Star Scene/Scar Scene

INT.—DAY—Small Apartment

It was a dark and stormy night. The umbrellas were out but it didn’t matter because he was smoking in the shower.

If lunch didn’t come any earlier, he might shave with a ham sandwich. Extra mustard.

His palms were sweaty in anticipation of the noon train. Something was due on that train that he anticipated.

He had superglued all of his throwing stars to the wall so he would always know where they were.

He wondered why we only have one record of King Solomon’s wisdom.

Thinking about the train, he absent-mindedly picked the throwing stars up off the coffee table and hailed a cab. The cab driver looked exactly like David Lee Roth, so he threw him an extra twenty. All the way there he found himself humming “Everybody Wants Some” but no one threw him any money. To make matters worse, he stepped in gum as he was climbing the steps to the FBI building where he worked. He quickly slipped on a hat and a mustache so no one would recognize him entering the building in his long black overcoat, trench coat, and business suit straight from the Lapel Brothers tailor shop over on fifteenth where that donut shop was with the cute gal who always gave him a free maple-hole-cluster with his coffee and a toothbrush, but it was like a twenty minute drive over there—six minutes if he drove his Maserati—so he decided to catch the train, since he needed time to think about all the events leading up to the accident.

The scar was under his hairline, so no one ever seemed to notice, except when it itched and he needed to scratch it. There were times when he really missed his left hand, especially when he had to scratch that scar with his toes, but his feet were ambidextrous so he didn’t worry about it unless he had the shoes with no velcro.

Velcro bugged him, the way it sounded when it was repeatedly ripped apart, like duct tape ripped off a hairy leg. And there was never anyone there to cry out, or at least no one there to cry to.

He was lonely. He had to admit it to himself.

If that face in the mirror wasn’t bad enough. . . it had to talk back to him. It would tell him, no, it would insist that he go to the train station and pick up the package deliverable upon receipt. It was a risky business, but he had to try. . . for Olga’s sake.