I left the office around 7:15 and missed the bus. It was quite late when I finally made it home. As I huddled myself into the apartment building I saw someone hold the door and enter right after me. It was an extraordinary unattractive man of about 50 whose features seemed to had been put together fervently each morning only to dissipate slowly and miserably into a revolting mess of flesh towards the end of the day. Breathing slowly and heavily, he followed me into the elevator.
“Five please,” he said in tremulous soft voice. The elevator seemed to be working slower than usual as revolting sounds emerged from the man’s mouth. Then he stretched his wrinkled neck and stared at my right ear. “Yes, yes...” he sighed deliriously. Slowly he walked to the other corner and expressed same admiration for the other ear.
“These are beautiful,” he said. “Could you lend me them for a day?”
Unaccustomed to such compliments, my ears were burning violently, so I agreed swiftly and fled the elevator into a frightening and wonderful world of silence.
I fell into my sofa drenched in sweat, my heart throbbing in horrid anxiety. I sat motionlessly for an hour shivering and then dozed off into uneasy sleep.
Next morning I woke up before the alarm clock which was no use anyway and stumbled into the bathroom scratching the spot where my left ear used to be. I have to admit, shaving was fairly easy without the ears. I thought of perhaps lending my mouth and nose to someone as well. For years I’ve had this ridiculous fear of shaving off my teeth with a razor. As improbable as the contingency may seem, every morning of my life I feel the awful sensation as I imagine the collision of mach7 against the enamel.
The day took off rather well I thought. Crossing the street was a bit confusing at first, as was conversing with my colleagues, but soon enough I learned to pronounce the words “facilitate”, “prior arrangements” and “rich content” in a timbre that aroused no suspicion and the weekly health & safety meeting went surprisingly pleasant. The director, Mr. Caesar-Ceasar Jr. was shouting at Jones and pointing his fat finger at some chart or other often hitting the board to properly illustrate his point. Jones tried to utter some vain excuse but it only infuriated the boss even further. I wish I could take Jones out for a smoke and grab his ears for a second, so he could see the picture clearly without the noise and distraction. When Mr. Caesar-Ceasar Jr. was done lynching Jones, he turned to me and returned to his assault of the board with newfound violence. I nodded calmly and felt a bit ashamed of the utter joy I felt in my ignorance. Soon enough he stopped and looked straight into my eyes. I felt everyone in the room turn their heads and wait in anticipation of my reply. I glanced at the board and arranged the first few words of the headline into a staggeringly inane sentence: “I believe that to further facilitate the localization of global production, we need to focus more on the compound and private sector of the content approval system.”
There was a pause as Mr. Caesar-Ceasar Jr. let his fat bloated body sink deeper into his grand chair and exhibited signs of approval by caressing his chin gently, yet furiously. His head leaned in obvious satisfaction as far as it could, which wasn’t very far at all. A few moments later he descended back to us and began talking enthusiastically. He pointed at Jones, then at the door, Jones protested to this arrangement, which was repeated again, this time far more passionately. After Jones left the room with what must’ve been a frustrated rap of the door, the boss arose from his chair for the first time in the last 30 years, made his way to me and shook my hand, his lips trembling with condensed sweetness. I registered his breath. It smelled of tuna and molten glass.
On the way home I almost got hit by a truck, but that was perfectly fine since my promotion came with top-notch healthcare.
As the day before, the terrifyingly ugly spectacled man followed me into the apartment building and stepped into the elevator right after me. I wanted to shake his hands and thank him cordially, but the sight of his filthy heinous fingers cut off my intentions me at once. I noticed he was wearing my ears. It was only then that I realized how awfully perfect and elegant they were in shape, color and any other quality attributed to a well-crafted hearing apparatus. Perhaps it came out this way out of sheer contrast with the man’s monstrous face, but now I wanted them back. I expressed my design clumsily and the man handed me back one ear so I could catch his reply.
“Of course, it is my duty to return these beautiful ears that you so generously lent me. However, I was wondering if you’d willing to sell them perhaps?”
“Sell them? But I like my ears! And I guess I need them after all.” I hesitated there, as the insolence of that blatant lie dawned upon me. But my ear felt awfully warm and fuzzy there where it belonged and I couldn’t bring myself to part with it again.
“Yes, I can see you now find them attractive too, but in all honesty... You don’t really need them, do you. You’re not a musician or something?”
I wasn’t. Worse than that, I’ve never had interest in music or any sound at all, particularly when it came to sex. The voices of my partners manifested such a profound air of indifference and boredom that I much preferred to be deaf when it came to lovemaking. Then I thought of all the break-ups and fights and how they could’ve been avoided altogether if I had no ears. Finally, I remember today’s meeting.
“Very well then. You can have them. How much?”
He named a reasonable price. A very reasonable price indeed. I sank into my sofa, this time content and perfectly happy. I touched the corners of the coffee table safe in the knowledge that some of my senses were there with me and seemed most unlikely to leave on their own. There was an episode of Friends on TV and for the first time in my life I managed to enjoy it. In fact, the jokes, lucid and laconic in their mute appeal moved me to tears. I stayed up all night laughing violently at Big Bang Theory, Flight of the Concords and Passion of the Christ. At 2am they started showing some nauseatingly innocent softcore pornography. Devoid of vulgar grunts and moans, the slow and blurry humping gained a twisted sort of erotic appeal.
Since that day I learned to notice the beauty in simple things, something we’re so often prompted to do by aspirational TV shows, weekly columns and mothers. I laughed at them too, at their pathetic futile attempts at improving life. For I know quite well now, happy the man and happy he alone who in all honesty can tell his ears “so long.”