The Man Whose Face He Could Not See.  

Version One

3/12/16 & 7/19

Sunlight poured in.

Through the open barn-door windows... Sunlight poured in ... barn-door windows.... Sunlight...

Late afternoon. Late, lazy afternoon after a long day in the saddle. Horse plum tired. He too. Horse feeding at the draw. Oats a plenty. Watering at the trough. Place looked deserted. Empty. Nada. Nobody home. 

Pushed open the familiar curved, slatted western swinging doors, sat heavily-- wearily at the wooden bar.

Everything was the same dull unpolished brown wood: dogwood, driftwood from god knows what river. Worm holes, random pieces of... lazy carpenter, not really caring, probably a sometimes drunk.

Natural light. When it got dark, getting dark now... there were oil lamps. Some still used whale oil. Blubber. Scrimshaw. Seen some on trips to the coast. Northern California, Oregon. Grandad's gold rush. A fool's errand. So the family thought. They were - in grandad's case - just plain wrong. Old pop had the never-say-die spirit.

 ***

Frank nursed his whiskey. Washed it down with beers.  Six-shooter still hot from the long day's sun on horseback into Cheyenne. Montana still a far sight's ride. More than two days.

He was tempted to go up to the brothel. He thought of his long-suffering wife and the boys.

They were already young men- strapping young follows his six sons.  Working on the farm, odd jobs at the railroad. The youngest, Joey talented. So they said. Wasn't like the others. Could hear a tune, play it back on six different instruments. Had a sure singing voice, powerful that. Sang in church too. An instrument of God. Odd atheist Frank was.

The voice of God or of six gods or sixty or six thousand- seemed to be calling him when he rode on the prairie. Every cactus could have spirits. Were there many religions or if you get down to it only one- one truth attainable through an infinite number of paths? Maybe there was no supreme being. Maybe we we're all cells in the infinite force of life and nature - all part of the magnificent, wondrous, often horribly malignant cosmos. He read that new-fangled magazine Scientific American. Seemed new even though granddad introduced him to it thirty years ago in 1860. By then it had already been in print 15 years.

Maybe it was his fear made manifest- fear of bandits, fear of an accident, fear of getting lost. Native Americans, it was their land... Frank could only imagine the intensity of their resentment, their hatred of the white man. Whatever one thought of them, it was easy to feel their pain, their history denied.

Back in the saddle, victuals and featherbed did him good - the bath after all those days on his horse didn't hurt none neither.

Frank was a surveyor for the US Department of the Interior. He liked the solitude. He liked the work. He liked the bars. Liked meeting random people.

Worm holes. The thought kept coming back to him in dreams- asleep and awake.

 In one dream a beautiful Native woman beckoned him only to turn into a serpent; he narrowly escaped.

Another dream: the same beauty opened a door to a bar. Inside was a battlefield with weapons of which he had neither seen not heard. Weapons of such devastating power were unknown at the time. The smell of death permeated that battlefield, that bar. Wormholes- it seemed like the worm meant something other than the common meaning. But what?

Frank had little formal education. When he was little, he liked to count. Always counting, measuring. He was too poor to go to school. Granddad never shared a dime. Old geezer was still living his miserly life out east.

Work was Frank's lot from a tender age. When working he couldn't help but count and measure everything. Started to see patterns. That led him to find better ways of doing things. People noticed. He got better jobs. He could now afford to buy a book- once in a while. He read the history of mathematics. Then more books about numbers. Time went by as he taught himself algebra, geometry, trigonometry then calculus.

Worm holes. What did that mean? He studied worms. No answers.

****

A new town 90 miles past Cheyenne. A new bar. Frank was so past tired he could barely walk. He pushed open the usual brown-wood swinging curved, slatted doors. He must have been sleepwalking-- or dreaming.

 A beautiful Native woman seated him at a table across from the bar. She wore a floor length deerskin dress. He had never seen a more elegant person. So beautiful, a goddess.

She was both hostess and waitress. Hostess, waitress and goddesses? Frank! Get a grip.

She took his order. After his venison steak and potatoes, she brought him a piece of wood. Wood? He was both surprised and confused. His father would have gotten angry. Frank just smiled in his charming, quizzical sort of way. 

The hostess said look at the worm holes. Count them.

Frank was stunned. A one-two punch; how could she know of his fascination with counting, his obsession with worm holes?

My name is Of the Forest. She offered her hand. What a forward young woman he thought. Never met anyone like her.

Slowly, respectfully Frank stood as they shook hands. He took a deep breath. Her presence - was she wearing a subtle perfume? - calmed his ragged nerves. Beauty always had this effect on him. Of the Forest was more than beautiful. He wished he had met her before he got married. Then suddenly: what was he thinking?! He loved Sally Jo. Maybe it was the midlife problem. Though he seemed to be in midlife crises for most of his adult life. Even before that... as a teenager whenever he stopped working, dark thoughts would cloud his mind.

 Suddenly, jolting him out of his mini-reverie of darkness, Of the Forrest pointed her open palm toward the rear swinging door. Frank saw nothing of interest. She gestured gently but more firmly.

Frank went to that door, stepped into another barroom where he had previously been certain he saw the prairie. 

On a stool slumped a man with a Mexican hat covering his face. Frank sat down next to him. There was something oddly familiar about the man whose face he could not see.

The man came to. "I drink to deaden the pain. Keep myself half dead. I could have been a great..." His voice trailed off as he fell back into his stupor. Hardly had his head hit his extended arm on the bar when he revived. "The guys at the railroad put me down, sometimes when I'm there and -- I bet when I'm not. My old boss put me down too- and my wife. When I tell the guys they are wronging me they give me their "sorry I'll never do it again" palabras. Next day they're at it again. I should'a knocked some sense into them when their bullying first started. That Edi started one year before me. Now he's assistant head honcho. The ladies like him, he's got power, guys working for him on the payroll if you know what I mean. Still he's not content with his lording it over me. God-dammed bully.

It's my fault I didn't stand up to him early on. I did but not consistently.

Wait! I keep forgetting I've got a successful son, my mother is still healthy, I've got friends and that gold I dug in California still is in the bank... What am I complaining about?!

Is it that people don't like me? Hell I don't like me. I can't think straight when I'm around other people. I get even more loco when I'm all cooped up alone. So if I don't like myself, why should they?! Don't blame 'em. Turn the other cheek and all that crap."

The man saw Frank for the first time as he came out of his narcissistic, drunken rant.

Frank was astonished to see under the drunkard's sombrero... his own face.

****

For a moment Frank was at a loss. Go back to Of the Forest or stay with the disturbing image…

Frank considered himself reasonably successful... Not when he compared himself to others- then he felt lousy. He used to do the right thing all the time. More and more he made questionable choices.

The old guy came to.

Be a good guy. Buy this old timer a drink. 

The first thought in Frank's mind was “no.”

But another shot, old-timer was passed out.

 ****

Back to the prairie. Riding all the live long day. Next town. Next bar. Frank nearly had a heart attack when at the next bar Of The Forest greeted him.

He needed bourbon to settle his nerves, get the courage to ask her how she came to be here.

Frank was still indescribably confused.

Worm holes. That odd phrase came to mind. That night he dreamt about something he read: In New York an underground train was being built. Wild idea… an underground train. What’ll they think of next?

If Of The Forest had taken one of them underground trains that would explain it. But there were no underground trains in Wyoming or Montana. Not that he knew of…

****

A billion years BCE. A wormhole.

Worms the size of subway trains. Flowers sprouted from their heads. Men in Black… The creatures wormed their way from one part of space time to another - effortlessly.

From a distance in space with sunlight illuminating their long bodies, their graceful arcs a ballet before time, they seemed primordial dolphins.

These huge creatures were - in the scale of interstellar space - tiny, minuscule. They fed on hydrocarbon dust and ice. 

Mated in space. Always looking for partners. Always looking for something, Annie... Nix Annie, not yet.

****

In a primitive forest a carpenter-ant built a home for his kin. That was millions of years after the first single-celled plants populated the seas.

Millions more years later, skies still so clear, at night all the stars and planets and moons shone- could be seen by the men and women who lived in the trees. Even the families who made the modern transition to caves had nighttime rituals involving the heavenly bodies. There were no words yet.

Peace, joy and love were present in the same proportion that they have always been- counterbalanced by all the ways death took its toll - physically, emotionally, unexplained. Horrified by forces of nature man made gods in his own image. 

***

Death taking its toll was no news to Frank, having lost his father when he was 12.  What startled Frank - almost as much as when he stepped from the barroom back door into a cave full of paintings with a fire burning next to gourds filled with vegetable pigments, a mammoth fur rug still redolent of the animal, a sleeping Neanderthal painter flecked with paint wherever the eye could see...

What startled Frank, what was beyond bizarre, unreal and impossible was the truth.

what was beyond bizarre, unreal and impossible was the truth.

It didn't make any sense but there it was plain as day. Families living, loving, working together, fighting with each other and still getting on with the business of living, living together, moving forward- not getting caught, stuck in mental/emotional ruts. Here were these primitive men and woman who didn't coddle their children, didn't indulge themselves, had no comforts - which Frank who by most people's standards was pretty much a lean tough, independent, stoic ascetic kind of guy - none of those necessities which the modern man thought he could not live without. Of course Frank had lots of practice in his lone rides from one prairie town to the next.

What was startling was the simple truth, the reality of what was in fact needed for the dance of life. 

What in fact was needed?

****

Double back: Go back to Of the Forest or stay with the disturbing image of his failed shadow self. His initial instinct was to run as fast as he could out of that nightmare vision of self-pity. Something detained him. He realized running to the beautiful woman to avoid facing himself was self-indulgent at the least - he caught himself. He was fascinated by his shadow man. He also wondered if the woman was real.  Even if she were real, she tempted him in ways which were inappropriate. Every thought he realized presented a possible wormhole- no - the term for getting lost in tangents was rabbit hole. 

Focus. Why was it so hard to focus? The only time he felt he was really present was when he was working, surveying. Sometimes he used to feel OK when studying. He rarely felt OK with his wife or friends. Lost. Frank's mind felt lost. What was he thinking about? Oh yes, that drunkard and the beauty in the next room - if she was still there... and if she was really what she seemed.

Frank considered himself successful...

The old guy came to.

Howdy, be a good younger feller.

Buy this old geeezer a drink.

The first thought in Frank's mind was no. Old man you've had enough. More than enough - for two. But it was getting near Christmas. He did not savor feeling like Scrooge. Besides, now that he was over his shock, he wanted to get to the bottom of his uncanny resemblance to the old codger.

No such luck. Old man had another shot, was out like a light.

It made Frank smile: the old guy was on and off like one of them new-fangled Eelectric lights.

****

Again: Back to the prairie. Riding all the live long day. Next town. Next bar. Frank nearly had a heart attack when at the next bar, Of The Forest greeted him.

He needed just a little less bourbon to settle his nerves this time, get the courage to ask her how she came to be here.

"In time," she said. "In time, you will understand. You will understand more."

Frank was still indescribably confused. Perplexed beyond anything he had known- yet her manner, her gentle and wise way comforted him sufficiently - for now.

Worm holes. That odd phrase came to mind. That night he dreamt about an underground train being built. Seemed less unnatural this time. This time? Had he had these thoughts, these experiences before?

If Of The Forest had taken one of them underground trains…

****

A billion years BCE. A wormhole.

Worms the size of …

 The Man Whose Face He Could Not See (version two)

Sunlight poured in-open windows... Late afternoon August sun... barn-door windows.... Tumble weed on the dust, sand and dirt road. The road barely discernible from the endless expanse of nothingness on the mind-numbingly flat horizon. Not a soul in sight. Loneliness of the prairie right here in this here town. Not that there was much of it: a bar, general store, a post office, a church. Sunlight... Sunlight poured in through open...

Them bars always looked like they were made by farmers selling their land, moving on - made from old barns. Were they in a hurry to leave this wasteland they thought they could tame?

Late August afternoon. Nothing ever happened in August. Late, lazy afternoon after a long day's journey. Plum tired. Old Dan at the draw.

He pushed open western swinging doors, sat heavily.

Everyone has a story.

Getting dark... oil lamps.

His grandad's gold rush.

Frank nursed his whiskey, tempted to go up to the brothel- thought of his long-suffering wife and the boys.

They were already young men-

The voice of six thousand- seemed to be calling him when he rode on the prairie.

Maybe it was his fear.

..history denied.

Frank was a surveyor for the US Department of the Interior. Liked meeting random people.

Worm holes. The thought kept coming back to him.

In one dream a beautiful Native woman beckoned him only to turn into a serpent.

Another dream: the same beauty opened a door to a bar. Inside was a battlefield with weapons he had neither seen. Weapons of such devastating power were unknown at the time. The smell of death permeated that battlefield, that bar. Wormholes- it seemed like the word meant something other than the common meaning.

Little formal education. When Frankie was little, he liked to count. Always counting, measuring. Too poor to go to school. Granddad never shared a dime. Old geezer still living his miserly life out east.

Work was Frank's lot from a tender age.

Time went by as he taught himself algebra, geometry, trigonometry then calculus.

He studied worms, their tunnels. No answers.

****

A new town 90 miles past Cheyenne.

A beautiful Native woman seated him at a table across from the bar. She wore a floor length deerskin dress. He had never seen a more elegant person. So beautiful…

Hostess, waitress, goddesses? Frank! Get a grip. 

She took his order.

She brought him a piece of wood. Wood?.

She said look at the worm holes. Count them.

She knew of his fascination with counting, his obsession with worm holes?

My name is Of the Forest.

Slowly, respectfully Frank stood as they shook hands.

Of the Forrest pointed her open palm toward the rear swinging door.

Frank went to that door, stepped into another barroom where he had previously been certain he saw prairie. 

On a stool slumped a man with a Mexican hat covering his face. Frank sat down next to him: something oddly familiar.

The man came to. "I drink to deaden the pain. Keep myself half dead. I could have been a great..." Those God-dammed bullies…”

Wait! I keep forgetting I've got a successful…

People don't like me. Hell I don't like me.. Turn the other cheek and all that crap.

The man saw Frank for the first time as he came out of his narcissistic, drunken rant.

Frank was astonished to see under the drunkard's sombrero, his own face.

The man whose face he could not see (version three)

12/24/15 

Sunlight poured in through the open barn-door windows.

The bar got dark.

There were oil lamps.

Frank nursed his whiskey.

They were already young men, his sons. 

The voice seemed to be calling him when he rode on the prairie.

Maybe it was fear.

Back in the saddle, Frank, a surveyor for the US Department of the Interior, liked the solitude, liked the work.

Worm holes. The thought kept coming back to him.

In one dream, a beautiful Native woman beckoned him turning into a serpent.

Another dream: the beauty opened a door to a bar. Inside was a battlefield with weapons.

Frank had little education, bought a book once in a while.

Worm holes. He studied worms.

****

A new town, a beautiful woman - so beautiful- took his order.

Look at the worm holes. Count them.

Frank was stunned. She knew of, his obsession with worm holes?!

Had she read it in his face?

Had she read it in a book? 

Facebook?

She pointed toward the rear swinging door.

Frank went to that door.Stepped into another barroom, where he had previously been certain he saw prairie. 

On a stool slumped a man with a Mexican hat covering his face.

“That gold I dug up in California is still in the bank... what am I complaining about?!”

Is it that people don't like me? Hell I don't like me.

Frank saw the sadness, the pain in that face. His face.