The Worthless Party

by Karen Bridges

 

            Twice a month I used to go to the Earery on the corner to get my ears done. Solange was my Earist, she coated them in goat’s oil scented with eucalyptus and sage and massaged the lobes. I liked the wax gingerly excavated with a dainty spoon, hot compress until they glowed red, and cool spritzes of rose water and aloe until they were tempered to my liking.

            My ears were my finest feature. The rest was a mess: uneven eyes, abrupt nose, afterthought of a jaw and a forehead like a mallet. But my ears were exquisite and I cared for them tenderly as freshly laid eggs. We must all have something to show off when the Ministry of Self-Worth comes knocking. Everyone’s worst fear is being confronted by a surly Officer, with nothing of his own to be proud of except for his tenuous position of power, and failing the test.

            This happened to my friend Rhonda. She was known for her auspicious collarbones until a jaundiced Officer of Self-Worth accused her of being churlish and wrote her a Ticket of Shame. Of course, she fought it in court, but the judge was the brother-in-law of the Officer and he ended up revoking her Self-Worth altogether.

            It’s funny how we all get knocks on our doors, but the Ministry of Self-Worth gates are tinged with barbed wire and no one ever judders them. We are all subjected to the caprices and whims of the Officers, but my ears were unmistakably splendid. My grandmother was also renowned for her ears, which only grew suppler with age. She swore by goat’s oil.

            What I hadn’t reckoned on was my own sudden, inexplicable disenchantment with my ears. One day I caught their reflection in a sugar spoon and they seemed lethargic. I ran to my Earery and made an emergency appointment with Solange, but not even extra goat oil could return their former radiance. Solange offered tepid encouragement but nothing could account for my vagary.

            I shirked home, trying to stick to the alleys and shadows, but an Officer of Self-Worth saw me, pulled me over on the sidewalk, and administered a Personal Confidence Test right in front of everyone. I failed. I protested that it was just an off day, but the Officer accused me of insipidness and wrote me a Ticket of Shame.

            Remembering Rhonda, I did not challenge the ticket but went to court to pay the fine. I expected my ears to be restored to my Sense of Self-Worth, but the Court Officer informed me that I no longer had qualifying Worthy Physical Attributes, and was required to attend Personhood Classes. I registered for Throwing Your Head Back in Laughter but Not Too Loud, Just the Right Amount of Eye Contact, and a three-part course on compliments: Fishing for Compliments, Backhanded Compliments, and Ulterior Motives.

            I had a new instructor each day. Adapt yourself to our instructions, they said. They are prescriptions.

            Which is it, I asked, Prescriptions or instructions? Or are they the same?

            More like guidelines, they replied. Suggestions, really. We’ll be watching to make sure you comply.

            After six weeks, the classes only made me analyze every word, move, action, and glance for incongruity. I was paralyzed and woeful, afraid it was all wrong, that everything was for the taking. My formerly laudable ears were now just flesh flaps on the sides of my head, I had no Worthy Physical Attributes, and now I had no Person Skills. I wondered if effort and my desire to obey and please counted for anything at all, or if it was what made them laugh behind their hands.

            My ankles aren’t terrible, I suggested. My elbows, perhaps?

            We decide what qualifies, they said.

            What about talents? I asked.

            Such as?

            I can sing.

            Definitely not.

            I can write.

            Don’t waste our time.

At last, they slid a thin sheet of paper across the table. My Self-Worth was revoked.

            On my way home, I ran into Rhonda. Where have you been? I said, overjoyed to see someone who could relate.

            I’ve been here all along, she said, shrugging off my hug. You just couldn’t see me. You’ll be invisible now, too.

            She was right. When I returned to work, my desk had been moved to a dark corner, I was interrupted and talked over in meetings, elbowed in crowds and cut in front of in lines. I shouted at friends on the street but they hurried past and stopped returning my calls.

            I apologized to Rhonda. I couldn’t understand how I’d been so cruel. She softened and invited me to a Worthless Party Meeting in someone’s basement studio apartment. We crowded, sweaty and bumbling, kicking table legs and sloshing drinks. But I felt vibrant. I could be seen; people listened again. We talked about our movement, lamented our invisibility, signed up to canvas neighborhoods. Someone recited a poem.

            Afterward, I churned to Rhonda. This is wonderful! To be a part of something again! We could change the world. These are my people.

            It’s not as great as you think, she said. It’s almost impossible for anyone to see us. We are invisible. People only notice when we walk in on them in a bathroom or return a wave that was intended for someone else, or when a crowded room goes silent just as we’re shouting something embarrassing out of context.

            She was right about all these things of course. And worse, the Worthy, when they do see me, love to tell me that I just need to try and “put myself out there more.”

            I still do all that I can. My back is stooped from crouching over Books of Self-Worth. I scrape and scrape but I’m just not sure there is enough of me to be Worthy anymore. Do I turn to granite or pearl? Do I want durability or luster? I flip through magazines for women who have been ravished by the gods. Flower and Tree options are all the rage this year, but what the hell. Granite is a classic.