Clearside

            If you hang around long enough, you may still manage to find a shredded piece of an old mask under some pile of dirt here or there. The local museum picked up most of what it could and locked it up behind some glass that requires an entrance fee to get to. Stick some dead bugs behind locked glass and you’d probably have people lining up with money in their hands to look at them. Some people are really suckers; we’ve seen all sorts. We work there at the museum. Something to keep us out of trouble for the summer, our parents figured. We’re the ones that rip your ticket in half when you walk in.

            Legend has it that this one guy put on a mask after some girl rejected him badly when he told her he loved her. We’ve heard the story so many times that we’ve started repeating it in our sleep. He was in his twenties and some kind of loser, the kind who always felt bad about himself.  The messed-up kind whose feelings you constantly had to worry about hurting. We had one like him in our class. Our teacher always made us act nice to him because he wore these thick glasses that made his eyes look like they were about to pop out.  We didn’t like to look directly at them. We’d feel our eyes getting bigger. You always had to pretend you didn’t see what was right there in front of you when something was wrong with someone—until you get to know them, I guess, and then you stop noticing.

Now this guy with the mask, we’re not sure if he’s still around.  His family wasn’t too bad off where money was concerned, but he didn’t turn out all that swell lookin’ and was pretty crabby about it. Something about his face was disproportioned or something. No one ever really said anything to him about it—folks were nicer those days—but he blamed all that went wrong on that. Everyone had to be nice to him, just like “pop-eyes” in our class. So when he told this girl, who was a pretty thing apparently, she didn’t run away screaming or anything, but really looked like she wanted to.

 It didn’t matter how nice her words were after that, because the guy was half way across town sobbing like a maniac before she could even finish the sentence. Some people don’t deal with that kind of thing all that well. It could’ve just been that he had a rotten personality. There are always people who don’t mind an ugly face, right? Anyway, no one has seen what he looks like except the old folks—he burned all his pictures before sentencing himself to exile—but their minds are too worn out by time to give you a decent description. We all figured it differently from what they’ve said and put up drawings of him in the back room of the museum. Nobody really remembers what his real name was. Everyone just calls him Ugby.

            It was never hard for a story to spread in our town, because people did nothing much but talk. At some point kids even started making games out of it. They would reenact the whole scene and whoever played the part of Ugby would have to run away. The other, who played the part of the girl, had to catch them. If they weren’t caught, they would get to wear the mask, which meant they won. They enjoyed it, we’d heard. Heck, we even tried it ourselves—it was a blast!

            It wasn’t far away, where Ugby went. His family had this cabin some miles away near an abandoned neighborhood where nobody ever went. Now everybody goes there just to see where it all happened. It’s become somewhat of a tourist attraction, you might say. The local folks started taking pictures of it and making crappy post cards that sold out. Really, people surprise you with what they’re willing to buy.

            That’s how it started anyway.  The place of exile was called “Clearside.” Whoever came up with it wanted it to be clever or something, though I don’t see how. It turned into a world of its own. They even put a fence around it to keep all the nosy folks out. They used to egg their houses for choosing to put on the mask—your house always got egged when you did something different. We didn’t understand why—it’s just a waste of eggs to let someone know you think they suck—but we didn’t really care what anyone did as long as they weren’t hurting anyone.

            So what happened was that people just started to head out that way and cover up their faces with those masks all the time. A lot of people will blame things going wrong on their faces. Most of them had faces that hadn’t done them any good, we supposed.  It got so populated that they had to build more apartments so everyone could fit. Lots of people just seemed to want to hide their faces all of a sudden.

            Once you were there you had to follow one rule: you could never take off the mask if someone else could see you. The only time you could was when you were sure no one else was around. It’s the only thing Ugby asked when others followed him into exile. It was the only time he ever spoke to them. He was rarely seen after that. He might have changed his mask when no one was watching, although someone was always watching out for him. People always needed someone to follow, someone to admire. Like older kids at school who don’t notice you’re there but you want to be just like them all the same. They’re so cool. We don’t know why—they just are.  

            The thing is, this carried on for years. In fact, so many years that children were born into it. People still got married—somehow. We supposed they didn’t care what was behind the mask. They never saw what the other really looked like, but that was probably the whole point. We supposed that was one of the things that gave people whose faces people hadn’t cared much to look at a chance at getting hitched. They had certain ways of doing things since they couldn’t tell who was who on the street. They would meet where they had previously arranged or just at home.  Most people changed their masks a lot so they wouldn’t be recognized with time. They figured if they wore the same one it would be the same as having the same face all the time—and what would be the point?

            The kids that grew up there had known no other way. They’re a bit old now.  They come in from time to time to tell people who are curious about Clearside what it was like to be born into it. For them it had been pretty fascinating to see what real faces looked like and their own in the mirror. Mirrors were something you couldn’t find anywhere in Clearside—one of the unspoken rules. You would somehow shame everybody that way. But some residents eventually started sneaking them in, which is when all the trouble started, they told us. There’s always the few that ruin something for everybody else.

            It was the kids that started it all, the downfall of Clearside as they call it. Their parents had made sure to explain that one rule very well. But “You know kids…” people will tell you. They don’t want to be told what rules to follow—they’ll do whatever the heck they want. Well, we don’t always follow the rules either.  

            What happened was that they began to meet in secret to take off their masks and show their faces to each other. One of the ladies we talked to said it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen when she first saw a real one, with the skin and the eyes and the nose and lips and all their different colors. She had never known anything like it. It was a work of art to her. She even cried. We shrugged our shoulders at that; we supposed artists were just more easily brought to tears by those sorts of things. We only cry when something hurts.

            Anyway, after all these kids all saw each other’s faces, they started to want to see their own. Someone managed to sneak in a mirror. That lady who cried when she first saw someone else’s face cried some more when she saw her own. She thought it was even more beautiful how her eyes changed colors with her tears. I guess some people could think dirt was beautiful. But she said it in a way that made us want to get beat up just so we could cry and stick our faces in front of a mirror to see what she was talking about.

            It wasn’t all that bad what they did. Well, we didn’t think so anyway. We would have probably done it too if we’d lived in Clearside. The older folks who lived there, though, started catching them during their meetings. So the kids would change their meeting spot every time. But an alert was issued throughout Clearside. It was a pretty quiet alert since no one wanted Ugby to find out about anything. But the more they cornered the kids with demands of what they shouldn’t do “or else,” the more the kids wanted to do it—just like all kids everywhere.

            Their small, quiet fascination with their faces turned into a riot when the kids started getting locked in rooms all by themselves. The older folks just wanted to keep the situation under control, thinking things might perhaps settle down. Those who hadn’t been caught found ways around this. They started running through the streets and grabbing at people’s masks until they pulled them off and exposed the person’s face in front of everyone. They’d scream for everyone to look away, but it was sometimes too late—some faces were seen and couldn’t be forgotten. We figured it was the same as when a kid in our school had his pants pulled down by an older kid, showing everyone his dinosaur underwear. We laughed.  He cried.  And then we felt pretty bad when he never came back again.

            Those people didn’t take it well, either, the Clearsiders whose masks were torn off. It wasn’t long after that they would pack their things and head off back to town or even further away. It didn’t seem to matter to them that they could put the masks on again; they felt they had already been exposed. No one would ever forget what they really were under their masks. What was the point? It would never be the same. Some people liked for things to stay the same.

            No one really knows if Ugby knew what was going on. They said it didn’t seem to matter after that, that it wasn’t about him anymore. Their spirits had been shattered and eventually the fence was torn down. More and more people kept leaving until there were hardly any left. They assumed that Ugby stayed behind, but it no longer mattered once they got back to their old lives and faces. They told us that they were all pretty quiet after that.

            Most of the people who were married in Clearside went their separate ways. They didn’t like to be reminded of it, probably. They said it wasn’t easy for them to see each other as they really were. It wasn’t how they had wanted it to be. You’d think it would have made things easier, but the folks we’ve spoken to told us we’d understand when we got older. Some people will tell you that a lot. Maybe it was just a way to get us off their backs.

            We sometimes go down to Clearside in the evenings and watch the cabin for a while. We put on masks at times, just for the heck of it. We like to pretend we were living there and play around. One time we thought we saw smoke coming out of Ugby’s chimney. We dared each other to go closer and maybe see what he looks like or if he’s dropped dead, but no one really wanted to. It wasn’t that we were scared—we just figured we’d leave him alone and that he’d come out on his own if he ever wanted to. But when he doesn’t, we just go on home instead.

             

Rattling In Its Cage

The screams on 5th street could be heard miles away as Nathe flopped to his side and pulled his pillow above his ears. It was no use – he was forced out of bed at 3 am again. His heart had also fallen out – third time this week. He got up and picked it up off the floor. The redness was wearing off – with all the dust invading it beneath his bed. He blew upon it till the redness became somewhat more visible and stuck it back into his chest. He would have to get better tape, he thought, as he pulled at a strip of brown paper tape and stuck it above his dusty heart. It’ll have to hold till morning, he wasn’t about to go out and grab a decent adhesive at this time of night.

            When he awoke – was it 7:45? His eyes were still blurry to tell as he picked up his watch and stared at it for a whole minute. He sighed when he looked down and saw that his heart had bled through the tape again. It was turning into somewhat of a hassle – and if only it weren’t so hot. The heat just made it sticky and smelly. It might have frozen in place till he got a decent night’s sleep had it been winter. But it was summer and had there been any air it might have blown through the open window which inhabited the dreary wall two feet away from his bed.  

            At 8, he was finally out of bed and standing in the shower. He laid his heart out on the side – one could never be sure what should mix with water. Even the cold water was hot. Getting dressed afterwards only made him sweat. He had to wear long sleeved shirts to work. They had air-conditioning at the office, but the walk there beneath the sun was unbearable. It was still early, but that summer they were experiencing heat like never before. He covered his heart with fresh tape and hoped it would hold till the store near his office opened so that he could get the better kind.

            His feet splashed in a pool of crimson as he walked out of his apartment building and onto the street. The stench was unbearable. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand – the smell of other people’s blood made his stomach queasy. He wished people would bleed somewhere else in the middle of the night – in private. This was just ridiculous! He’d have to use the water hose to clean up his shoes; otherwise he’d be sick all day.

It was a cubicle in which Nathe spent eight hours of his day, typing away in front a computer screen. One day he’d go mad and smash it into pieces he figured. He’d seen it happen before. His old colleague, Jep, had “cracked” (as they had referred to it) last summer– he never found out what happened to him after. “He needed some quiet,” was all that they said pitifully. Everyone had their breaking point, he figured. His would come one of these days – he was already falling apart, somewhat.

            At 10 O’clock, Nathe was sure the store across the street would now be open as he walked out of the building and ran quickly to the other side. He picked up a thick invisible tape and some tissues and was back inside and in the men’s room before anyone really noticed he was gone. He cleaned up what mess had been made and sealed his rattling heart into place again. Luckily, he was wearing a dark shirt and whatever leaked through would hardly be visible unless one stuck their head right into it – which no one was likely to do.

            It was quite hard for one to really focus on the work itself when the environment invited his mind to wander and head off in different directions every now and then. The good thing about his cubicle was that he had enough privacy to sit back and stare at the ceiling if he wanted – as he often did, and could hear approaching footsteps and resume to look busy at work when need be. The air vent above him also made it more tolerable on some days – just enough to breathe when he really needed to. That was all he could ask for at times – for it all to be tolerable enough. Just enough to keep his heart in place.

            His wasn’t the only heart fumbling inside his chest – he knew this for a fact. But one could never really be sure who else was troubled by it. He assumed the mouths of the screams throughout the night might have had difficulty with theirs. His never really pained him as he assumed theirs had – to result in screams. One never wanted to be out so late as to know why theirs made them suffer to such extent. Alcohol must have been involved, (it makes it burn like crazy) no one really wants others to know that their heart’s not quite in its place otherwise. Sometimes he’d see someone with a spot here or there that had gone unnoticed – but he could never be sure.

            It usually snaps when one felt something inside it beat differently for the first time – he remembered reading when it all began and wasn’t too sure how normal it was for his heart to behave in such a way. “After the initial snap, it never falls into place again” – he recited quietly to himself as if it were a speech he were about to give. His parents had insisted that no child of theirs had such a feeble heart when he began to tell them of his. It was all part of his imagination – his heart was well in place and would always be where they were concerned. “But listen…” he would say as it snapped violently inside even as they spoke and begged them to press their ears against his chest, “don’t you hear that? It’s coming apart!” He would try to persuade them, but they wouldn’t have it. He was sure they heard it, but they never wanted to acknowledge it – not of their son anyway. A man’s heart was supposed to stay in its place.

 Such a thing led him further away from them than he had ever thought possible as a child – when he thought the world of them. He couldn’t imagine what his heart would have turned into otherwise. It was already out of place too soon – he didn’t want to be seen as those kinds whose hearts bled uncontrollably in public. He hated what he’d heard others say about them. There’s only so much one could control to stay in – “they can’t help it,” he’d try to say, but they’d shake their heads in disgust. Once it begins to fall out, the blood flow just becomes worse and worse. He supposed that that was why he couldn’t handle the sight of too much of it all that well himself. It was just something he had grown up with.  

           Something wasn’t sitting right in his stomach as his lunch break was approaching – that morning’s smells had not left his recollection. It wasn’t too bad at first, but something inside had just gone wrong all of a sudden. He was starting to feel sick. He couldn’t bear staying inside any longer and left earlier – not that he had much of an appetite for food. He just needed to get out. The uneasiness that had grown in his stomach mixed with the soft hums of the office, the telephone calls, the voices and the air-conditioning above him, that had usually been a good thing, only made him feel worse.  

            He was outside and vomiting in a pile of dirt before he could regain a normal sense of being. He hated getting sick where others could see him, but what was inside had really wanted out. Luckily no one came by then and he managed to clean it up. No one else should be made to be sick just because he was.

He felt a little better as he found some shade beneath a tree and sat there for a few minutes to allow his body to calm. There was no air still, but the shade was more comforting than anything had been all day long. He put his hand over his heart. The tape seemed to be holding well in place he was re-assured and only sat in silence. He leaned his head back and tried to inhale a bit of air that seemed non-existent. “There’s only so much one can take.” He said quietly to the heat mostly as there was no one in hearing distance and sighed as it invaded every part of his body.

Looking up, he noticed the people walking back and forth in front of him. He noticed their blood slightly dripping. No one seemed to care that it did. He was sure they felt it – how could they not? But they did nothing about it. People didn’t care for such things as much in the city. He watched as they took the lead and let it fall right behind them – right where anyone could see if they looked. It wasn’t as horrible as the morning’s. It was a drop here, a drop there – the kind that had no choice but to fall where it may. One could not be expected to spend their day cleaning up the traces they’ve left behind, he thought. It wouldn’t have mattered to them either, he figured, if his was doing just the same. It was just that he felt his insides need not be displayed for everyone to see if one could help it. Maybe it was his parents’ traditionalism that unconsciously seeped into his way of thinking. He didn’t mind that his heart fell out, personally, but he could not allow his blood to drip so bluntly for all to see – not yet anyway.

The sun had somehow disappeared behind a sea of grayness as he sat there, unconscious of how long he’d been outside since it seemed to him he was incapable of any sort of movement. The heat seemed to have melted him into place. It was late afternoon according to his watch, but the clouds that had crept up from nowhere made night seem a more likely possibility if one threw logic aside.

If it had not been hot enough before, he believed that it was actually becoming worse as he began to unbutton the top half of his shirt and roll up his sleeves. It seemed to make no difference that a bit of his sealed heart may be revealed. It was just too hot! The air was imprisoning him into a stuffy corner, where had he been the least bit claustrophobic – he would have simply gone mad, he truly felt. It was far more suffocating than anything he’d felt in his life. And just when he thought the world was sure to burst if anything in that instant, a drop of warm water touched his forehead. And then another, and then another until all that was heard was a loud tapping on the ground that eventually drenched him and everyone else around.

No one really moved as people often maneuvered in reaction to the rain – in an attempt to find cover from it. They welcomed it any more gladly as the clouds rid themselves of all that they could not possibly contain and offered the steaming bodies below a chance to cool down. He was the only one, he felt, who had not yet allowed his heart the freedom to drip when the now soaked tape and tissues could not hold it in any longer. He was the only one that still hung onto that which had snowballed into something that not only needed to drip, but to burst and splatter anything in sight. It would have come apart all on its own, if he waited, but he could not any longer.

He reached into his shirt, pulled at the strip of tape and grabbed his hot and sticky heart with all his might. He tossed it out in front of him and watched as the water soaked it clean. And as he sat there with it out in front of him and a hole in his chest for all to see – the rain continued to fall.