The Indelible Stamp

I have had a dream of eyebrows.

In this dream, I see only eyebrows, my eyebrows. I am looking into a mirror, but focused only on my eyebrows. They are magnified and in extreme detail. I am certain I have never looked at my eyebrows in as much detail as I have dreamed them. Now, having had this dream and having subsequently examined my eyebrows, I know that my subconscious mind has always known my eyebrows.

In this dream of eyebrows, I know that I am preparing for a normal day and it is morning. There are no clocks, nor daylight. I know that it is morning the way things are simply known in dreams. In this dream, I have the feeling of morning. In the morning of my dream, I can see clearly the shape of my eyebrows, the way they rest over my sockets. I cannot see my eyes. Neither can I see my forehead. But both are there, framing my eyebrows but just out of frame.

In the dream, my eyebrows betray no emotion, but only rest upon my face like a blank check waiting for the day’s charges to be filled in. I am surprised by the expressionlessness of my eyebrows because, in my dream, I am surprised by their uniformity and shapeliness; I expect to see surprise there, some betraying arch or furrow.

I stare at my eyebrows, noticing every hair and the way they all lie together as a team, no follicle nudging its hair out of step. They are well-shaped as men’s eyebrows go, with no errant hairs spreading to my eyelids at the outer ends. The inner ends, too, seem to form a clean row of roots like stalks of sunflowers all leaning towards my temples.

In this dream of eyebrows, I realize that they are my mother’s eyebrows. This is not to say that I realize that I am looking at my mother’s face and my mother’s literal eyebrows. Instead, in this dream, I am looking at my own eyebrows and realize they are my mother’s heritable eyebrows.

Had this dream ended there, I might have been able to discount it, dismiss it as one of those shocking and unpleasant dreams that rears its ugly head just before the alarm sounds. Instead, the dream persists. I continue to focus on my eyebrows, feeling their congenital weight.

I have always considered myself to be an individual of few expressions. On many occasions, in fact, my mother has made a point of criticizing this fact.

Upon receiving dark blazer from an uncle, “Harold! Show your uncle how much you love that color on you.”

Upon explaining my hopes of someday becoming a tailor, “It would iron the lines on my face if you would simply grin when being facetious, Harold.”

In general, my expressions are: watching, sleeping, confusion. Beyond this, I have never given my face much thought.

I am concerned about my eyebrows. I am concerned about my eyebrows because I am much accustomed to my mother’s eyebrows and the way they orchestrate the rest of her face. I have spent these last weeks photographing my mother, catching her unawares or much distressed. I have enlarged each photograph, caring only for the expressions. The walls of my bedroom have come to regard me with mixed emotions.

Here, both eyebrows arch sharply into central furrows, the outer edges sloping down towards the corners of the eyes. The furrows seem to pull the muscles of the nostrils, causing them to flare upwards. These eyebrows are displeased.

There, the left eyebrow, and only the left, seems to flatten itself out entirely like a miniature horizon as the eye sets below it. Meanwhile, the right eyebrow maintains it composure, holding its arched shape. The skin about the eyebrows is smooth on both sides, yet there is a distinct transition zone of tension in the expanse between. These eyebrows are disapproving.

Near the window, the eyebrows seem unattached to the musculature beneath, as if they were simply laid on the skin to rest a moment. Those muscles that would hold down the brows instead spend their time tightening the eyes and upper cheeks, pulling it all up into corners by the temples. Even the nose seems to be pulled higher, making use of those muscles freed by the eyebrow loss. These eyebrows are honest.

I am comfortable watching and sleeping. I am even comfortable with confusion, in as much as I have no particular sense of discomfort or shame when experiencing it. But what of these walls?

It may be the case that I have been experiencing this range of expression my entire life, never recognizing it for what it is. If this is so, there must be a stark disconnect between the way I understand myself to be and the way I am perceived by others. Up to this point, I would describe myself as a rather languid and level person; I have believed others would agree. But it could be that I am instead seen as a liar. I may have entertained countless conversations in which my face betrayed emotions that my words denied. This may be why I have only one friend.

On the other hand, it may be the case that I have only the potential to make these expressions, that my eyebrows are predators lying in wait. If this is the case, one day I will wake up with a stranger’s face. My expressions will be as jarring to others as they are to me. I may make the exaggerated expressions of a child, testing the limits of my expressions and their reception in social settings. But if my eyebrows suddenly switch on, my perspective will remain unchanged. My face will express things that I have not the emotional currency to support. This may prevent me from ever attracting another friend.

The therapist my mother sends me to is concerned about the photographs. At first, he was concerned that I had taken to spying on my mother, following her about and taking snapshots of her conducting her life. The unnatural interdependency between my mother and I had always worried him, he said. I explained that I continue to have no interest in my mother’s affairs. This generated quite a reaction from his eyebrows. I explained that the pictures were only of her eyebrows, that they were for study, and that they were all confined to the walls of my room. The therapist my mother sends me to then discussed, at great length, whether or not I felt my mother has an overbearing influence in my life.

I told him I am not concerned with my mother or her behavior. I am concerned with aspects of myself which are utterly beyond my control or hers, those things that are dictated by pedigree. There are countless choices to be made to divorce myself from my lineage. But not my eyebrows. Those will never be mine.

Credit Where It Is Due

In my excitement over my first friend, and after revisiting my description of finding her, I realize that I did not adequately explain the circumstances that lead to our meeting that Friday on a public bus. I must confess, I did not make this discovery myself. My mother, of all people, is to thank.

Today, being a Monday, I engaged in my usual Monday routine: I rose at 7:15am; I procured the honey from the kitchen and left tiny droplets of honey rain throughout the hallway before mother's room; I made coffee that I would not drink; I went to the gardens behind the house and sat for a think. My mother sauntered out later in the morning, dressed in her favorite St. John's suit. We regarded each other as best we could. By that, I mean that I stared past my mother and at her shoes, searching for evidence of a honey-sole attack. I also mean that my mother stood four feet away from me and examined by countenance for evidence of an improved attitude.

"Harold, I do wish you would hurry along and get to your bookstore." My mother has a particular disdain for public libraries or libraries of any sort, for that matter; she claims that knowledge is best left to those who have earned their way to leisure time spent reading.

That my mother thought to ask why I wasn't heading to the library on a Monday morning made it evident to me that my routines, though habitual to me, may be something of a mystery to others. The therapist my mother sends me to congratulated me on my insight and empathy. I am of the opinion it is best to be clear and thorough when describing one's routines, so as to discourage others from imploring schedule changes.

On Friday, as per my routine, I took the public bus to the main branch of the public library. On Fridays at one o’clock in the afternoon, the librarian holds a story hour for children on the first floor. Every week, a group of ten to fifteen children gather around on an uncomfortable looking carpet and listen while the librarian reads to them. Mothers and nannies are sprinkled about, some listening to the story, others taking the opportunity to seek out their own reading material. There are always new faces at these story hours, but there are also a number of regular ones.

One such regular face is that of a boy who looks to be seven or eight at the most. This boy’s name is Thomas. I first became a regular observer of the Friday story hour because of Thomas. When I first happened upon Thomas, he was wearing a loudly patterned cable-knit sweater and dark corduroy pants. In all the times I have visited Friday story hour, Thomas has always been in attendance, sitting quietly and politely towards the back of the group. I have never seen any evidence that Thomas is accompanied by anyone on these Fridays.

The first Friday that I took note of the story hour, the librarian had just finished reading something like The Story of Ping; I only overheard the very end of the tale, but I am certain that it involved a duck. The story had only just ended, and children were milling about waiting to be claimed by their responsible parties. Only Thomas stood his ground, waiting for a path to clear to the librarian. He approached her as a lawyer might a witness on the stand.

“I have some questions about that story, please.” Only after having watched Thomas approach this woman countless times since then am I now able to identify why I was so fascinated by Thomas on that first afternoon. Thomas makes direct eye contact with the adults he addresses, a feat that I am not often able to accomplish myself.

The librarian, on that afternoon when I first saw Thomas, seemed accustomed to this line of questioning. She pursed a tight smile, a move that emphasized the fact that she has no smile wrinkles to speak of. Her mouth and its surrounding terrain are smooth as porcelain, as if she spent her life at library volume and has never partaken much in any sort of decisive emotion whatsoever. She sat down wearing the book as a shield and faced Thomas.

In all the weeks that I have been coming to the Friday story hour, I have seen this pattern play out again and again. Thomas listens intently to the story. The children leave. The librarian waits. Thomas begins his questioning. Thomas’ questions often surprise me, mostly because I know very little about children and their capacity for reason. Thomas will ask the librarian questions such as: Why would the duck choose to stray from his family and friends when he already knows that there is danger beyond his pond? Does it seem reasonable to you that the brave prince would spend twenty years seeking one of countless princesses in all the lands?

As much as I am impressed by these questions, the librarian always seems rather put out by having to answer them. If I could hazard a guess, I would suspect that Thomas’ parent or parents are scholarly types, possibly even professors of literature; if I could hazard another guess, I would suspect that the librarian majored in Library Science and not Literature precisely to avoid having to answer these sorts of questions about the books she so meticulously shelves.

Thomas is not my friend. He is only a boy whom I have grown to enjoy watching. But it is because of Thomas that I met my friend. Had it not been for Thomas and his persistent questioning, I would never have been on the bus that day, never would have seen the homeless TV Guide aficionado, and never would have met my friend. In a way, I owe a great deal to Thomas.

I have decided to honor Thomas in some small part of my own, a homage to he would brought about my first friendship. Today, I approached the gardener and looked him plainly in the face. I met his eyes, which I learned today are crusted about the corners and seem to crack along the surface for moisture. I met those Saharan eyes and bid him a fair day. Every other Monday when the gardener comes to visit our home, I will make a point of looking him plainly in the eyes and speaking to him.

While the gesture may be slight, it requires my utmost dedication, perseverance, and reverence. If friendships have their thorns, then this will my part towards pruning its hedges. Every other Monday now belongs to Thomas.

It might do me well to stop burying the skeletal remains of our roasted fowl dinners beneath the tulip bed.

Close Your Eyes and Think of Me

I found my friend this Labor Day weekend.

I was riding the bus on Friday, taking my usual route to the library, to watch the children's story hour. Or, to be more precise, to watch a boy named Thomas question the librarian after the children's story hour. On the bus, there was an able-bodied homeless man who was sitting towards the front in a section clearly marked Handicapped Only. The man was reading a TV Guide and chuckling to himself with some regularity. The man was unquestionably homeless, but he wasn’t bothering anyone. He just sat, enjoying his TV Guide immensely.

I sat watching this man for several stops before I noticed the girl sitting ahead of me was also watching him. She seemed to enjoy watching this homeless man as much I was did. She turned and looked at me, shrugging.

“I could watch that man all day,” she said. Then she pulled the stop cord, got up, and hopped off the bus.

I was surprised to hear her make that comment because I had only just thought the same thing myself when she spoke. She was an adorable girl, not in a sexually attractive sense but in the utterly platonic sense. This girl was adorable the way a kitten or duckling might be adorable. She had a round face with tight dark curls hanging down just below her ears. Her eyes were small, squinted, and framed with dark eyelashes. She had an unnaturally wide mouth that made her smile take over her face. As she got up to leave the bus, I noticed she carried a worn shoulder bag that carried a equally worn journal with heavily crinkled pages; it was evident from only a glance that this journal had been thoroughly soaked at some point, but its owner had decided to let it dry and continue on. She was also wearing a plain, white tee shirt with a single word printed on it, in a simple black font.

YES.

My first thought was that the shirt might be a Yoko Ono reference. My second thought was that the period on her shirt made it complete, that the shirt would definitely be the lesser without the punctuation. I was so taken by this girl on the bus that I followed her off the bus, four stops from my destination at the library.

The longer I watched this girl, the more I enjoyed her. She was a tourist, that much was clear. She had a large folding map with exaggerated illustrations of the local points of interest. She frequently asked for clarification from the passing strangers on the street. I was most impressed that she seemed to experience no shame or hesitation with her tourism, freely displaying her map to all the world and approaching others as if they had been old friends. I envied her immediately.

After half an hour of walking about, she entered an Indian restaurant that boasted an all-you-can-eat buffet lunch for $7.99. The host tried to seat her by the front window, but she requested a table for one at the back end of the restaurant, right outside the kitchen, and out of the direct footpath of the buffet. I must admit that I was relieved she asked for the table away from the window. With her sitting at such a distance, I was able to watch her have lunch from the street, standing right outside the window. Had she been seated by the window, I would have had to have lunch at the restaurant myself and, I admit, I am a bit of a coward when it comes to foods I am unfamiliar with.

I am ashamed to admit that the foods that I am familiar with are primarily those that my mother has prepared for me or ordered for me at various dinner functions. These foods include, but are not exclusive to: prime rib, roast leg of lamb, potatoes au gratin, baked Alaska, rice pilaf, and Yorkshire pudding. Outside of these and similar culinary arenas, I have always felt the slightest sense of apprehension.

What delighted me most about this girl's lunch was simply that she watched her fellow diners. She helped herself to a plate from the buffet, then proceeded to nibble at it as she watched others. At first, she watched a heavy set man with a red face make his way through the buffet line, using two plates to accommodate his appetite. She had a look of serenity about her while she watched this man, vicariously enjoying his enjoyment of the all-you-can-eat buffet.

Next, she watched a young couple chat over their lunches. They seemed to talk seamlessly, one partner's dialog running without interruption into the other's. I could see the girl's eyes bounce back and forth between them, following the verbal volley. I am certain that she, like me, was amazed that there are those people in the world, those people who have found the way to take jarring and halting stops out of conversations.

She ate only half her lunch, left a cash tip on the table, and came back out onto the street. She walked right past me, taking luxurious breaths of the afternoon air and walking down the block. The girl has an unusual gait that I had trouble defining at first. But as we walked through the downtown area, I realized that her shoes were too large for her feet, creating something of a floppy clown's walk.

I was elated when she turned towards and then entered the main branch of the public library. Not only was I following the most intriguing person I have come across in all my life, but she was heading to my favorite Friday afternoon haunt.

As we crossed the lobby, I could see that the children's story hour was wrapping up. Without a second thought, I followed the girl up to the second floor where the periodicals are kept. She walked briskly up and down the aisles of Recent Periodicals and swept up a copy of The New Yorker with her left hand without missing a step. She gave the distinct impression that she had come to the library with no agenda whatsoever but to pick up an interesting read and enjoy the afternoon; simultaneously, she also gave off the distinct impression that, while she was a tourist to this library, she had no doubt she would find her periodical of choice effortlessly. She made her way to the cushioned armchairs near the second floor windows, kicked off her over-sized shoes, and nestled down to read her magazine.

My mother has always held a firm stance on The New Yorker. It is her view that news magazines, by and large, are vulgar and editorial. However, a news magazine that fills its pages with fiction and cartoons clearly does not spend sufficient energy gathering the news before going to press.

Once, at a dinner party, my mother made this very point and another guest argued that The New Yorker provided the world's news in its larger cultural context, each issue acting as a reflection of the Western sentiment as a whole. Mother said nothing, but never invited that man to dinner again, claiming he was an Exeter mind in a Harvard suit.

The therapist my mother sends me to asked me what I thought mother meant by that comment. I advised him to never pursue that line of questioning with my mother.

That afternoon at the library, I sat at a study table watching this girl read. She would stop every so often, gazing out the window to the concourse level, then jot a few notes in her water-damaged journal, then continue reading. We were there for over an hour before I decided to approach her. First, I waited for a moment after she'd finished her jotting but before she moved back to reading; I know I would prefer to meet a friend when I was not in mid-thought.

"Is that a Yoko Ono reference?" I spoke at a regular volume and startled her, to say nothing of the irritated and shushing patrons.

"I'm sorry?"

"Is your shirt a reference to the Yoko Ono ceiling? The one with the ladder you climbed up all the way to the ceiling, to read only 'YES'?"

The girl smiled and tucked her feet under her body on the chair.

"Right now," she said, "that is what it means. By tomorrow, of course, it may be something entirely different." She smiled at me again.

"Harold," I offered.

"It may mean something very different tomorrow then, Harold. That's why I love this shirt."

She went back to reading The New Yorker. I took the bus home.

The therapist my mother sends me to was quick to point out that I may never see this girl again, that I failed to initiate a relationship because I did not sit and talk with her. I told him friends often drop each other quick notes or calls just to keep in touch. I pointed out that companies like Hallmark have made their empires on it. Friendship, I told him, should not be measured by the length of its conversations.

The therapist my mother sends me to pointed out that I failed to get her number or address, so my seeing her again is subject utterly to chance. I told him that many friends go years without seeing each other or communicating at all, but remain friends. In fact, all of my mother's closest and lifelong friends are those whom she sees most infrequently. He thought the better of commenting on that point. I could tell.

I told my therapist that as far as I'm concerned, and my concerns are the only concerns that concern me and ought to be the only concerns which concern him when he is working with me, a friend is someone with common interests, who challenges you to act outside of your routine, and whom you think of with some regularity and fondness. My concern with finding a friend was the only concern I came to him with. This girl and I meet all of these criteria to my mind. We both watch people. She got me to alter my Friday afternoon routine. She will think of me when she wears that shirt because I spoke to her, and I will think of her at the library because she spoke to me. This girl and I, I told my therapist, are friends.

The therapist my mother sends me to told me this girl could not be my friend because I do not even know her name.

I took a taxi home and thought about my first friend.