THE FROG PRINCE Andrew Varga Copyright 1992 I plunked my tray down as I slumped into the booth. Factory-modified foodstuffs entombed in plastic. Exhausted, and it was only noon. I'd been to five businesses that morning, resume in hand, proudly, even boastfully locating employment. Truth is, I'd gone out begging for someone to read the damned thing. What would my wife say when I came home empty-handed again? She'd smile bravely at my story, but I knew I'd catch the ugly desperation roaming around behind her eyes. And my insides would crumble again, like an old brick building in an earthquake. "May I sit down?" I looked up into the face of the ugliest old man I'd ever seen. I can't say that he was shabbily dresses, but he was as close as one could come to it. But the truly surprising thing about him was his face. It was almost as though some wicked witch had tried to turn him into a frog but had somehow forgotten part of the incantation and the spell only partly took hold! The Creature from the Black Lagoon without the gills! "All the other seats are taken," he said quietly as I sat there gawking. All I could do was nod. "Thank you very much," he said with genuine sincerity and a twinkle in his eyes. I quickly turned my attention to my unappetizing sandwich, trying to hide my shocked surprise. I heard his tray touch my table, and the rustle of his clothes as he sat down. I glanced up just as he removed his hat. His large bald head was covered with big brown splotches, like what you'd find on a spotted toad. As I hastily returned to my meal, I noticed that the only thing on his tray was a plastic cup filled with black coffee. His silence made me look up again. Two fingers were missing from one of his hands. They were folded and his head was bowed. This awful looking creature was praying! Wanting to get away as soon as I could, I took a bite and began stuffing my sandwich back into its thermoplastic tomb. He glanced across at me and smiled. Those eyes. So bright. So out of place. "Care for a little conversation?" I was appalled. Can't he see that I'm trying to ignore him? I tried to speak but ended up spitting food on myself. Embarrassed, I nodded. He handed me his napkin and started to speak. I did my best not to listen. Some story about war and Berlin and an orphanage and America. Then it hit me. This ugly old man was telling me his whole life story! I stared in disbelief. The alarms in the back of my head were beginning to go off. I felt, no I knew, I had to get out of there. I began listening in hopes of finding a break in his story, so that I could excuse myself without being too rude. "And then," he said, sitting erect with pride, "I was taken in by Father Pete who ran the school for the blind." How fitting, I thought, and gave a smug smile. I tried to get a word in, "You must have felt...." "Like a frog out of water?" His smile broadened. Again I was reduced to silence as he continued his story. He'd studied to be a priest he told me, but no parish would have him. "That's when I met my wife, Belinda, you know." He told me about his family, how in spite of their problems their love grew and blossomed, and filled his life with joy. And then later how they were all lost in a fire. He told me about abuses he'd suffered for that which he could not change, how he'd suffered and wandered and suffered some more. And all the time smiling with that sparkle in his eyes. How every one of his problems was surmounted and put to rest in the past, with faith and a prayer. I spent the afternoon listening to that man. Listening yes, and learning, too. At home I fought back the tears as I kissed my wife at the door, bent down and, still smiling, gave my daughter a big warm hug. True beauty, and yes, happiness, thanks to God, are always, always found on the inside. 3