'The Tale of ONY.'

         In 1995 or so I lived alone in an apartment and I liked it that way. I loved my friends and family but I did not like to entertain guests in less we had discussed their visit ahead of time as a planned experience. In time I would learn that many kind people like to "pop in" on a loved one and bring a plant or a warm dish, something that has always struck me as a strange way for them to kill time. I have never fantasized about bringing someone a meal or a plant and then called this fantasy into action. I would kill time often by going outside and staring at something until it changed like a sunset or an old man. Basically I treated many things the way one treats a fish aquarium. Later I was told that staring at things was weird and so I stopped but, not before one evening when dusk was approaching and I could feel someone doing the same to me only they were staring at my back. I decided I would turn around to see who it was but, very slowly with a slight bounce in my stance and a practiced facial expression that says, "Hey, I'm not turning to look at you. I am just turning and your body happens to be in my eyeline."
        I could sense that the person staring at me was near a dumpster behind me to my left. What I could not know until turning around was that this someone was only a head balancing on the dumpster. Once I saw her I felt a bit uneasy so I turned back to my front. However I distinctly recall feeling that she had not averted her gaze whatsoever and I twisted my body more deliberately toward her as if to say, "What? It's my shirt, isn't it? You don't like my shirt."
       I took a few steps in her direction and began to study her. She was one of those heads I have seen in a hairstylists home or more often in my theatre experiences I would see many of them in a row with large wigs on which always made me uncomfortable because it seemed to me like I had wondered into the abode of a plate spinner who, when he had broken the last of his plates, turned to scalping women and placing these fine scalps on mannequin heads which I found only to be slightly less creepy than if they had used sticks. The head before me, however, bore no resemblance to these. It was not in a decapitated chorus line like so many that disturbed me in my youth. It was alone on a dumpster, had almost no hair and an almost Tammy Faye quantity of blue eyeshadow.
      It seemed bizarre to me that she was on the dumpster and not in it. But even stranger still was the inscription on her neck. Someone wrote 'Ony' in bold black letters which blew me away. Why would they do that? What does Ony mean? Egad! That is almost my name!
      Quickly, I grabbed the head and ran inside where I immediately began dousing her in copious amounts of rubbing alcohol since she was a mysterious dumpster head and that, I believe, is what you do. I followed this with a thorough shampooing. Also, I considered dying her hair and writing a T in front of the Ony to complete my name but I felt labeling her after everything she had gone through would have been a bit much. Having no idea how long she would stay I found myself contemplating her purpose.
      Eventually I decided Ony was her name and gave her a proper spot on the mantel to greet me when I came home. I found Ony to be a friendly albeit silent presence in my home. However, it didn't take long for me to notice the strange reactions she got from visitors. Many were creeped out by her and would either not stay very long or stop 'popping in' altogether.
      Ony has become a permanent fixture in my home continuously staring at me and waiting for me to change.

written by Tony Santiago, all rights reserved