Not Amused (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} aka_tippi) wrote,@ 2003-06-24 16:02:00 |
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Ugly
Yesterday and this morning, I was taken by an overwhelming urge to write these... well, I don't know what to call them. Not stories, not character sketches... Something. This is the one I wrote this morning. I'm thinking parts of this are going to end up in something else someday.
Ugly
Copyright © 2003 by Tippi N. Blevins. All Rights Reserved.
Eugene knew he was ugly.
There was no one part of him that, by itself, was unattractive, really. It was just the way it was all put together. Nothing matched anything else. He was tall, and clearly a grown man, but skinny like a kid who'd just hit puberty at 60 miles an hour. His elbows and knees were too big for his lanky arms and legs and his callused hands moved constantly, as if he just didn't know what to do with them. His full lower lip didn't match his upper lip, which was thin and pulled a little to one side from one too many badly healed splits. Even individual hairs on his head couldn't seem to get along, growing out at odd angles, butting up against each other in whorls and cowlicks. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of just shaving it all off and starting with a clean slate, but chances were pretty good the sides of his skull didn't match, either. When people looked at him, just strangers on the street or whatever, he could see it in their eyes: A kind of apologetic pity, like they were sorry for him, and then sorry for being sorry. He didn't mind it so much anymore. He gave himself the same look in the mirror every morning.
The only thing he had going for him, really, was an infallible sense of rhythm. He could dance. Something in those awkward limbs melted at the sound of music, any music. He could dance to the tinny crackle of elevator music the same as a Piazolla tango. It didn't matter to him any.
It didn't matter any to the ladies at the dance school, either, especially the ones who were old enough to have met their husbands at dances. That era had passed, pretty much, and it just wasn't the same as picking up someone who knew how to mash his groin against your own in a crowded nightclub. They didn't look at Eugene with apologies or pity, but with a kind of nostalgia. Like he was a treasure they'd lost a long time ago and they thought they'd never see again. He felt special when he danced with them. He felt a little bad stealing from them.
Just five or ten dollars here and there, sometimes a twenty if he really needed it. Some of them left the money poking up out of their purses when they went to the powder room, as if they knew he'd be taking it. Like they wanted to make it easier on him. He never took it all, of course. He didn't want to leave them stranded with no cab fare or anything.
He never took anything of sentimental value, either. There were ladies who'd left their rings on the piano when the weather made their fingers swell. Sometimes he took them if he knew they were newer. He wouldn't take jewelry their husbands had given them, even if they were long dead. Especially if they were long dead.
Eugene looked at himself in the mirror every morning. He wasn't that kind of ugly.
Yesterday and this morning, I was taken by an overwhelming urge to write these... well, I don't know what to call them. Not stories, not character sketches... Something. This is the one I wrote this morning. I'm thinking parts of this are going to end up in something else someday.
Copyright © 2003 by Tippi N. Blevins. All Rights Reserved.
Eugene knew he was ugly.
There was no one part of him that, by itself, was unattractive, really. It was just the way it was all put together. Nothing matched anything else. He was tall, and clearly a grown man, but skinny like a kid who'd just hit puberty at 60 miles an hour. His elbows and knees were too big for his lanky arms and legs and his callused hands moved constantly, as if he just didn't know what to do with them. His full lower lip didn't match his upper lip, which was thin and pulled a little to one side from one too many badly healed splits. Even individual hairs on his head couldn't seem to get along, growing out at odd angles, butting up against each other in whorls and cowlicks. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of just shaving it all off and starting with a clean slate, but chances were pretty good the sides of his skull didn't match, either. When people looked at him, just strangers on the street or whatever, he could see it in their eyes: A kind of apologetic pity, like they were sorry for him, and then sorry for being sorry. He didn't mind it so much anymore. He gave himself the same look in the mirror every morning.
The only thing he had going for him, really, was an infallible sense of rhythm. He could dance. Something in those awkward limbs melted at the sound of music, any music. He could dance to the tinny crackle of elevator music the same as a Piazolla tango. It didn't matter to him any.
It didn't matter any to the ladies at the dance school, either, especially the ones who were old enough to have met their husbands at dances. That era had passed, pretty much, and it just wasn't the same as picking up someone who knew how to mash his groin against your own in a crowded nightclub. They didn't look at Eugene with apologies or pity, but with a kind of nostalgia. Like he was a treasure they'd lost a long time ago and they thought they'd never see again. He felt special when he danced with them. He felt a little bad stealing from them.
Just five or ten dollars here and there, sometimes a twenty if he really needed it. Some of them left the money poking up out of their purses when they went to the powder room, as if they knew he'd be taking it. Like they wanted to make it easier on him. He never took it all, of course. He didn't want to leave them stranded with no cab fare or anything.
He never took anything of sentimental value, either. There were ladies who'd left their rings on the piano when the weather made their fingers swell. Sometimes he took them if he knew they were newer. He wouldn't take jewelry their husbands had given them, even if they were long dead. Especially if they were long dead.
Eugene looked at himself in the mirror every morning. He wasn't that kind of ugly.
