Guest Book

This is a story from Steve Martin; I read it a few years ago. I remembered it yesterday--thought I would post it. Michael Jackson's Old Face by Steve Martin The things I could have said! I would have loved being at a dinner party years from now,cocking an eyebrow at an old friend,while an invited guest whispered some choice gossip. I would have loved sending a silent message about someone I work with, by glancing down.a quiet smile breaking at the corners of my mouth,or by a tiny disapproving shake of the head. As my talent shifts in strength from year to year,I would have loved showing a wise acceptance of my successes and failures, with nothing more than a simple look. I would have liked entering a room and acknowledging an acquaintance with a nod,or snubbing an enemy,or withering a bitter critic with my indifferance. Luckily, I am able to have lunch once a week, at Jones' Grill on Melrose, with Walter Matthau's face and imagine how things might have been. Walter orders paradoxically, and his eyes shine as he looks over to include me in the joke. He then brings a smile to his face,which creeps irresistibly over onto the waiter's face, and the waiter then shuffles his feet and returns to Walter a sly look of respect. I order coldly, free of nuance. I have a salad. Walter's face understands my problem,so he doesn't demand much. I tell my tales in my midwestern style,sometimes choosing the right word,sometimes not finding them.but always unable to fill them in,to color them,to give them the triple-layered meaning or send them to him with a shimmer and a spin. But Walter's face doesn't mind; he accents the words for me,reacts for me illustrating the expressions that are just out of my reach. After a drink, Walter's face reminisces; his eyes fill,and a potential tear decides whether to let go. Finally, the weight of the water pulls it down the craggy slopes, where it dissolves into a hundred rivulets. My own sympathetic tear never hesitates;it speeds down along the Teflon and lands on nothing except the hard Formica tabletop. But Walter knows what I mean. Later, I walk to my car,where my people wait,unable to interpret my mood,offering me things I don't want,not reading in my face that I would like to be alone. That night, I lie behind my new face,speaking to it. It listens,but it can't say much back, Sometimes I feel a muscle twitching in response,reaching back toward me, trying to speak. I listen carefully, as Walter would, to expressionless lips whispering, " What will I tell my child! How, when I'm dying and unable to speak, will I look into his eyes and say I love you?" In my dream that night, I see the image of serenity crossing my face, softening the mask. I sit and drink tea. My old face looks out the window and sees Walter, who signals approval with a fleshy smile. I stand; my pain moves up from my heart and onto my face and dissipates. Then the happiness comes; next, the grief; then the joy. They all come up from the center, leaving traces of themselves in my brow, the corners of my mouth and eyes, my lips--and so revealing my character. I wake, momentarily feeling whole, but then I remember: The face reveals the heart, but sometimes it's easier to change the face. (From Steve Martin's book, Pure Drivel) Good-bye, Michael.