Monday, March 8: She came back home today. She was—no other word—stunning. I stood there. Stunned. She’s taller now, about three inches, maybe more. She—blossoms. The figure is superb, yes, but slimmer than she was. The breasts are smaller, but even so, somehow, oh, indescribable. That face. My girl. And dark hair now, very dark, no more that golden blonde—and dark eyes that glow and a sharp-pointed nose—seen in profile—but that didn’t take long, we had no time for profile, we were in bed and there I lay with this slim lovely dark-haired pointy-nosed doll—absolutely beautiful, and all that was still Myra, my Myra, all that was still the old Myra was that same soft squeaky voice, the only thing unchanged, and so we lay side by side talking and, old friend, it’s been a rare day. A different woman. But only on the outside. The same voice—in the dark it was the same soft gentle Myra’s voice, but even in the dark they were not her breasts, and that rattled me, must admit. I was making love to my woman, but—in the dark—to new and lovely breasts. Oh, it has been a magnificent job they did. She looks at herself in the mirror now and admires herself; she’s wanted to be narrower now for a long time, and she seems much happier now, dazzled, and so the surgery is complete and the job is acceptable. She’s not really very different—not really: It’s still my Myra there—well, at least partly internally mine—and what it was was only delicate surgery on the face, and more extensive work on the legs and breasts, and so on, but none of that changes Myra. Not really. It’s only the mechanical parts, really—Myra’s tools, as they say—and it’s rather pleasant to think that anybody can have that done now any way he wants it—trade in your hand for a new one, lungs this year, kidneys the next—now even the face and hair—but I’m a bit behind the times. I’ve never changed much myself—well, yes, new hand once, long ago, forgot all about that, but only a hand, never anything like—my face.
Gives a man pause.
Women do it all the time now, but they usually look, well, similar. But my Myra now is different. When I woke just a while ago, next to that dark radiant girl—well, must be me. Old-fashioned. The Quiet Man. But—she was gorgeous. And we went right back to it again. But there was something—in the bright light—I have to get used to. She was not—that body. So. Well. Nothing has really changed. But I lay in bed watching her. And she moved from the bed in a different way. I was watching—something strange. Well. Remember: it’s—exciting. In a few weeks we’ll be in tune again. I just have to get over the shock. You’re an oldie, Mac. Maybe it’s the dark hair? Well. Minor change. We’ll see.
Saturday, March 13: She’s gone off with a new one. For the nite. Okay, write it down. We’ve always been open with this stuff but—she says it’s a new world. I thought it was only a new face. But she says, for Chrissake, she feels that she’s been “born again.” Wonder if the new world includes me. Hell. A flingo. All the girls—their lives depend so much on what they look like. But Myra—changed? No. Not possible. After all those years. Fling, and come back. I wait. And we’ll share it all, the future, the present.
Monday, March 15: Didn’t come back. No phone call. Well. Fling for a few days. Man tells her over and over again how beautiful she is. As they always do. Nowadays, Mac, all the girls are lovely. Nothing special. If they don’t like the face, why not change it? But that doesn’t change the girl—Can’t.
Friday, March 19: Myra left today. Will live with the other chap. I don’t know his name.
She came by. She was so—clean. Hair black and glistening and shiny. She called me “dear” as she does talking to little boys. Will always look back on those days of our youth. But now the new man calls to her. Name is John Something. Love at first sight. She says that’s true—there really is love at first sight. And she’s stepped through the Looking Glass—into the other world. She said: “Mac, I’m not the same> Things are just…different. People treat me, well, they look at me. And I thought that was only because of the new face, not much like the old, but no—you see, people I’ve known, not even old friends, suddenly want to know me better. This man—he says he looked at me, and I was suddenly—the most valuable thing in the world.”
Self swore. Naturally. Words. But—can’t argue. It means nothing. If it was only—temporary. Maybe it will be temporary? These passion-type things just—don’t last. A quick flame. I know that. But I also know—she won’t be back.
Nope.
And so—amen.
I’m the Quiet Man.
Ah.
Thursday, April 8: Okay, so why not? What the hell. See one of those blokes. Tear up no more pages. Sweat no more. Quiet Man.
Snarl.
Friday, April 9: A tall fella. Impressive. Doesn’t look like a medic, certainly not like a surgeon. I asked if as much work had been done on him, on his face, and he said cheerily: “Oh, yes, but not as you can see, by any real artist. And in this job what you need is an artist.”
Artist?
But he talks well and gives the impression of—competence. I trust. Already. But he spent much time just sitting there gazing, from side to side, then he closed his eyes and said not a word, and then went on, woke up, looked again. Made one of those holo photos of my head in the three-dim look. Sizing me up, sizing me down. But the Quiet Man (me) was practical. Cost?
“Can’t say yet. You want only the face?”
“Well, you’ve seen it all. What you think? Ole buddy?”
He didn’t say much. I really don’t know what to expect—except—I’m tired of me. S’truth. I’m a blah. Always have been a blah. And I know surgery won’t make much difference—hell, I don’t want to be no unicorn—but somehow, maybe something will happen. God knows. I may even—wake up. So. He didn’t find out what I wanted to look like, didn’t seem to care, and didn’t name a price, and didn’t try to sell anything, or promise anything, said he needed some time—he needs time—and so here I sit. Waiting. For what?
Tuesday, April 13: Saw Dr. Amstell again today. He said he needed to study me. He seems interested in a—peculiar way. Gay? Don’t think so. Don’t underestimate this bloke. Went to him mainly because he’s new, still relatively cheap, but also familiar with the new stuff, new technique, all the latest, and what little I’ve heard of him has been very good. He does, so they say, marvelous things. They call him, already, the New Headmaster. Hee. Well, he does seem to know what the hell he’s doing to me, and I get the message just by being with the bloke for a few minutes. Good feeling. His face? Wonder if he did anything to his own face? It sure is—cheery. They do those things to themselves?
I’ve seen pix of what people used to look like, in general, back in the days when faces were left what they had to call “normal.”
Yuck.
Wednesday, April 14: Amstell: We start Friday. I said: okay. Of the price he said this: “You pay when I’m done, but only if you like what I’ve done. If you do not like what I’ve done, there is no fee, and I will return you exactly to the face you wear now.”
This rattles me a bit. Fees are usually stiff, and of course, people can always get the retread. But he won’t show me what he plans. So I wonder. Experiment? He said, “Yes.” I said, “What the hell’s that mean?” And he said, in this patient peculiar manner, “Sir, there is something unique in the structure of your face. Something that links with the tone of voice behind it, something—yes—inspiring. I cannot—explain this except by showing it to you. And that is what I will do. If you do not permit this—but if you will, and it id done, and then you do not approve of the face I have created, then you may, of course, have it instantly changed, to anything you desire, at no expense. But I have had, I must say”—and the fella had gleaming eyes—“I’ve had an absorbing week! Let me go to work, sir, and we shall see!”
Chilled me a bit.
But I have faith in the chap. Don’t know why. So. What the hell. Anybody can change back. And become old man Blah again. Me. Do I have friends?
No.
The Quiet Man.
Who will miss him?
When I look in the mirror, which I just did again, I know I won’t even miss myself. Goodbye, old chap. I’ll not be seeing you.
Tuesday, April 27: I can see!
So: can write a bit. But even now—only one eye is free. They insist the other is all right, whoopee, but Amstell apparently has even widened the position of the eyes—which is rather rare. But he says the eye he replaced—the right eye—was going bad to begin with, and there’s no problem, that’s even an improvement, saving the cost of eye operation, maybe, but who the hell knows? So here I sit—one-eyed Mac—and it is strange. I do feel different. All mental, right? Even with a new eye. Inside here, back in the dark, when I’ve closed the eye—nothing has changed.
Mmmmm.
Sunday, May 2: Today things come off. But I do not see. No mirror yet. Urp. Here comes A. He says I need “a bit of training.”
So, trained. And quite groggy. Now. Will sleep. And here come some of those remarkable dreams.
Monday: Trained again. Amstell, I tell you, is weird. He says, they all say: Masterpiece. I feel…drugged.
Wednesday: Amstell said, “When do you want to see yourself?”
I said, “Why the hell ask?”
He said, “Each day that passes, you get better. So. The later you see, the better t’will be. But if you must see your face, you can do that now.”
I said, “You mean there’s no problem?”
He said, “No.”
“But you want me to wait?”
“Yes.”
“All right. How long?”
“Not long. Three days.”
“I have strange dreams.”
“My friend, worry not. You are…a masterpiece.”
“Don’t kid me,” I said.
He said, “But I’m not.”
Nurses keep popping by to look at me. One called me: Starface.
Boy, I’m tired.
Friday: And so today, being of sound mind and body, I saw myself.
And it’s not me.
Hello out there.
Big fella.
The eyes.
I look back at myself and it’s not me out there in the mirror—it’s a man with a broad forehead and great dark eyes and a bigger mouth and bigger teeth and something rather—pleasant somewhere—something in the eyes, in the shape of it, of all of it. Well. So there I am. Likable guy. Out there. In front. Cheery? I seem to be—serious. But not harmful. But not—the Quiet Man.
Not anymore.
Who am I?
I’ll think on that.
Wednesday, Someday: I left today. They all came out to say goodbye. It was a good time, with good people. I’ll miss them too. Marian, that lovely nurse, met me tonight for dinner and stayed over, and she was, ah, magnificent. She sleeps now, as I write here, having come home with my new face. She called me, again, Starface. But the way she speaks to me, they all speak to me—she opened so quickly—Amstell said one thing: “You were always a quiet man, Mac, yes, you were always soft of speech. Now do this: continue the quiet, do not speak now, not too much, because your face is now an enigmatic face, and many people will be curious now—do you see?” And he was right—and he said, “I want to see you learn to react to what is out there, as it reacts to you. The thing out there that sees you, that thing is also different now. Because it sees something else. Ah, wait, my friend, watch, and wait, and listen. And learn.”
And so I’m again, in my own way, the Quiet Man. But it was always because no one seemed interested much. Or was it? Now people seemed drawn to me. They come. They look at me with—lights in their eyes. Starface. Amstell says, repeatedly, that I am his first masterpiece, and that he will be known now, from this day onward, as a great artist. Well. Today, at the hospital, as I left, they broke into applause. And somehow, dammit, it was not laughable. I am—gifted.
Monday: No more time. Dream, perhaps comes true. My presence is now charismatic. Were I to stay here I would be known always as Amstell’s first great work and I am grateful. But I go now, as Myra did, into that brave new world. I never knew how much my life depended on the shape of the face, the color of the eyes, but because I’ve changed, the world around me has changed—people smile, and this charming magnetism is feelable within. I am something of value now, however small—I see that in their eyes—and I shall now leave this job forever, and go—to office? Where? Starface?
I have written into this book all my life, talking to—myself. A very small diary. But it ends now, is done today, for there is now a world out there. So goodbye, old book, but not farewell. I’ll be back again, someday.
First published in Soldier Boy, Pocket Books, 1982