The Mirror Man

He wore a gray suit, neatly tailored, with a white shirt, dark blue tie and polished black shoes. His back was straight; his blue eyes shielded by prescription glasses, were focused on the world in front of him and for all intents and purposes he appeared the typical businessman on his way home from a hectic day at the office. There was really only one thing that stood out, that made him appear less than average in a city as large as Los Angeles: That was the small gilded mirror he held in front of his face and spoke into wherever he went.

Los Angeles in 1973 was a hot and smoggy place to live, where cars had somehow managed to take on a life of their own. Where their sheer number almost became a constituency, demanding their right to exist and persist despite all efforts to beat them back. It was a world whizzing past, struggling to break free from God knows what, but going about it as desperately and dangerously as refugees fleeing a war zone. Being from New York I understood fast. Fast lives, fast trains, an addiction to speed not in the normal sense, but something generated from within. A need to move through life before it had a chance to pour all over you and slow you down to the point where you didn’t care anymore.

But not LA. Los Angeles did fast in its own west coast style. Top down, sun shining, bleached blonde hair blowing back in the wind with an air of Fuck you and Love you coming at you at the same moment. It was easy to love LA. To fall into its spell, let down your guard and ease back into a life that drifted much like everyone else’s. It didn’t matter who you were and how much money you had – not on the surface. Rich men wore jeans and sandals, straw hats and $5000 Rolex watches. Rich women, whatever they wanted.

Money was everywhere and nowhere. The idle rich and the homeless moved through MacArthur Park, off Vermont and Wilshire, side by side, each with a magazine under their arms and a look of indifference sun-blocked onto their faces. Tomorrow was important but not for the same reasons. For some, it meant more. For others, a day of rest, a day to remember or for the Mirror Man, a day he simply could never forget.

There were more diners in LA in the 1970s. Fast food that took a little longer, and required a little bit of your time as you sat and watched everyone else scurrying. That’s where I met The Mirror Man. Seated comfortably, two booths down.

He was quiet and alert. His eyes glancing at those coming in and those leaving; but never smiling, never scowling or revealing what he might be thinking. From time to time he would look down, become pensive and unfocused for a while and that’s usually when the mirror came up and he would look into it. Then he’d turn away. Like we would do today with a cellphone. Seeing a number, knowing who it was, and not wanting to answer it. Not wanting to engage in a conversation we knew would be uncomfortable.

So, he’d stare out the window. Or smile at the waitress as she filled his coffee cup and remain quiet, until it “ringed” again. Insisting he take another look – and he would.

When I first heard him talk into it, I paused – fork held in midair as I processed what he was doing. It was incongruous. A neatly dressed, polished middle-aged man talking into a mirror that obviously belonged to a woman. A small eight-inch oval with handle and sparkling gemstones or bits of glass circling it fully.

His words sounded haunted, almost distant and quite unintelligible, at least to me. All I knew, was that it wasn’t English. His words came in brief spurts, six or eight words and then a pause. Then six or eight more; spoken with feeling, spoken with an earnestness that was unsettling, like a man explaining why he was late to his girlfriend. Not wanting her to think the worst of him. Knowing he did nothing wrong, and yet fully aware that she probably wouldn’t understand.

It only lasted a minute, maybe less and then the mirror came down. Lunch was served, he thanked the woman and slowly ate his meal. As did I.

Some of those seated next to him, seemed to move away slightly, while still remaining in their booths. Others at the counter, look at him through the reflection in the large mirror in front of them and then looked away. A little embarrassed, a little uncomfortable that they had to witness something that shouldn’t be there.

He was obviously off. A little crazy, a little unwell. A man whose appearance and ability to buy lunch kept him closer to those, who wished he would simply go away. Not because he was dangerous, at least not outwardly so, but simply because he reminded them of something unsettling. Some itch that couldn’t be scratched. Some memory, better left where it was, in the past.

I met the Mirror Man randomly throughout the summer of 1973. Usually around MacArthur Park or the Miracle Mile area along Wilshire Boulevard. Usually walking briskly, on a mission. Eyes forward, intent on the world before him. Occasionally the mirror would come up. The words – just as confusing as the first time I heard them– would begin again. And then, just as quickly he would go quiet. He’d slow and look down, a little fatigued, a little broken

I questioned those I knew, those I worked with and asked if anyone knew anything more about the man, I had become fascinated with. Some nodded and described him as being over six feet tall, dirty and living in a box under a freeway overpass. Others remembered a small man, who simply talked to himself, carrying on long and vivid conversations. Different people, different stories, but not the one I was looking for.

As the months passed, I saw him less and less. I worried that he would soon drift out of my life as quietly as he entered it and I would never know anything more about him.

That’s when I met David. We began working together at a local non-profit and hit it off almost at once.

He was tall and lean, with bleached blonde hair, a surfer’s body, who spoke in an accent that was uniquely Los Angeles. Casual, yet clear. Off-handed at times, but as focused as anyone I knew and prone to long philosophical discussions late into the night.

It was during one these late-night conversations when I asked him about the Mirror Man. In fact, it was David who actually gave him his name.

David had first met him sometime in 1971. He described him exactly as I had remembered him. Always neatly dressed, in a suit, with white shirt and tie. Always holding the mirror in his left hand. Walking intently, filled with purpose and a place to go, when he would suddenly pull up, raise the mirror and talk quickly and quietly into it.

Apparently, David hadn’t been alone in these sightings. There were others who knew of the man. Knew him to be crazy and homeless. Crazy and well off. Crazy who spoke in made-up languages that meant nothing to anyone but him. Or simply, just another of the many crazies who populated the city, burnouts from the heyday of the 1960s.

The man had become a bit of a local legend. An urban myth to some, who possessed abilities and attributes that were almost farcical. Who could tell the future by looking into his mirror. Who knew your past, just ask him any question about it.

According to David, it was sometime in late 1972, that a friend of his had met up with the Mirror Man in one of the diners off Vermont and Wilshire. His friend was already seated and waiting for lunch, when the Mirror Man was given a table next to his. His friend recalled the man as being cleanshaven, neat, with a friendly face, and sad blue eyes that seemed focused somewhere beyond the windows and walls of the diner.

David’s friend was served first and began to eat, when the man next brought up his mirror. His friend described what happened next like this.

The mirror was small, with a jeweled edge and an ornate backing that had been made with care by a craftsman. He thought it might be made of silver. An antique from the turn of the century. The Mirror Man brought it up so he could look directly into and held it there as he seemed to be gathering his thoughts. When the words were spoken, David’s friend was surprised. Surprised because he immediately understood it to be eastern European, Czech to be exact and he understood what was being said.

The Mirror Man was talking to his wife and then his daughter in turn. He was telling them that he was sorry. Very sorry that he had not been able to save them from the camps. That he wished that he had died as well because he didn’t know how long he could go on living without them. But he would try, as he had been since the war ended, because he loved them so and wanted so much to be with them.

Overcome with the words, with his intrusion into this man’s private world, into his pain, David’s friend almost fled the diner, but instead waited. When the man next to him was served and the mirror was safely on the table next to him, he spoke to him in Czech. Simply saying, that he was sorry.

The Mirror Man brightened for a second and smiled. Then he returned to his meal and said nothing more.

When David finished his story that night, I was left with an untenable sense of anger and sadness for someone I didn’t even know, had never met and yet, felt such a close connection to. There was nothing for me to say. But in a way I felt vindicated. In that the man was not a crazy. Was not someone to dismiss as nothing much. He was something. A great something that others had damaged years before and who had earned the right to grieve.

The mirror was simply his way of transporting himself back to a time and place when he was happy. To when those he loved and cherished were still there beside him.

The mirror was not a sign of madness or weakness, but a symbol for what had become of him and his world. A place becoming harder to understand and easier to become forgotten within. The Mirror Man was a product of his time, growing more and more lost until someone found him by chance. This simple act didn’t change anything. Didn’t or couldn’t bring anyone back to him. But at least for that brief moment, he was understood and perhaps that was good enough

Also published in Medium. https://medium.com/illumination/the-mirror-man-bcba5b0149ae