by Sean Denmark

In the night, Jack lost his face.

This sort of thing does not happen. Men don't lose their faces. Bushes do not burn. Your companion isn't really the devil. We are all bound by rules, we all rest in the cradle of the speed of light. There is a certain allowance for interpretation, yes, but only within these bounds. Elsewhere what import does it have?

In the night, Jack lost his face. He was stripping for a shower. He would have foregone this, had he not been so beyond tired. He knew he wouldn't shower in the morning, and he had things to do come morrow, and his brother would be unbearable if he went unbathed. So clothes across the tiles, one foot in the tub, and he felt the moorings loosen. Here he should have lifted his hands perhaps, to catch, but it seemed futile, he was too slow, it didn't occur to him just then. His face slipped down and bounded off his knee into the tub; it swam the dingy bottom. Avoiding a drain death, it floated, yes, he made these grasps, but how do you grasp a face? It skirted his fingers, in its recession through the foggy night air it looked even maybe unfamiliar. Did it open a mouth to speak? Jack opened too. Vomit everywhere, face gone.

He dreamt that night he hunted a bear across the Arctic Sea.

The next morning, he woke late. Sometimes you don't need to refer to your clock, you just know you've overslept. He hadn't even set the alarm; what had he been thinking. He found clothes and opened the door to his bathroom, and then he closed it. He opened it again. The vomit and mess were still there. He closed it. He found his keys and wallet, then returned and opened it again.

Across from him was the mirror. In it was some bathroom, a door, part of a hall, a T-shirt, the crotch and hips of jeans, two arms, and a mound of flesh and hair on top. And no face. He had lost his face. How would he find it? He couldn't even remember what it looked like. Did he have a picture of it to refer to? His brother was going to be so mad at him; he could deal with this later. With things to do and fearing his brothers wrath, he headed out of his apartment into the day.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Joel."

"Who?"

"I slept late."

"I'm sorry."

"I had a bad night."

"Who are you?"

"It's me, Joel. It's Jack."

"Jack who?"

"Jack Willis. Your brother."

He hadnt even gotten breakfast, but headed straight back to apologize. Joel kept asking these questions, and he was hungry. "Can I get some food, Joel?"

"No, I'm sorry, I can't know you."

"I'm your brother. We grew up together. In Pensacola. We have the same father, the same mother. Nat and Lucy. You have a mole on your dick."

Joel looked thoughtful. "You're dressed like him. You're wearing his watch. You smell like him. You sound like him."

Plink of knives and forks.

He looked closely. "You don't have a face. Jack had a face."

Jack was hungry. "I lost it, OK?" He sat down.

Joel stood up. "You idiot. You lost your face. What are you going to do? How could you do a thing like that?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"What? Jack Nathan Willis!" Joel twisted his shirt collar and yanked him forward. "I won't tell you with you yelling at me."

"Fine." Joel's jowl slackened, and he released.

"OK."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"Is that really you, Jack?"

Munching of sausage. Atomizing of bacon grease.

"Let me feel." Joel rubbed his thumb against Jack's cheek. There was a soft sound.

"What is it?"

"Bonemuscleskin. No more."

Jack said something.

"What? I can't hear you."

Jack looked at Joel, trying to remember what he had looked like. There was something familiar, he thought. Joel was meaty; hadn't he been thin? Joel had thick hair; hadn't he been receding? Joel had dimples; hadn't he had dimples? Joel had lips; hadn't he had lips?

"Excuse me, sir. We are going to have to ask you to leave." It was a cop. His badge dim in the breakfast light. His face masked.

"Sir, it's OK. He's just my brother."

"Can you offer some proof?"

"It's wearing my brother's clothes. Watch too. Same smell, same voice."

"Can you guarantee this man is your brother?"

Hum of florescence.

A light bulb illuminated Joel's head. "Check his ID." Jack offered his wallet. There was a picture of his parents and his dead dog Helen. They had something in common with him maybe. Some trait beneath the twitching muscles. The cop withdrew the drivers license. "You see" Joel bent over to see. "That's."

Inadequate ventilation.

"Excuse me," the cop turned to the manager, "you got a tape measurer?"

* * *

"Perry, open up!" Jack pounded on the door. The cop had failed to apprehend him, Joel hadn't gotten him either; he was down and out and needed some cheering up and was visiting his girlfriend. The door flung open. "Yes!"

She was petite, with arms like a hurricane and nostrils like sleeping bats. She wore a blood red jogging suit and leather sandals; her hair was straight until her ears and coiled thereafter. She had smoother skin than a thousand ice cubes. One eye was off-center, but no one could ever say which. Her irises were no color at all. She stared at him, her jaw about to launch off her head. "Come in."

"Perry, I'm so glad you recognized me."

"You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen."

"I knew you'd recognize me, even if Joel couldn't."

"Shut up."

She pulled him into the den and sat him on the couch. Momentos of her days as a safari leader loomed about. Jerry Springer and company were on and cranking. "And it doesn't hurt at all that you pierced your ankle?"

"I had this terrible dream."

"Not a bit. I just threw out my high heels and walk straight-legged. The hole is half an inch in diameter. I clean it every day with alcohol."

"You're even more beautiful than my boyfriend."

"Wait a second, did you say high heels?"

"Perry, I am your boyfriend."

"He won't tell me what sex he is, Jerry."

"Shut up; I can't resist you anymore, you mystery man."

"What gender I want to be, Jessica. Can't you get anything right?"

XXX

"I need to get out of here, Perry."

"Girl, let me tell you, there are fourteen different genders to choose from, and you need to ditch this binary-thinking, pierced freak and get a being that's secure in its self-definition." The crowd cheers.

She clamped her bony hand over his mouth. "Don't ruin it." He rolled over and ran out the door.

* * *

Nothing to do but continue his day. He was walking now. An orange VW camper passed him at high speed, rocking laterally. He hadn't eaten anything all day, except five pieces of bacon he had stolen off of Joel's plate. On a door stoop sat a little girl focusing her being on pulling at one of her toenails. Left foot, middle toe. No better or worse to us than any of the other nine arrayed on jelly sandals, but his one had for some reason to go.

"Is something the matter?" Jack said. The little girl pulled intently.

"Can I help you? You really shouldn't do that. You'll hurt yourself. Hey kid. You're going to yank your toenail out if you keep doing that!" She couldn't hear him. He thought he must be becoming invisible to the world.

"Angie's going to hurt herself."

"Fine with me. Whats your problem? You look like a serial killer."

"I lost my face."

He looked pained. "Ouch; that's gotta hurt." He looked pained at the prospect.

"You know what you need?"

"What?"

"A vision. You need a vision. You need a purpose. Doesn't matter if its a big one or a small one, a dark one or a light one. You need a reason for being. And I've got it for you. Refrigerator skirts.

"Aren't fridges ugly things? See how they weigh down your kitchen, they're threatening to submerge the whole thing. You've got to tame that sucker, imbue her with some modesty. Teach her some manners, before she runs away! And I don't think we need to go reinvent the stone. No, that's the beauty of it all, the absolute classical beauty. We don't change the mechanics, we change the surface. A refrigerator skirt. Dress her up so her own mother wouldn't recognize her. Emphasize some features, hide others. Tuck and snip. Soften those harsh lines; we want the fridge in harmony with the kitchen, humming a happy tune. Not just one, either, but all the fridges in this great land humming a new tune, the same tune the great stars in the sky all sing. We must harmonize our fridges! And together we will; why with my vision and your -- "

Jack loosed a tectonic fart. The man stopped. Overwhelmed by the stench, he backed away, grabbing an oblivious Angie by an arm still attached to a toe, like a human hoolah-hoop.

* * *

Every Saturday he swims, the highlight of the day. The pool was empty, except for one elderly woman, another pool-frequenter. She swam the breaststroke, her head gliding along like Cleopatra's barge. She glanced up as he approached, saw his chest. Glanced higher. Then higher. She forgot to swim, she was drowning. Jack jumped in. How do you save someone from drowning? She tried to flee him. He turned around. Suddenly she was pulling his hair, she was on top of him. She was strong, she was drowning him. He submerged, she released. They swam to opposite sides.

"Why did you do that?"

"Who are you?" They exited their respective ladders.

"My name is Jack. I swim here every Saturday right before the pool closes."

"How can I know who you are?"

"Believe me. Please." He tried to look imploringly.

She spoke. Was she concerned? He watched her elbow; it cut a singular path. Only droplets of water cut quick deviations. There was a sound besides the lapping of the water. He walked to the pools edge and lowered his head. Innumerable reflections were coming back, little pieces, travelling every possible path in their return. He stood and stepped back, bathed in light.

The old woman saw his back parts slide into the water. She watched his enormous span traverse the pool's length, her mouth pursed.