A nose sinking into a map of flesh; eye sockets writhing away from one another like enemies; a jaw clicking in strained efforts to unhinge itself; dark scars deepening like moon craters. Every feature rebelled against the perimeter of my face, desperate to escape; and so, the puzzle of my reflection remained unsolved.
From 15 to 20, looking in the mirror was akin to looking at a Cubist painting. It must be meaningful, or beautiful, or powerful. Right? Other people said so, but—much like when in a museum, standing confounded before a work that everyone else seems to understand—often I just nodded, keeping secret the confession that all my reflection revealed was a mess of colors, shapes, lines, and depressions. The only certain conclusion I could ever come to after the looking in the mirror was: a face is no place for postmodern thought.
Nowadays, getting cleaned and dressed takes about 10 minutes, but building the willpower to go outside believing that I’m assorted takes about an hour. My hair is always the same, but I scramble it relentlessly into the right kind of same. I shuffle the same five or six outfits I’ve Marie Kondoed my wardrobe into until the fabrics cover me properly. When the shapes in the mirror start to move, I shout “You’re fucking hot, you know that?” and concentrate on memories of every time I’ve ever been flirted with. I ask whoever’s around, “How do I look?” and regardless of what they say, I don’t believe them. “You look good today,” or “You look hot,” or “You look busted,” it’s all the same gibberish until your reflection feels honest.
And when the shapes stop moving, the mirror tells the truth: a cracked portrait of misplaced features.
The truth takes me back to Fall 2021. I had just moved to Chicago, living in an art school dormitory surrounded by brilliant burgeoning alcoholics. Everyone was learning how to be 20 years old, excited to be alive and unleashed.
Adrift in the chaos was a boy—a rascal we called Mullet Jake. He was one of those people that radiated excitement: in his hair, in his words, in his volume. He twitched with youth charged by impulsivity, often getting scolded for being 'too wild' by peers looking for lightning rods. They must not have had honest reflections neither. If they did, they’d realize that Mullet Jake wasn’t an exception, but just like anyone else our age, pulsing with FourLoko and reckless abandon. Together, we were scrappy and magnificent—inevitable and doomed.
It was on one of those nights that we drank in the room of someone we never hung out with again. There were about 10 of us crammed into a tiny dorm, arm-wrestling, breaking furniture, screaming, crying. It was COVID times, “Six-feet apart. No more than three people allowed in one room.” We were young. Drunk off the palpable desperation to breathe the same air—we were confident that getting sick always led to getting better. Eventually, someone projectile vomited all over the kitchen floor. As the group tried to pick the sludge up with toilet paper, feeding the culprit water and 'It’s Okay's, Mullet Jake and I ran away. We hopped in the elevator and found refuge on the top floor, in the public restroom.
There was a mirror that stretched over the entire wall of sinks. Mullet Jake whipped his dick out to piss in one of them. I laughed, and turned to use one of the urinals. After I shook myself dry, I turned back and locked eyes with my reflection.
Bang.
It hit me like Medusa—a petrified abstraction of terror. My face stared back in pieces, twisted and absurd. A drunken frown came over me as I walked over to the sinks. The scent of sour urine flooded my nostrils.
“Can I tell you something?” I muttered. “You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”
“Yeah of course dude, what’s up?” he zipped his pants with a little hop.
“I’m looking in the mirror right now, and all I can think is that I look… hideous.”
He squinted at me, brows furrowed. His eyes shot to the mirror. Then back at me. And he nodded with pursed lips as if he had reached a conclusion. Without a word, his fist raised and flew at the glass. A sharp CRACK splintered the shape of a spider’s web across both our reflections. Stunned for a moment, we both stood staring at our fractured selves. Our eyes met again. A hysterical grin cracked his face, then mine, and we sprinted out the door laughing.
There was an “Out of Order” sign on the bathroom door the next day. I weaved myself inside, and found the mirror’s web of cracks dressed in duct tape. Through the lines of tape, my reflection was made into a scrappy kintsugi. Yet, for some reason, it felt better than before. The pieces were shuffled—a mess of lines, shapes, colors and depressions—and it felt right, being out of order. It felt honest. I smiled, shrugged, took a piss, and left.
It’s been nearly four years since that night. Almost everyone I knew from that time is gone, scattered across the country pulsing with an energy much less reckless. Mullet Jake hasn’t had a mullet for quite some time. He’s just Jake now, living on the west coast doing God knows what; hopefully, proving bad omens wrong.1
I don’t shudder in the face of mirrors anymore. When the abstraction of my features threatens to disturb, I remember my splintered reflection—patched up with duct tape—and, for some reason, it feels right.
Sometimes, when I stub my toe or endure some hardship, I think that all bad luck stems from that shattered mirror, and I count down the years until it goes away.
“A face is no place for post modern thought.” Are you JOKING? I have nothing smart to say just that I heavily resonated with this whole piece
the classic jake punching the mirror story i miss him and i miss when we all would get drunk at 3 pm on tuesdays :(