Brass / stories / 2005 / Jon

And when Jon finished wiping the mirror with that dampened hand-towel of his, he felt that somehow his life had changed. Something deep within that mirror struck back at him. There wasn’t a familiar reflection that lived within the mirror this morning. No, this morning Jon saw the very thing that looked back at him. He couldn’t help but to look back. It called into him to stare it in the eyes. Something lurked deep within.

Jon wondered what this thing represented. Somewhere in there, on some level, he thought that perhaps it was he himself. But what made him, him? A certain chatter of fear and excitement sparked through his face, but it wasn’t translated as something visible. At least, it wasn’t visible in his reflection, not in what looked back at him.

And then suddenly Jon felt a brief flash of judgment. It was as if he had finally felt the chamber of unseen peers working hard on his verdict. There he was, in the middle of the busy hustle of an omnipresent law office preparing its documents and research papers and work orders on him. All were on task to accomplish one thing and one thing only: to find and prepare his final judgment.

And as suddenly as that feeling came, it left, whisked there and back, all in a wink of his mind’s eye, a wink in his reflection, of what looked back at him.

Jon was faced with another question, as if filling out a survey prescribed by a local telemarketer. Only this telemarketer didn’t have the slight tinge of forced obligation in their voice, knowing they must do this to pay a monthly bill. This marketer was genuinely concerned and interested in Jon’s answers, as if they themselves were personally responsible for using the information he delivered to them with each valuable, endearing word.

Was he a person of character? Was Jon a person of moral character? Jon has asked himself this very thing many times in the past. But here, with what looked back at him, he couldn’t help but to feel that he’s never answered it in a way that it should be answered. In a way, he had been obligatory and customary in all his responses. What makes a person of character? Even more, what makes a person of a questionable character? Could he be questioned? He felt his genuinely good actions in life, his knack for the kind, but does that alone make a person of great and genuine character? Character.

His life had been a quiet one, one from fear and death and tragedy and chaos. Does that make him a good person? A person of valid character?

The brief moment thickened in his head. A troubled notion fled from the back of his mind, in the area where skull met flesh. It was so quick, yet compelling, that he didn’t know if he interpreted it right. Mixed meanings seemed to flood his very being – his very sense of self, whatever that may be.

Jon couldn’t help but to feel he was missing out on something significant, something deep. Perhaps it was an ideal – with a slight bit of importance, maybe prestige. Not prestige in the manner that seemed luxurious or posh – like a high-scale downtown restaurant – but prestige in the way that a hero is prestige, that a person of self-realization is prestige.

Perhaps it was a message of some sort. Was that it? It felt obvious, yet elusive for all his life. It has always been there, just scratching at the flesh of his soul, the soul of his reflection, of what looked back at him.

His life flashed with obscure greatness, yet he couldn’t define where or what that greatness was, or how it was built. But what makes that greatness great? Of what material is great and greatness constructed from?

Suddenly, overwhelming shock jolted Jon as he increasingly felt the urge to look away from his stare, to look away from what looked back at him. He desperately fought the energy feeding into the muscle contractions of his eye sockets. What if he looked away? What would that say about his character? What would that say about him, his self? Could he not face his own spirit? Could he not face who he is? Would that mean he doesn’t know what he is? What his self has become? Can he look at what looks back at him and say “I know what this is.”?

A troubled panic moment seized his brittle shell. What madness is this? How could he have pushed himself into such a torrent, on such an anonymous day? A standstill developed there in that fateful foggy bathroom. It was as if there were only two entities in life at that moment: Jon and what looked back at Jon. He felt helpless, like a child of sorts, only now without the comfort of crying out and reaching for his mother in desperate, sweet embrace. In desperate, warm embrace.

And there he stood. And there it stood.