstate highway of my soul. Luckily for me, it’s in a spot I can keep covered up.

But what if it weren’t?

What if it ran up and down my cheeks and across my forehead in the pattern of the letter “A.” A capital letter “A” for adultery. What if, like in The Scarlett Letter, I had to wear this badge of dishonor for the world to see?

How would I comport myself? Would I be hunched over in shame with a wide-brimmed gardener’s hat trying to cover and hide it?

Or would I wear it standing tall and proud, defying anyone to say boo?

What If?

What if, like the famous male bonding scene in Jaws, I was proud of it and enjoyed showing it off? Can you imagine the rogue piratess I’d become?

A little tyke comes up to me on the street and says, “Hey lady, what happened to your face?”

“Argh, Matey, why d’ya wanna know? “

“Well, you look pretty funny, and besides, isn’t that the letter ‘A?’”

“Argh! It’s an ‘A’ for argh. I watch Sesame Street, too, ya know.”

“Well, lady,’” the precocious little whippersnapper explains, “I used to watch Sesame Street. Now I watch Turner Movie Classics and they showed The Scarlett Letter with Coleen More as Hester Prynne, from 1934 though my dad said there was an earlier version staring Lilian Gish — Say, doesn’t ‘A’ stand for adultery?”

At which point I look and see if there’s a parent person in earshot. There isn’t.

I pull out my machete and test the blade for sharpness by slicing a branch off a nearby tree.

“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s dangerous to talk to strangers?”

Undaunted, he retorts with, “Cool knife. Can I play with it?”

Waving the cool knife menacingly over his tow-headed cow-licked noggin, I say casually, “Ya wanna keep your fingers, kid?”

And off he runs screaming, “Mommy!”

Heh, heh, heh.

But then, I might have to go for a job interview.

I re-sheath my machete and practice my smile.

Moments later, Mr. Manager leans a bit too close. I gag on his aftershave.

Now he’s all, “Here at Starbucks we pride ourselves in customer service. How can you possibly inspire confidence with your face cut up like that, Miss?”

Of all the nerve.

I smile big as I say, “Easy-peasy. It’s all about the coffee, right?”

Mr. Smooth Talking Manager Guy waves his arms indicating the café as if I’ve never been in one before.

“Well, here at Starbucks, we like to create an experience, with a certain ambiance — inviting, casual, and safe. You look like you have, well, a questionable past.”

Questionable my ass!

Oops, I better watch my mouth which is saying, “Ar — I mean, that’s not your or anyone’s business. The point is — feeling the point of my machete in its sheath — the point is, can I do the job?”

He obviously misses my point cause he says, “The point is, we have an image to maintain, and you’re not it. The point is, we’re doing the hiring, and the point is, thanks for stopping by. We’ll, uh, be in touch.”

It was all I could do to keep Mr. Machete in his sheath, but Mr. Totally Ignoring My Rights As A Disfigured Person Manager Dude had his hand out to shake so what could I do?

Next Up

Now I’m at the counter of the seedy dive bar where I’m a bartender slash bouncer. It’s late. Very late. Almost closing time.

Time to wake up the passed-out drunks and send them rolling home.

After playing our silly little ditty, Last Call for Alcohol, I let the jukebox play one more song — a slow one as erstwhile lovers pair up for the night while they can still stand.

You know how they can be too drunk to walk straight but they can still slow dance? They prop each other up and make the tipsy tips look like romantic swaying. It’s a subtle art but they seem to manage.

Then there’re the dudes who are, as we say in the parlance, shit out of luck. Fuck luck or, more accurately, no fuck luck.

When they belly up for last call, which they all seem to do, they spot my scar, my brand — as in cattle, not company logo — my letter “A.”

They don’t look literary. Nary a one. They look like the horny drunk bastards they are. But for their beer goggles, I would have aged out of this particular predicament.

So when they see the letter “A,” they think available, approachable, and attractive, if they think at all. Or maybe they know the score and decide I’m loose enough to hit on, a ripe plum for the picking.

They hover around me like flies on manure.

I try swatting them away. Like flies, they scatter and regroup. I swat. They scatter and regroup again.

I lean over the counter, pointing to my forehead. “See this “A?” It stands for angry, argh! and amscray!”

Which just eggs them on. They like a broad with cajones.

“A” stands for Argh!

I pull out my machete. I brandish it around, cutting figure eights in the air. “Who wants a tattoo? We’re having a special on the letter ‘Z.’

This not being an S&M bar, they find their jackets and slouch towards the door, tail — or whatever — between their legs. Now, all I have to do is swab the poop deck so I can go home and catch some of my own z’s.

Learning to Use My (Fore) Head

I can only keep this up for so long before going crazy. So I go online.

Lo and behold, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles I discover a like-minded alphabet-scarred community of Scrabble lovers. Like folks who play Dungeons and Dragons in the flesh, we do our version of bringing the game to life.

There are nine of us letter A’s. My tribe! Finally!

We’ve got a life-size board we stand on in our squares, spelling words in two directions. Folks pay good money to play. In tournaments even.

It’s a decent living. I’m on my feet and moving. It’s mentally challenging and different every day. Best of all, I get to showcase my spelling prowess and keep my clothes on — almost as good as being a writer.

Not quite. But almost.

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