Facial Grafitti

Last time my face oozed, these contraptions

were my "cell phone."

"You're bleeding," the passenger told me as he boarded.

"You should see the other guy," I responded. Outwardly, I shrugged. As soon as he walked down the aisle, I checked the mirror like a teenager primping for the prom. Yeah, I was. Bloody, that is.

I was bleeding? Okay. No altercations had erupted, and for once I hadn't run face-first into a sharp corner. What could that be?

At the next long stoplight, I explored as closely as I could without arousing passenger interest. Luckily for me, they were telefixed as usual. A convex mirror makes close facial examination difficult. I could tell however, there was a trail of blood and oil on my passenger side cheek. It couldn't erupt under my facial scruff. No. It appeared, in the zenith of my 50s, on this still-youthful face, a malady last visited upon me decades earlier. Point-blank above the beard-line on my cheek bone.

It was a zit. Big one. Oozing that oily concoction that usually appeared before a teen date. I hadn't noticed it earlier after showering. My pre-workday toilette is standard and well-practiced. Brush hair for the first and only time of the day. Scrub teeth. Throw on some smell-goods. There's usually no need to even look at my face, let alone study it. That's for young or vain people, I reason. My face isn't much to look at, and I've long-since past needing to primp. My wife loves me just the way I am. Gonna get that girl an eye exam soon, poor thing.

At my layover, a closer examination revealed the classic pimple. It had come on quickly and built quite a head. Reminded me of the Everest of a nose projection I sported as a 14-year-old. That one erupted in a stream that laid greasy trails upon my mother's bathroom mirror. This one was angry, including blood in its nasty brew.

I take pride in my professional appearance. Shirt tucked in neatly, nothing untidy on my bus or person. For three days last week however, everyone who boarded was accosted by a dime-sized mess on my face. It was embarrassing, especially when it oozed goo. Didn't shave for a few days because of it, and when the whiskers were too noticeably grubby above the beard line, my razor scraped the puss bucket and created a mess anew.

It's now fading, and that feels better. Although I hardly resemble a teenager any more, the feelings associated with acne came back for a visit. Now it's a bit humorous, and that shame has been pushed back into the past along with everything else best left in the 70s. Let it smolder with the shudder-worthy music I hated then and still dislike now. KC and the Sunshine Band can keep my zit memories. Maybe it's time to allow my inner Grizzly Adams to take over...