THE UGLY MUG

Steven Snapradish had never envisioned himself a matinee idol.

To be fair, most babies are not “lookers” when first born. Many tend to resemble lightbulbs, grapefruits or bowling balls. But Steven Snapradish had them all beat.

During his childhood, even his grandparents found ways of avoiding the traditional hyperbole over their little grandson’s looks. Rather than gloat about how adorable he was, his grandparents would tend to reference his health.

“He’s a very healthy child,” his grandmother would extol. And the neighbors would all agree. “Oh, yes,” the neighbors would say. “A healthy child.”

“He’s certainly zaftig!” would claim the next door neighbor. “The important thing is good health! If you have health, you have everything!”

“What a calm child! Such a wonderful temperament!” would say Grandma Celia’s best friend, Sarah.

“What can you say? He’s a nice boy!” Grandpa Max’s best friend, Hyman, would add. “I’m sure he’s going to grow up to be a mensch.”

And Steven did grow up to be a mensch.

Although he recognized that "handsome" was not going to be a word he heard often.

The features were dramatic: bulbous, proptotic eyes; a generous nose, more appropriately called a schnoz, that approximated a half-sour pickle; full, downward-arcing, glowering lips similar to a monkfish; oversized ears that had the appearance of small fans; and corkscrew hair bursting out in all directions.

For the most part, he accepted this with quiet practicality. Mirrors were consulted for logistical purposes only: shaving, combing, ensuring that no visible food particles had taken up residence in the more cavernous regions of his facial architecture.

Yet, one afternoon, while strolling through his neighborhood in search of a good pastrami sandwich, Steven encountered something that caused him to stop so abruptly that a woman pushing a stroller nearly rear-ended him.

There, hanging above the door of a small brick restaurant and pub, was a sign.

The establishment was called The Ugly Mug.

This in itself was not remarkable. Restaurants with pun-based names are about as common as pigeons in a park. What was remarkable was the logo beneath the words.

It depicted a large coffee mug with a face.

But not merely a face. A particular face.

Steven leaned forward.

The mug possessed two bulbous eyes, a large nose that seemed to have been assembled from spare plumbing parts, and a chin that projected with the architectural confidence of a drawbridge. The ears were wide and floppy. The brow was heavy. The expression carried a kind of quirky, slightly perturbed philosophical confusion.

Steven tilted his head left.

The mug appeared to tilt left.

He tilted right.

The mug appeared to tilt right.

Steven took three slow steps backward and examined the sign from a distance, brow furrowed, the way one might observe a suspicious cloud formation.

The resemblance was unsettling.

Not vague. Not coincidental. Not the sort of resemblance that could be politely dismissed with phrases like “it sort of reminds me of...”

No. The mug looked exactly like Steven. As if Steven had been imprinted onto ceramic.

Two men sitting at an outdoor table noticed him staring upward.

“First time seeing it?” one asked.

Steven pointed slowly at the sign.

“Does that… look like anyone you know?”

Both men looked at the mug. Then they looked at Steven. Then back at the mug. Then back at Steven again.

The second man leaned back in his chair and whistled softly.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

The first man nodded with grave authority.

“That’s you.”

Steven folded his arms. “I have never been here before in my life.”

The second man shrugged. “Maybe the artist saw you around.”

Steven turned back to the sign, examining it with the intensity of a detective confronting an unusually suspicious perp.

The mug stared down at him with stony indifference.

The likeness was not flattering. The nose was slightly larger than reality, the ears slightly more enthusiastic.

But these were minor artistic exaggerations, the sort that cartoonists employ when they want people to say, “Yes, that’s definitely him.”

Steven felt a peculiar sensation. Not anger. Not embarrassment. Something stranger.

It was the sensation of having been anonymously copyrighted.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The Ugly Mug smelled of beer, burgers and grilled onions. Behind the bar stood a large man polishing a glass with the resigned patience of someone who had been polishing glasses since the Truman administration.

Steven approached the bar.

“Excuse me,” he said.

The bartender looked up.

His eyes moved from Steven’s face, to the window, back to Steven, then slowly upward toward the sign outside.

The bartender lowered the glass.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” he said.

Steven nodded politely.

The bartender leaned over the counter and shouted toward the kitchen.

“Hey, Lou! Get out here!”

From behind a swinging door emerged a short, barrel-shaped man in an apron dusted with flour.

“What?”

The bartender pointed at Steven.

Lou squinted.

Then he looked at the sign through the front window.

Then back at Steven.

Lou’s mouth fell open.

“Holy smokes! You’re the guy!”

Steven cleared his throat. “I assume you’re the owner?”

Lou nodded slowly, still staring.

Steven began carefully. “Do you notice that your sign bears a rather striking resemblance to my face?”

Lou looked again. Then he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“You know,” he said, “now that you mention it…”

The bartender leaned in. “It’s uncanny.”

Steven gestured toward the window. “Uncanny is one way of describing it.”

Lou circled Steven slowly, studying him the way an art collector might inspect a sculpture that had unexpectedly wandered into the gallery.

“Hmm,” Lou said finally. “Ain’t that something!?”

“May I ask,” Steven continued with admirable calm, “where that logo came from?”

Lou shrugged. “A guy named Ricky drew it.”

“Ricky who?”

“Ricky, the guy from Ozone Park.”

“Is he here?”

“Nah,” Lou said. “He moved to Phoenix three years ago. He couldn’t take the humidity. I think it had something to do with asthma.”

Steven looked at the sign again.

For a long moment no one spoke.

Finally, Lou slapped the counter with sudden inspiration.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said.

Steven braced himself.

“How’d you like a free sandwich?”

Steven blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“A lifetime weekly free sandwich and a beer,” Lou said. “You’re basically our mascot.”

The bartender nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. It’s like we discovered the original mug.”

Steven opened his mouth to object. Then he paused. He considered the sign. He considered the pastrami sandwich he had originally set out to obtain.

He considered the strange, improbable possibility that somewhere in Phoenix there existed an artist who had accidentally invented Steven Snapradish without ever meeting him.

Finally, he sighed.

“Well,” Steven said. “If one must resemble something…” He gestured toward the bar. “It might as well come with free pastrami.”

“And a beer,” the bartender added.

Outside, the sign of The Ugly Mug swung gently in the afternoon breeze.

Steven looked up wistfully at his own likeness, and just for a brief moment could swear it winked down at him.