The Ugly Find Beauty

I was sitting in this run down local café, pretending to read a paper, as I sipped from a cracked coffee cup a dark bitter liquid that passed for coffee in the dump. My eye had taken interest in a strangely unattractive man sitting at the bar. He could have been a catch back in his prime age. Time and gravity, however, had transformed him into something resembling a basset hound. He had no wedding band. I assumed he had probably never been married. Old and lonely. I could relate. I was on the verge of being forty, and still I had never married.

Lost in my thoughts, a strange cacophony startled me from my musings. I glanced around, perplexed when I realized, or so it seemed, no one in the café heard the awful noise. The screeching slowly resolved itself into an intoxicating melody. By this time, I had lost interest in my people watching, and I decided to find the source of this mysterious siren song. The notes floated on the air high and low, forming a tangible ribbon of sound that drew me along the almost abandoned street. I arrived at an alley way cloaked in late afternoon shadows. The music was emanating from a cavernous opening that resembled a garage door. Darkness engulfed me as I walked through the entrance. Slowly my eyes adjusted, and I realized I was standing backstage in some sort of theater. Once I rounded the corner, I saw a dozen or more musicians warming up for a performance. The theatre was empty with the exception of trollish men playing a beautiful jazz tune and a couple swaying in ecstasy to the music on a dimly lit stage in front of a red curtain.

I had been in such a dreamlike state, I had given no thought to the several cups of coffee I had consumed earlier. Feeling the irresistible call of nature, I decided to find the ladies’ room. After washing my hands, I examined myself in the cloudy antique mirror. I stared at my reflection, admiring my long and shiny blonde hair. Hair that would make any woman jealous. I applied red lipstick to my pouty lips and fixed a fake eyelash that was beginning to fall away at the corner of my eye with some glue. I always carry glue in my purse. I readjusted my black strapless cocktail dress. I smiled at the newly purchased diamonds that adorned my neck. I had felt severely overdressed at the café, but this seemed like a place where people would appreciate class. Upon exiting the restroom, I noticed a small man standing by the front entrance of the theatre, and I inquired if it would be permissible for me to stay and watch the performance. With a quick grin and a bow, the little man ushered me to a seat in the front row of the theatre, then dashed off. He came back with trays of fine cheeses, caviar, and expensive wines.

After a few glasses of a French red older than me, I found myself lost in the loveliness of what was taking place on stage. A woman wearing a beautiful red silk frock with matching red kitten heels sashayed back and forth in front of me with such elegance. As she turned and her face caught a glimmer of light, I realized brown curly hair had been hiding the face of a rat. The dancing woman had beady eyes, a large snout like nose, and protruding teeth that looked like they were made for gnawing wood. Her partner was equally repulsive. A single tuft of jet-black hair was positioned spot center on his shiny head. Like the woman, he also had the teeth of a beaver. On his large dimpled nose, stood the most revolting wart I have ever set eyes on. Even sitting in the audience, I could see that prickly black hairs grew from the abomination. He wore a fine black tuxedo and red bowtie. Despite their hideous faces, I found watching the way they moved so gracefully to the music, laughing and whispering in one another’s ears as they danced, entrancing. I stayed there until the lovely couple exited the stage, and the lights were turned off. I rose from my seat, buzzing from the wine and humming a much less elegant version of the pianist’s piece.

Feeling the effects of both the wine and music, I floated out of the front entrance and pulled my cigarette case from my black designer clutch. I fumbled through my purse searching for a lighter. Spying a bench across the street, I strolled over, took a seat, and dumped the contents of my purse on the seat beside me. As I was sifting through the pile of change, makeup, old tissue, and other pieces of crumpled paper, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. I looked up to see a plump little man walking towards me. A hat shaded his face.

“Could I offer you a light, ma’am?” he asked as he struck a match.

My cigarette fell from my lips as I muttered a tipsy, “huh?” He picked it up for me, lit it, and then placed it in my mouth. As his fingers grazed my lips, I felt a bit faint.

“Morton Grimes m’lady.” He extended his hand. “You know a lady as beautiful as you should not be alone in this part of the city.”

I told him my name was Greta as he helped me gather my belongings and put them back into my purse. He sat down next to me, and we began to have a conversation. He was an insurance salesperson. Divorced, with no children, he lived alone. Just he and his cat, Larry. He told me about his apartment down the street, deemed himself the best cook in Boston, and asked me if I would join him at his place for some fine dining. That must have been some strong wine in the theatre because I said yes.

Morton prepared the finest home cooked meal I have ever tasted. After a feast of roast lamb, we found ourselves slowly dancing around the living room. Silky string music drifted from an antique record player sitting on his end table. By then the alcohol was wearing off, but I was enjoying myself thoroughly. I thought back to the couple dancing on stage and while not as graceful this dance was wonderful. The music and motion relaxed the last of my inhibitions and we made our way to the bed.

Morton and I were awoken by the sound of a screeching alarm outside his window. Morton scratched at his thin gray hair, and tiny flecks of dandruff fell to the dingy white pillow beneath him. With a pat to his large round stomach, he flung his stubby legs over the bed. Morton heaved himself from bed, fumbled around in a knee- high pile of dirty clothes, and caught hold of two ratty socks. He pulled them onto his shriveled old feet. He clumsily reached for his glasses and put on the spectacles with lenses so thick he looked cross-eyed when he placed them on his head. Morton looked at me with his artificial bug eyes. I looked at him and his apartment. No one had really cleaned in months or years. The whole place had an old musty odor, like a flooded basement. Not at all the place I remembered from the previous night.

“Breakfast, darling?” Morton cooed.

For a moment I froze. Had I woken up in this situation yesterday morning, I would have instantly panicked, rushed out the door, gone home and blamed the alcohol. Today, however, the details that would normally repulse me held a certain charm.

“Sure that sounds lovely Mort,” I said as crawled out of bed and pulled on the same dress I had worn the night before.

“How do you like your eggs?” Mort called from the kitchen.

“Over easy,” I replied as I sat on the edge of the worn out bed in a shabby apartment, wondering why I was feeling this strange affection for this jolly little man. No one would call him physically attractive. Hell, not even twenty hours ago, I was comparing a man to a basset hound while I drank my coffee. Honestly, at that time, given the choice, I would have picked the dog from the café. Yet here I was enjoying breakfast with Morton.

“Last night was really something, huh?” Morton looked at me with a twisted smirk on his face. He catered to my every need, treating me with a kindness this city had not shown me in years. He talked at length about my beauty, and when I removed my blonde wig, revealing my balding head for the first time outside of the privacy of my home, he only smiled.

“You’re lovely Greta.”

“Sorry for the deception. I battled cancer for two years and it still hasn’t grown back.”

“I understand why you did it, but you never have to be anything but yourself around me.”

I was genuinely touched. “That might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me, Mort.”

Once we finished our coffee, I thanked Mort for a lovely evening and gave him my number. I started my walk to the train station still thinking of Mort and the eccentric show. Thinking back on the dancing couple, I realized that love not money, is truly what made the ugly beautiful. I decided to walk by the theater and see if when the next performance was. When I arrived, however the place was completely deserted.