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He hadn’t always been handsome — indeed,
until the age of 15 he was average-looking — but then Tony
“Mole” McMurphy set him straight. Mole was called
“Mole” because he looked like a mole, and yet the girls hung on
him like ornaments on a Christmas tree.
“How is that?” asked the average-looking
boy. “Because I’m handsome,” Mole said. “Handsome?” said the average boy.
“You’re more rodent than human.”
“But I think I’m handsome,” said Mole. The average-looking boy thought about it — and
immediately became a handsome man, perhaps the handsomest man who ever
lived.
His newfound handsomeness wound up saving him plenty
of cash and discomfort over the years. For example, the handsomest man who
ever lived didn’t need to spend money on fashionable clothes. He
needed only one fashion — comfortable and baggy — although his
wife thought otherwise.
They have been together for 25 years. At the
beginning he would outfit himself and she’d say, “Where do you
think you’re going dressed like that?” In the middle years she refined it to simply
“No!” Now, after 25 years, they just cut to the chase.
Their routine is well honed. On this evening
they’re heading to the ladies’ book club’s annual
wine-and-cheese party. Husbands are invited. He’s sitting on the edge
of the bed in his underwear, waiting for his wife to pick out his clothes
for the occasion. He’s not good at clothes. He doesn’t recall
ever buying clothes on purpose.
They go through their customary negotiations. Good wife: But you look so handsome in your
turtleneck sweater. Handsome man: I look handsome anyway, no matter what
I wear — and turtleneck sweaters “bunch” me; they make me
uncomfortable. They compromise, and he is especially comfortable
with the shoes they have chosen. The high-top sneakers are out, but so are
the stiff new loafers. The shoes he wears are relaxed. Good wife: I wish you would have gotten a haircut.
Handsome man: You didn’t tell me to get
a
haircut.
He’s not good at hair. He doesn’t recall
ever getting a haircut on purpose. When he was single, he didn’t go
to barbers. When his hair fell into his eyes, he’d cut it off with a
knife — and, because of his handsome condition, it was good enough. There’s no danger of hair falling in his eyes
anymore, unless one of the 12 strands left, clinging to life on the far
back of his head detaches and magically floats to his eyeball. Nonetheless,
the 12 strands are handsome strands, very handsome, maybe the handsomest
strands ever on an otherwise bald bean. The social affair: The table full of wines and
cheeses runs the length of the room. They are medium-cost wines and
cheeses, he thinks, but he doesn’t know for sure — he’s
not good at wines and cheeses. He doesn’t recall ever buying wine or
cheese on purpose. He tried some expensive wine once, at a wedding, but it
didn’t fit him. It was probably because his handsomeness caused him
to be low-maintenance, not only in clothes but also in food and drink. And then he sees it, there at the end of the table
full of wine and cheese: a bottle of Ripple. Someone has brought it as a
joke. As you might suspect, the handsome man, because of his
low-maintenance condition, would like some Ripple. It would go well with
some Spam, he thinks, Spam fried up as he likes it, with slightly burnt
edges. Nice people here; conversations about new books and
politics are everywhere. But the handsome man reads only old books, the
classics, and he has no interest in politics, except for its entertainment
value. Right now he is rereading the classic Bat
Boy Lives!, which he found at the
grocery-store checkout. No one here is familiar with the story.
And his first attempt at conversation, about how well
turtleneck sweaters hide turkey-skin necks, causes the two fellows he is
talking to step back. He intends it to be funny, because he himself has a
turkey neck, albeit a handsome turkey neck, a very handsome turkey neck,
maybe the handsomest turkey neck that every flopped down. He’s not an intentionally insensitive man, so
he tries another topic: “I’m not a wine drinker, not that
there’s anything wrong with wine drinkers. It’s just that I
wouldn’t want one in a foxhole with me.”
The two other men in turtlenecks take their
wineglasses to the next room. It’s a slow-moving evening, and the handsome
man spends most of it going from room to room and watching as each room he
enters politely empties out. His wife stays in the den, discussing Doris
Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals with an attentive crowd.
All the people here are of a certain age, so the
party ends at 10 p.m. Good wife (on their ride home): I was thinking of a
late-night snack when we get home — maybe fry up some Spam. Handsome man: With burnt edges? Good wife: Of course! And you look very handsome in
your turtleneck sweater. Handsome man: I know.
Contact Doug Bybee Sr. at dougbybee@sbcglobal.net.
This article appears in Jul 19-25, 2007.
