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The Man Whose Face Fell into a Cup

by Matcham Caine

It was with a deep sense of foreboding that the man stood crammed in the damp carriage between the other commuters. It wasn’t just that the train had stopped in a tunnel four hundred metres short of his station or that the end of an umbrella was prodding him in the kidney or that there was a musty smell hitting him off his jacket, although these confirmed something was in the air. More in particular, he was concerned that on top of his girlfriend, partner, whatever you call it, going back to her mother’s last week because his ‘attitude’ - that’s what she called it, his ‘attitude’ - stank, any time now he was going to have a run-in at work as well.

Work was the real killer. Work was what really had him in this frame of mind. He knew his girlfriend would come back. She always did. He’d taken to calling these trips to her mother’s his ‘annual holidays’ they were that regular. They’d fight and she’d nick off for a while and he’d have the house to himself and then she’d come back full of everything her mother’d been telling her about him and some recipes and life went on as usual. But work, that was another story. That was headed for big trouble.

The umbrella kept prodding him. It was annoying but more than that, it was rude. He stared at the offender to make him aware but the man ignored him. It was like he wasn’t there. The man had his head in the paper and wouldn’t come out. He wanted to say something but didn’t so as not to make a scene. Instead he moved closer to a woman wearing a Burberry coat until she stuck an elbow into his ribs. Subtle, he thought. To make a subtle point of his own he pressed hard against her elbow and told himself at least it was more comfortable than the umbrella.

The problem at work was that there was this associate he’d taken on, who he’d been told to take on, who was proving to be a thorn. Together they’d been working on a project which should have been implemented by now had the associate not apparently told their supervisors the project wasn’t ready, not even for initial testing. For seven months they’d been cutting code and now it looked like the project would be scrapped altogether. Heads would roll. Worse, the associate had said from the beginning the fundamentals were wrong, that it couldn’t work. He even insisted on putting his concerns on paper after the man fought successfully to keep the project going. But who can blame him for wanting to go ahead with it? You can’t back down from a gift horse just because it starts bucking. So they’d gambled and lost - the associate might have been more committed. That might have made the difference. He wondered about people sometimes. If there was one thing he wanted to say to some people, it was just get over it and get on with it. Stop trying to put up obstacles.

The train jerked back into motion and he watched the rain pelting from the dark sky as they exited the tunnel and pulled into the station. The knot tightened in his stomach. As the train came to a halt and the doors opened, it occurred to him he might have been better off back there in the tunnel.

There was still ten minutes before he officially had to face the music and so what if he was a few minutes late so he stopped off at a nearby cafe for some time out. He bought a newspaper on the way and folded it out on the table in front of him. On the front page there was an article about a flood in Bangladesh. Hundreds had died, they said, maybe thousands, it was too early too tell. He looked at the picture a long time. It showed a family clutching their meagre belongings near to what must have been their home and he thought it odd there was no expression on their faces. The background showed other survivors and a number of bloated cows lying sideways in the mud. The picture was meant to be shocking but at the same time he couldn’t help but think how overpopulated Bangladesh must be for such a large death count and that maybe a natural disaster, although tragic, was nature’s way of correcting. He knew other people thought the same thing, even if they didn’t say anything.

He was idly pondering the possibility of speaking his mind when the waitress brought over his coffee. She was a pretty girl but obviously fresh out of school because she carried the cup like she was walking a tightrope. Her eyes stayed glued to it the whole distance from the kitchen to his table except for some nervous glances sideways and ahead to see where she was going. The man was amused by this and thought about sending her back for more milk but then decided he didn’t have time. He lifted the newspaper and she placed the cup down in front of him. She carefully turned the handle towards his hand.

“Thought I was going to wear that,” said the man.

“Pardon?” said the girl.

He watched her rush guiltily back to the kitchen and then turned his head towards the window. There was another downpour outside and people on the pavement were jostling their umbrellas up and down to avoid each other. It was like they were in a Hollywood musical. A woman was standing drenched on the other side of the road in a tight ill-fitting dress and he wondered why it would have to be an ill-fitting dress. If it fitted correctly, if her ankles weren’t so large, he knew she wouldn’t be standing there looking miserable. He wondered what universal law must be at work.

It was while he was thus occupied that he emptied a sachet of sugar into his cup, stirred it through, took a sip and was surprised to learn he couldn’t release the cup from his lips. He tugged at the handle but there was some kind of sticky substance keeping his lips glued to the rim. He looked around to see if anyone was looking and felt relieved there wasn’t. This gave him the opportunity to prise his lips apart with his spare hand, between his index finger and thumb, without anyone noticing. He turned towards the wall and pulled. It didn’t work. If anything, his lips were glued tighter to the rim than before. He turned back towards the table with dread.

First thing’s first, he thought. He was determined to approach the problem rationally. Keeping the contents of the cup steady while trying to work his lips free was proving difficult and of course the contents were the source of his grief so he figured he should empty the cup first. Good, that was decided - he was underway. Into what should he pour the contents, though? He didn’t want to summons the girl, not in his present state, although he would certainly be having words with her afterwards. He considered the ash tray and saucer. Not enough room. In desperation the only other thing he could think of was the newspaper. If he rolled it into a funnel and let the paper’s absorption do its business, that might work. With his spare hand he leaned over and placed the paper on the table. There was the picture of Bangladesh, about to be flooded again. With some difficulty he rolled the paper into roughly a vessel shape, leaned forward and tipped out the contents. A warm patch spread on his lap so he placed the paper on the ground. When this was done he carefully released one hand and then the other. Good, he had both hands free, but the cup remained stuck to his face. Thinking he must look ridiculous he placed both hands back on the cup and considered his next moves. Should he tell someone? He practiced a few words but they came out garbled - his lips had formed a perfect seal. What if he showed them what was happening, what if he stood up and took his hands away? God knows what they’d think. Even if they did notice something wrong what could they or anyone else do? Was there an antidote? He’d never heard of anything like this happening to anyone before. People had been poisoned, sure, but like this? The thought occurred to him he could be making history. But what sort of history was it? It was nothing like he’d always imagined for himself and he didn’t want any part of it. Even if it was his only chance to make history he still didn’t want it.

He sat like that for some time until he realised the cup was closer to his face than before. He felt around the sides of his face. Sure enough, not just his lips but part of his cheeks were glued to the cup as well. The aroma of strong coffee was overpowering. Perhaps that’s what it was. Perhaps he was hallucinating. Perhaps the coffee was grown in a Colombian jungle somewhere amongst strange weeds that had escaped customs examination. He felt his face again. His dilemma felt real enough, but a hallucination seemed the most likely explanation. He decided to sit it out. He would just have to put up with the coffee smell.

Outside the rain had eased and people were strolling casually. The woman in the ill-fitting dress had moved on, probably resigned to sitting at her desk all day in damp clothing. He felt a little sorry for her but obviously his own position was a lot worse. All she needed was some advice about what she should and shouldn’t wear and perhaps to pay more attention to the forecast. He didn’t know what to do about his predicament. He looked at his watch - he could just see the numbers by twisting the cup away - and noticed he was late for work. What should he say when he eventually arrived? Truth is stranger than fiction, he thought, so he’d just have to make up some excuse. But then what if he wanted to lodge a workers’ comp claim later? For a moment he forgot his troubles.

His sight was acutely limited now. He twisted the cup around to see if anyone had noticed his situation. There was a man with a moustache reading a newspaper at a table a short distance away. The young waitress was replacing his coffee cup with a fresh one. No problems there, he thought, and no indication they’d seen anything. On another table two women who didn’t look like office workers were gossiping at each other like crows. It figured they wouldn’t notice anything.

It was at that point his sight withdrew to only the bottom of the cup. There were cracks in the ceramic and a small puddle of coffee left over from when he tipped out the contents. He wished he’d been more thorough when doing this - the puddle was starting to look like a pond. He panicked and accidentally hit his head against the wall. This gave him an idea, a possible way out. He banged the cup against the table to break it, or at least to get the attention he at this point felt he deserved. The cup wouldn’t break, no matter hard he hit. He paused to hear if now anyone was getting the message. Apparently not - the last thing he heard as his ears descended into the cup and an eerie silence overcame him was the clatter of some cutlery and one of the gossips saying She is so pretty why does she have to go out with that dreadful man.

There was nothing after that. He drank the rest of the coffee to stop from drowning and casually observed how easily both his shoulders followed him in with barely a bump. There was room enough to spare, it seemed. Even when his legs started to disappear he knew he wouldn’t stop and it almost gave him a feeling of relief to know at least he wouldn’t be crammed in there. But now what, he wondered. Would people notice, or would the cup simply sit on the table, apparently and for all extensive purposes empty? A terrible darkness overcame him as for the last time he dwelled on his predicament and his short life. Then that was all.

A short time later the young waitress picked up the cup, carried it to the kitchen and placed it in the dishwasher. Then she returned to the table, picked up the soggy newspaper, wiped the chair and tabletop, and mopped the floor. By the time she’d finished it was as though the man had never existed. But that isn’t quite true. Outside a splinter of blue broke through the clouds.

THE END