By Leon Berger

          One could not ignore the proboscis protruding proud and conspicuous from the otherwise mundane assortment of facial features that served to identify Roget Loude.   This nose, this snout, uniquely long and straight, which Roger viewed at every opportunity, was Roget’s paramount source of pleasure.  Frequently, indeed daily, some stranger would comment that Roget had a striking resemblance to Basil Rathbone.  When Roget wore his deer-stalker and smoked his meerschaum, there was no doubt that he was a living and breathing image of Sherlock Holmes.

      Roget, surprisingly, was content with his life.  It mattered not that he was a 45 year old bachelor living in a rotting  bungalow located on Dixie Highway, where the rumble of the passing  trains rattled the dishes and caused ghost images on his l2” black and white television set.  He enjoyed his work as a conductor on the Tri-Rail, particularly when a passenger’s eyes would open wide in puzzlement, wondering why the face looked familiar.  When this occurred, Roget would whip  out his meerschaum, position himself to reveal the familiar profile, and then he and the passenger, no longer confused, would both laugh heartily. This made Roget happy; life was good.

     Life was good until one fateful sizzling morning in August when Roget, awakened by the persistence of his alarm clock, shuffled into his small, cluttered bathroom and commenced with the performance of his morning chores.

     Not yet fully awake and squinting through red-rimmed bleary eyes, smiling in anticipation as he greeted his reflection:  “Good morning Mr. Holmes.”  Something didn’t seem right.  Clearing the mirror with his towel, his eyes now wide open took in the reflection before him.  What the hell is that?  There, perched on the tip of his nose, a full 1/2 inch in length, was a greenish-gray hair.  Where did that come from?  It wasn’t there last night.  Reaching out, he grabbed it with his fore-finger and thumb and gently pulled. No luck; it would require a more determined effort. The texture of the hair permitted a firm grip and he pulled  and he yanked and he wrenched in every conceivable fashion, using a variety of shoemaker pinchers he had once acquired at a flea market and, in desperation, a clam shucker he found in the kitchen drawer.  Exhausted, his arm aching, confused at the stubbornness of the hair follicle, he called it quits, determined that the next day he would deal with this peculiar transgressor that seemingly defied removal.   

A sleepless night didn’t dampen his resolve, and he called in ‘sick’ as he drove to the Hillsboro HOME DEPOT.  Ignoring the stares of fellow shoppers who seemed fascinated by his nose (or so he thought), he chose a sturdy 8” nickel plated needle-nose pliers as his instrument of choice, and rushed home to extract his unwanted defacement.

     Finally, impatiently, back in his bungalow, he stripped to his waist, washed his nose with antiseptic soap and grabbed the follicle between the jaws of the pliers.

Applying firm and constant pressure the hair came free with a resounding pop but, to Roget’s horror, a greenish liquid came bubbling from his nose, flowing copiously for a full minute, finally erupting in a cohesive mass which hugged the contour of his nose as it traversed downward over his clenched lips, past his chin to drop silently into the enamel sink, absorbed by the detritus that had accumulated year after year.  

     The extraordinary discharge, inexplicable and confusing, left Roget exhausted and he lurched to his bed where he slept soundly for 24 hours, awakening as from a nightmare, frightened and wet with perspiration.   Observing the green stains on the bed-cover, he put his hands up to his nose, repulsed by the slime that had

solidified over-night.  Slowly he walked to the bathroom, ignoring the light switch.   First, he would cleanse himself.  He turned the hot water faucet on waiting the five minutes for the water heater to kick on, and then stepped into the shower, relishing the warmth and comfort before soaping his face repeatedly.   When the water started to turn cold, he forced himself to step out of the shower, toweled himself dry and switched on the light.  He ignored the stained sink and looked at his reflection in the mirror.  A crescendo of moans and groans startled Roget, emanating so he thought, from the unfamiliar reflection in the mirror.   His nose, his pride and joy, was replaced somehow by a diminutive button-nose which dramatically changed his facial features..  Roget sobbed uncontrollably.

He ran from the bathroom, the towel dropping from his body.  Naked, confused, he ran to the entrance door.  Changed his mind, ran back to the bedroom looking into the bedroom mirror.  Staring back at him was a stranger, yet he sensed it was his face.  The reflection was speaking incomprehensible gibberish.  This is madness; it has to stop.  He tried to calm down and forced himself to walk slowly into the kitchen, remembering he had a bottle of Vodka. All the glasses were in the sink, unwashed, nestling with a week’s accumulation of dirty dishes, but a coffee mug could be extracted and he poured himself a drink….and another…and another until, inebriated, he fell to the floor, gashing  his head on a mahogany footstool. .

     At the rail yard, three days later, Roget’s supervisor contacted the local police Department and requested that they check-out Roget’s home. Absent three days from the job without authorization was cause for concern.  This was unlike Roget.

Officer Andrew Buchanan who received the assignment wrote in his report:

  “… When I approached subject’s house  I detected a strong, foul odor in the area of the door.  I received no response to my repeated knocking, so I kicked in the door.  In the dim light, I could see a naked man seated at the table.  There was dried blood on his forehead.  He kept muttering something incomprehensible about ‘a nose, or the nose.’  .I contacted Sergeant Townes who called for an ambulance.  The ambulance arrived at 3:45 p.m. Paramedic Anthony Rizzo checked subject’s vitals and hooked-up an IV; subject was severely dehydrated.   At my request, Mr. Rizzo checked subject’s nose and reported “…no abnormality”….but remarked “…that there was an extraordinary resemblance to the actor Basil Rathbone.”  Subject was transported to the local Community Hospital and was signed in at 4:30 p.m.”                                                                       /s/ Officer A. Buchanan                                                                             Badge No. 2776                                                                                                                                        

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