One Fine Day You’re Gonna Die

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Tonight as I was riding my bike to the radio station where I do the late-night call-in show, a hearse ran a light and plowed into me. I swerved. The vehicle clipped my back wheel, and I flew through the air to safety. My Schwinn was not so lucky. The hearse skidded to a stop. The driver jumped out, sprinted over and knelt beside me on the wet pavement. “Are you all right?” he asked.

I checked my essentials.

“As all right as I’ll ever be,” I said.

The man bent closer. The streetlight illuminated both our faces. He looked like the actor who played Hawkeye on the old tv show M*A*S*H. His brow furrowed with concern when he saw my cheek.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“It’s a birthmark,” I said.

As birthmarks go, mine is a standout. It covers half my face, like a blood mask. Nine out of ten strangers turn away when they see it. This man moved in closer.

“The doctors weren’t able to do anything?” he asked.

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