Pus 'N Boats

I took a motorcycle ride today, and it was good. It was good to get out of the house and spend the day riding up and down the coast. It was very hot; even the breeze that normally cools me off on the road was sweltering at times, but that was OK, because as long as I was moving, I wasn’t covered with a sheen of sweat. I didn’t even notice the ridiculous sunburn I got.

I took a ride to Fort Matanzas, just south of St. Augustine, the oldest European settlement in what is now America. It’s a state park here in Florida, complete with nature trails and picnic areas. The actual “fort” is on the other side of the river, though, and a ferry takes visitors there every hour. Since I was close to the time of the next ferry departure, and I had nothing else to do, and the ferry ride was free, I decided I would go and see a bit of history. I wasn’t the only visitor there, but as a (very) amateur history buff, I would like to have seen more people looking to learn what happened before we got here. In any case, I shared the boat ride with about 15 other people. Among my fellow passengers was a teenage girl with an absolutely horrible case of acne, and braces to boot. She was truly a pitiful figure, appearance-wise, and when I saw her I remembered that there are worse things than being broke.

She had a couple of friends with her, and they were being chaperoned by someone I assumed was somebody’s dad. The two friends were, as far as teenage girls go, cute, and I’m sure they’re popular in their circle. I noticed, though, that the two “normal” girls spent a lot more time talking to each other than they did talking to the girl with the skin ailment, who spent most of her time quietly taking in the sights and sounds of a gentle ferry ride across the azure Matanzas River.

I struck up a conversation with the acne girl; to not speak would have been awkward, since we were sitting directly across from each other. Our conversation was friendly but banal; neither of us said anything earth shaking or profound, and I certainly didn’t say anything about her condition. There was, however, something unspoken between us, something much larger going on than two strangers chatting idly, and it was simply this: It didn’t matter to me what she looked like, and she knew it. I didn’t console or condescend to her one bit, and I’m sure she was grateful for that. In fact, I know she was. How? Because I have walked in her shoes.

When I was in high school, I had what is known as cystic acne. Large and unsightly (to say the least) boils covered my cheeks and back, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. My mother took me to dermatologists, but they were little more than medieval torture chambers, dispensing tetracycline and performing what they called “extraction”, a horrifying process I will leave to your imagination. It was agonizingly painful, both physically and psychologically. There were pretty young nurses working there, and the only reason I was there was because I looked like a monster. For a horny teenaged boy, it was hell on earth.

I had friends in high school, but I always wondered if I would have had more if I had been more normal looking. Some people were downright cruel, but I think the worst ones were those who utterly ignored me, or those who looked away with thinly disguised revulsion, as if I somehow chose and enjoyed my appearance.

I had no choice but to learn how to live with my condition. I carried on as best I could, and even had a few awkward dates, but not many. There was one girl in particular whom I really liked, but she was popular and extremely good looking, and I knew I had no chance with her. She was a cheerleader and she was in almost all of my teen fantasies, wearing her amply-filled sweater, a short skirt and her little cowboy boots with the tassels...Ooo, she was fine. Her name was Becky, and she was one of the very few popular kids who talked to me. She was genuinely nice, I think, and I fairly jumped with joy when she asked me to help her with a paper we had to write in an English class. For a blissful half hour, she talked to only me, and because I was a foolish, love struck teenager, I forgot I was ugly. It was great.

As we finished her paper, which she was very happy with, I took a chance and asked her if I could take her out to dinner. She touched my arm (heavenly) and declined, saying she had a boyfriend. I knew that, of course; girls like her always have boyfriends, and I also knew who he was, and further, that he would probably pummel me to death if he knew I had the audacity to hit on his girl. But she smiled when she turned me down, and as she gathered up her books and walked away, I congratulated myself for having the courage to at least try to be normal. Things weren’t as bad as I thought they were.

Still basking in the glow of Becky’s presence, I began to gather up my papers and books, and I heard a small sound, like a drop of water on paper. I looked down, and there, right in front of me, on a bright white page, was a fresh rusty colored splotch. In a nanosecond, I felt all of my insides drop to my feet. I gingerly touched my cheek, smile fading fast, and realized that all the time I had been sitting with Becky, smiling and laughing and having a rare, normal interlude, my pustule covered cheeks had been oozing a brownish cocktail of blood and pus. I had asked the best looking girl at school to dinner looking for all the world like a fresh Frankenstein. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

I talked to the girl on the boat because I know how she feels. I know her pain, and I remember mine. It doesn’t bother me like it used to, but I will never forget it. I like to think that she will remember a stranger who didn’t treat her as anything other than normal.