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The Pig Man / I Have a Forgettable Face

I have a forgettable face. It allows me to belch in public, to fart, to wipe snot on my sleeve, because I don’t know these people and they won’t remember me. I order meatball subs with marinara sauce and racks of ribs and uncracked lobsters, any food that might merit a bib, because no one is watching. I slurp anything that can be slurped. I hold up the grocery line counting out my pennies, which—even though she just listened to me run through my eleventy-twelves and sickity-nons—the cashier has to count again. I stretch across three seats on the bus and whack the lap of a man in a wheelchair, looking for the snooze button. I introduce myself four times before you remember. What luxury to be not tall not short not fat not thin, above all not beautiful, to have the same face as Charlie Brown: dot, dot, quivering line of anguish. I get to be disgusting. What does the little red-headed girl get? She’s counting her valentines, talking in a grown-up’s wah-wah voice. She’s always off-camera, where perfection lives.