Talkshow

At the time of the accident, Daniel “Boneface” Baker was only four-years-old; wearing red shorts and suspenders. He was playing on the front lawn. He didn’t know that when he went to pick up the Frisbee he’d just thrown it would cause him to brush up against a man on a ladder. But as he lay in the yard, momentarily catatonic in the early morning sun, his only thought was “I am dead.”
His parents were able to sue the worker who they’d hired to etch the window of their humble clerestory (as a result of his haphazard handling of his hydrochloric acid) but even the lifetime financial freedom did nothing for the bleached and sickening appearance of Daniel’s face.
In time, namely after the passing of his disfigured adolescence and acceptance of his new nick-name, he was resigned to living as an emotionless shell. This was partly in fact because his lack of facial muscles and subsequent stone like demeanor.

On a particular summer day in 1997, Boneface, then 29, was sitting inside his condo watching a locally produced afternoon talk show. The subject was bland and involved fathers. Boneface could have cared less. He was waiting on groceries to arrive, as they had every week since he’d moved into the condo, at 3 o’clock; the ending time of the program. Oh, how he loved TV and groceries.
As the sob stories continued, Boneface stared on. At the show’s conclusion, as the overly-tanned host announced the next day’s topic, Boneface took notice: Modern Day Freaks. He almost let himself get mad about the topic, but then remembered that it was probably just what people wanted to see.
When the groceries arrived, he set about the task of putting them away and deciding what to eat. His mother was still responsible for ordering his groceries. This meant that every time there was sure to be some subtle surprises included. Some weeks it was a new kind of cereal, or yogurt, this week it was a medium-sized bag of apples, a pan, and pie-crust. Thus, Boneface took the cue and called his mother who walked him through the steps of baking a pie.
He waited for a little while until the kitchen began to get hot and the smell of burnt sugar, and when the time came, he took out a mitt and bent down to remove his treat. As had happened so many times before in the past years, he went about this task reflectively; staring into the waves of the open oven and wondering what it would be like if he turned off the pilot and let himself drift. But, as was always the case, he resigned himself to his task, removed the pie, and sat it on the counter.
After a time, he removed a knife from one of the kitchen drawers and scored the pie. He took a slice and returned to his indentation on the couch. With the first bite his naïve excitement faded. The food he so longed for tasted like nothing; again. He finished the pie in silence, and called his mother to thank her. She didn’t know that he couldn’t taste because, while he had no emotions to speak of, he still felt compassion for the few who’d cooked for him.

As the afternoon gave way to the stars from beyond his patio, Boneface stood at the glass door and gazed out, ignoring his reflection. He liked to watch the people come and go from the building. For most, he even made up stories about who they were and where they were going. But tonight was different, and he could only watch.
When it was time to apply his nightly ointment, he pulled a chair to the window. It was the same as usual: the TV humming in the background, and people with appearances to keep up going about their duties. Boneface thought to exhibit jealously over their good fortune, but he realized that this would involve effort, and was not worth the time. “It’s not so bad” he thought. “A nice place. Too many people to bother with. money…this is my work.”

His face twitched, attempting astonishment, at a scene unfolding below as a white town car unloaded its passengers: a ravishing young woman, and the tanned TV talk-show host from the program he’d seen that afternoon. He watched them enter the building, and he pulsed with excitement that the host--his host-- was in the building. He wanted to meet the man who he’d watched for so many years; the man who told him so much about human suffering. He rose again from his chair, and took his medication with a hearty four fingers of port on the side. This made him feel warm, and alone, and in need of something. So many nights in his life he had felt this sensation. This ritual always put him in just the right state of wrong.

Within an hour he’d had a few more drinks, cleaned and concealed his pie knife, and was stumbling through the halls. As he wandered he imagined the things he would say or do if he saw him. By then, he was in a mild rage about tomorrow’s topic and unashamed to be seen by the public. He wasn’t thinking about his looks, he was thinking about finding the host and asking what he thought about “freaks,” really.

To his drunken amazement, he was given this chance earlier than expected. On the third floor, around the first corner, by the elevator, the host stood, lip-locked and disheveled with his companion. He watched on with astonishment as the two gradually took notice of his presence.

“Can we help you with something, buddy?” the host called down the hall.

Boneface stood silently, perhaps star-struck by this acknowledgment and, for some reason, fuming.

“I jus wanen to aks chu abou c’her take on ‘dis freaks.” He said, lacking all eloquence and elocution.

“What? Get the fuck out of here freak.” The host’s face contorted “Go!”

Daniel remembered with his palm why he’d brought the knife. Tonight he was fated to make a difference for everyone like himself. Tonight he would make the host’s next show for him. Then he’d finally try on the oven for size.