Transformer Man
By Paul Rogalus
My friend Steve used to look at people and see them with animal faces--usually apes— but sometimes pigs or dogs or bugs of some sort. I thought that was odd at first--that maybe it had something to do with Steve being stoned so much of the time. But now, I just don't know.
One time I was having lunch with Steve at the El Phoenix on Comm. Ave., and I asked him about his animal visions. He gestured to the waiter, a stumpy guy who had a thick, dark uni-brow and a sharply protruding ape-like jaw. "Look," Steve said, "he's still in the process of transforming." The waiter grunted at us and hopped away clumsily.
I could sort of see what he meant.
"And look over there--look at that guy," Steve said, pointing. There was a “man” at the table to our right, eating some sort of casserole plate—or perhaps it was shepherd’s pie. Anyway, the man had his face lowered over the plate and he was hoovering up mashed potatoes and corn and ground beef ravenously—without the benefit of using utensils. When he finally raised his face from the plate, it was covered with potatoes and brown gravy.
"I know he's got a lot of slop on his face," Steve said, but if you look closely just above the guy’s mouth you can detect the beginnings of a large pig-snout. Oh, he's a pig all right."
As if on cue the pig man snorted, and then mashed his face back into his casserole plate.
Steve shook his head. “He ought to eat out of a trough,” he said.
"Yeah, I sort of see it," I said. "So, is it usually apes and pigs that you see people turn into?"
"Well, yeah, a lot of apes," Steve said, "but it's more varied than that." He looked around the restaurant for an example. Off in a dark corner, a couple in their early 20’s sat, very seriously kissing each other. Both wore dark, polyester clothing and a lot of jewelry, and both had very dark hair that appeared to be wet. Their kissing became more involved—more intense—their wet faces became plastered to each other—two large, oozing slugs sealing into each other. "There, over there, see them, that 'couple' over there---what do they look like to you?"
"Slugs?" I said.
"Yes," he said. "Exactly. They make me sick."
Later on we were walking across the common, and it started to hit me. Steve was on to something. He was just more observant than most people.
A teen-aged couple playfully pranced by us. They were down on all fours on the grass, hopping about each other like excited dogs—taking turns sniffing each other’s butts.
"Dog people," I said, pointing. Steve nodded.
"Some days I worry that I might forget what it's like to be human," he said, watching the puppy couple. And then he sighed. "But even so," he went on, "it's still way better than when I see people turning into machines." He stopped and shook his head.
Wow, I thought, Steve sees machine heads. That's when I started worry.
- - -
Paul Rogalus teaches English at Plymouth State University. His full-length play Crawling From the Wreckage was produced in New York City in February 2002 by the American Theatre of Actors, and his one act plays have been produced in New York, Chicago, and Boston. A chapbook of his micro-stories entitled “Meat Sculptures” was published by Green Bean Press.
By Paul Rogalus
My friend Steve used to look at people and see them with animal faces--usually apes— but sometimes pigs or dogs or bugs of some sort. I thought that was odd at first--that maybe it had something to do with Steve being stoned so much of the time. But now, I just don't know.
One time I was having lunch with Steve at the El Phoenix on Comm. Ave., and I asked him about his animal visions. He gestured to the waiter, a stumpy guy who had a thick, dark uni-brow and a sharply protruding ape-like jaw. "Look," Steve said, "he's still in the process of transforming." The waiter grunted at us and hopped away clumsily.
I could sort of see what he meant.
"And look over there--look at that guy," Steve said, pointing. There was a “man” at the table to our right, eating some sort of casserole plate—or perhaps it was shepherd’s pie. Anyway, the man had his face lowered over the plate and he was hoovering up mashed potatoes and corn and ground beef ravenously—without the benefit of using utensils. When he finally raised his face from the plate, it was covered with potatoes and brown gravy.
"I know he's got a lot of slop on his face," Steve said, but if you look closely just above the guy’s mouth you can detect the beginnings of a large pig-snout. Oh, he's a pig all right."
As if on cue the pig man snorted, and then mashed his face back into his casserole plate.
Steve shook his head. “He ought to eat out of a trough,” he said.
"Yeah, I sort of see it," I said. "So, is it usually apes and pigs that you see people turn into?"
"Well, yeah, a lot of apes," Steve said, "but it's more varied than that." He looked around the restaurant for an example. Off in a dark corner, a couple in their early 20’s sat, very seriously kissing each other. Both wore dark, polyester clothing and a lot of jewelry, and both had very dark hair that appeared to be wet. Their kissing became more involved—more intense—their wet faces became plastered to each other—two large, oozing slugs sealing into each other. "There, over there, see them, that 'couple' over there---what do they look like to you?"
"Slugs?" I said.
"Yes," he said. "Exactly. They make me sick."
Later on we were walking across the common, and it started to hit me. Steve was on to something. He was just more observant than most people.
A teen-aged couple playfully pranced by us. They were down on all fours on the grass, hopping about each other like excited dogs—taking turns sniffing each other’s butts.
"Dog people," I said, pointing. Steve nodded.
"Some days I worry that I might forget what it's like to be human," he said, watching the puppy couple. And then he sighed. "But even so," he went on, "it's still way better than when I see people turning into machines." He stopped and shook his head.
Wow, I thought, Steve sees machine heads. That's when I started worry.
- - -
Paul Rogalus teaches English at Plymouth State University. His full-length play Crawling From the Wreckage was produced in New York City in February 2002 by the American Theatre of Actors, and his one act plays have been produced in New York, Chicago, and Boston. A chapbook of his micro-stories entitled “Meat Sculptures” was published by Green Bean Press.
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