Mask-Maker

I stood in the center of the room smoking my cigarette and preparing for his arrival, stiffening my posture each time a car drove by. Fifteen minutes past noon. He was toying with me, making me wait and exercising his dominating hand. He was letting me know my place. Surrounded by the colorful remains of sellout sculptures and meaningless paintings, I imagined he’d be surprised to find that my place no longer depended on his kind. I planned on walking away from the art world. No more fair-weather critics or kissing aristocratic ass. No more deadlines or rejected masterpieces. No more babbling intellects discussing the significance of shit in a box – I was done, and sacking groceries sounded increasingly more appealing. It was honest work, harmless and without malice, dependent only on people’s need to buy food.

A limousine pulled up out front and my client stepped out onto the sidewalk, alone and debonair in his suit and long coat gently catching a breeze and flaring out at the bottom. I tossed my cigarette on the floor and crushed it out with my pointy black leather shoes as I strolled across the room toward the door. Running my hands through the sides of my hair, I inhaled deeply and slowly released my nerves. Swinging open the door, I smiled and held out my arm inviting him inside. He hesitated, his pinched face brooding and stern as he looked me over and peeked around my shoulder into the studio.

“After you,” I said.

He eyed my waist and stepped inside. Shutting the door behind us, I stood beside him as he stopped to look upon the chaos that surrounded him.

“Vandals,” I said.

He watched me from the corner of his eye and wandered deeper into my lair. I thought about it. As if giving him the mask wasn’t enough to satisfy my thirst for retribution, I pictured myself pulling out the gun and shooting several holes in the back of his graying head. The ways and means rested coldly against my abdomen and the only thing stopping me was me, but I had yet to reach that point. I followed behind and placed my hand on the small of his back directing him over to the table.

“I hope you like it,” I said, pursing my lips and avoiding eye contact. “No other mask will look quite like this one, I assure you. Oh, watch your step.”

His foot landed in a pool of red paint and he stumbled back, wiping his shoe off and streaking the paint across the tarp. Gathering himself, he yanked on his coat and cautiously stepped closer to the table. My body detoxed and poured with sweat, but my face revealed nothing, cool and collected as I picked up the mask and coughed to hide my giggle. The crooked nose was perfectly obvious underneath the thin veil of tissue paper.

“It’s one of a kind,” I said, holding it out for him to take, “completely original.”

Removing his hands from his deep pockets, he reached out and snatched the mask from my grip. “Thanks,” he muttered. “I’ll send you a check in the mail.” He backed away from my gleaming eyes and turned to leave.

“Wait,” I said, maneuvering around the table and stomping through the puddle of red paint. “You should open it here.”

“And why’s that?” he asked, turning around at the door.

I stood before him and ran my fingers through my mismanaged hair. “In case it needs modifying,” I said. “That is, in case it’s not up to your liking.”

He glanced down at the veiled mask and then back at me, a malicious glint burned in his deep blue eyes. “Modifying?” he asked. “I’m sure it’s fine, Mr. Brava, but I suppose I’ll humor your shameful self-doubt.”

“How very kind of you,” I replied.

His soft hands pulled away the tissue paper and carefully flipped the mask over with the crooked nose lagging behind. I coughed into my hand and then clasped my arms behind my back. I anticipated his pinched face to straighten out like worn elastic, but he rewrapped the mask and held it by his side. Wetting his lips, his blue eyes darkened as they bore into me with cold indignation. I smirked and held his glare, my pretty green eyes remembering the silver and black ring inset with a garnet stone wrapped around my client’s index finger. The desecrated mask should have come as no surprise to him. He knew who I was, and I recognized that ring from a prior client of mine. I remembered feeling the cold garnet stone as he flipped it around on his finger and slid it down the inside of my thigh. He’d worn the same type of mask back then as well, with the long-exaggerated nose and cut off mouth. I wondered how many of us existed, ex-child prostitutes turned mask makers. The concept was as ridiculous as selling one’s soul for rock-and-roll, but they kept us under their thumbs whether we knew it or not. The devil owned the arts according to Michael, but I was done. I was getting out.