Sponge Face
By Cornelius Fortune
Sponge Face we called him, because he could soak things up with his head. Beer, smoke – you name it. Any airborne particle could fall victim to his enormous pores. We called ourselves his friends just so we could see what he'd soak up next. Like the average high school kid, he was content to fit anywhere, so we placed him a step above a mascot and entertained ourselves with him, all the way up to senior year.
No one remembers his name (not that it mattered) – he had one, probably was born with one – but Sponge Face was the one that stuck. (Insert name) the teachers called him, but what they secretly wanted to call him was: Sponge Face. Everyone called him Sponge Face.
I don't remember the medical terminology of his condition, but it was rare, occurring maybe one out of every four thousand or something; he was one of the lucky ones: he lived to see his eighteenth birthday.
I asked him what it felt like. He said it was like someone pouring gasoline into an opened wound – he had to squeeze his face out like a sponge to get it out and he needed to drink plenty of water afterward. We didn't pity him. We laughed our asses off.
This was late May, a few weeks before graduation. Everyone was throwing a party. This was Stacy Gilmore's party. She was going to Harvard. Stacy was an ex-girlfriend of mine and Sponge Face was stupid for her. Trust me, batteries were included in this package, and then some.
We watched as Sponge Face did his usual tricks: soaking up fireflies and mosquitoes, his head lighting up like a Christmas ornament. He squeezed them back out, his head inflated like a bee's hive.
The crowd applauded.
“Come on,” I said. “We've seen that trick before. Do something new.”
Not that I was trying to be a dick, but the others agreed with me.
Sponge Face's face fell. This had never happened before. He was lost. I think he was out of tricks.
Stacy sauntered over to him and whispered in his ear. He smiled, blinking his eyes in disbelief. To this day, I don't know what she told him, but it restored his confidence.
“Alright,” he said. “What about this?”
He indicated the pool. It was dirty and clouded.
“It hasn't been cleaned,” said Stacy.
“That's the point,” he said, toward it. “Pay attention ladies and gents,” he announced in a loud mock-announcer’s voice. “I'm going to attempt something I've never attempted before.”
We all wanted to see, but I had my reservations. That was a lot of water to soak up, an increased volume with all the sludge in it. There was no way he could do it, I thought. No way.
He hesitated only once. Then dipped his head in.
The water started bubbling and a whirlpool formed around his head.
“Sponge Face! Sponge Face! Sponge Face!” we chanted, like he was chugging a keg.
In a matter of minutes he had soaked the pool dry. His head had expanded maybe three inches, but he looked fine, like a champ ready to go the next round.
He belched. We cheered. He bowed in satisfaction then winked slyly at Stacy.
Sponge Face bent over the swimming pool and started pushing at his head to reopen the pores. We'd all seen it before. Most of us went back to partying, but I kept my eyes fixed on him. It was clear that after two minutes of pushing, the water wasn't coming out. He gasped for air. His body started expanding. I reached out, but he toppled over the side and into the empty pool.
There was a sound like cracking an eggshell on the edge of a bowl, followed by a huge splash. Then the pool filled back up with water.
Sponge Face's body floated on top, which included what had to be his stomach contents and an unraveled intestine. His face was like a cartoon’s after it had been flattened by an anvil falling out of the sky. It smelled really bad. Imagine the worst smell imaginable, and you wouldn’t be far off.
Sponge Face was dead. As in D-E-A-D.
We were questioned by the authorities, but it was clear to them after questioning all of us, that it wasn't manslaughter – Sponge Face did this sort of thing all the time (they called it a suicidal tendency), and was merely a case, however sad, of him biting off more than he could chew. It was like any other stupid thing you did as a kid to impress a girl. We’ve all been there before, only Sponge Face didn’t come back.
I liked Sponge Face. I felt bad that it had happened, but life went on.
There was a private funeral for him, and none of us were allowed to go. Which was fine by me. I didn't like funerals. Still don't. Never will.
The principal announced it over the intercom. He said: “Keep his mother in your prayers.”
Graduation day finally came with its caps and gowns and speeches, bulb flashes, and tears. It was like every other graduation, until an old woman in rags stood up and stormed the stage. She had four arms and waved them angrily in the air, knocking over the school superintendent in the process.
No one had seen Sponge Face's mother, so we couldn't be sure it was her, though she claimed (insert name) was her beloved, and muttered a curse against the graduating class of 1984.
The staff and the parents were outraged (a few even threw a few tomatoes at her; yes, tomatoes, the cliché is true). But we laughed our asses off (we always laughed our asses off – everything was so damn funny then). Ha. Ha. What a memorable graduation moment. Years from now, we’d all be telling the story to our children.
Flash forward to the present day.
You lose touch with people after high school. It happens. That’s life.
I signed up for one of those “keep-in-touch-with-old-school-mates” websites (cost me $30.00 a year). Got in contact with Stacy. You know the story. Married with kids, life didn't work out quite the way she wanted it to. It happens. You get older.
But I did run across some disturbing news: Milford High Class of 1984 were reporting strange mutations…unexplainable things happening to their bodies – every last one of them. I looked in the mirror. Scrutinized myself. Nothing. The reports must be exaggerations. That was my first and only thought. Suburban middleclass life resumed.
My wife Jamie came back from the doctor with pictures of our first baby. She was in tears.
She showed me the picture of the ultrasound.
Now I'm starting to worry.
