This week I met up with my best friend. We are both so busy that it is hard for us to
find time for each other, but we still try to meet up whenever we can. I know I can always call him if I need to,
but sometimes it is nice just to sit and chat without there being some great
emergency or awful thing happening. He
needs to know I want him there for the good times as well as the bad.
I am painfully aware that I need him more than he needs me…Or
perhaps I just think that? Either way
it actually doesn’t matter. If he ever
needed my help I would be there for him in a heartbeat. I have pledged to one day return all the
favours he has afforded me; this I have promised him and he accepted my vow, never
once questioning how I would do that. He
has that much belief in me.
We hug when we meet. People
who think they know him might be surprised by that, but for some – the other
souls he goes to visit - it would seem entirely within his character. He goes to my living room to sit down and I
go to the kitchen to make tea and get biscuits.
I always give him my Catwoman mug to drink out of, and each time I hand
it to him he grins and I end up grinning back.
The novelty of him coming round should have worn off ages ago, yet we still
seem to find it exciting. I think it's because we are really two big kids, deep-down.
To be honest, he looks faintly ridiculous on my sofa. He’s a big guy so I curl my legs underneath
me so that he can stretch out his long limbs across the carpet. He places one of my cushions behind his back
so that he can lean back a little and relax, but still he never looks quite
unfurled. He seems half-opened, like a
midnight orchid waiting for the moon.
But he isn’t the sort to hold back if he didn’t feel comfortable, so we
carry on, facing each other, chatting and dunking hob-nobs, of which he never
has more than two.
‘So,’ he says just after finishing his first biscuit, ‘You
did a good thing last week.’
I smile. ‘Yes, I won
a prize.’
‘An i-Pad. What do
you think of it?’
‘It’s okay’, I tell him.
‘It’s a very elegant way of playing Connect 4.’
‘Yes, so you wrote on your blog.’
I say, ‘You read that, then?’ knowing full well that he
does. He knows just about everything.
‘So now it gets published?
You must be pleased.’
‘Yes I am.’ I pause.
‘But,’ he says.
‘Sorry?’
‘There’s a “but” in that reply. Tell me what it is.’
‘But,’ I tell him, ‘there’s so much work to do, so much to
get done. I can’t let up. I’m nowhere near even finishing my MA let
alone starting a PhD. One essay prize
does not a life make.’
He agrees with me, ‘No, absolutely not. And your submission wasn’t an academic piece:
it wasn’t researched (though, it was argued).
It was based on your feelings and your opinions. However, it is a step forward. You should learn to take joy from things,
Joanne.’
‘Oh, that’s priceless coming from you.’ I retort. ‘You’re the most driven man in fiction!’
‘We do not always tread the paths we advise others to
take. That isn’t hypocrisy – it is the
gifting of experience to another. I
wouldn’t want you to have the life I have had.’
On occasion – briefly and to-the-point – he reminds me that,
though he chose his bat-shaped form, it came at a grave cost. He lives it so that others do not have
to. I feel guilty about this. You should too.
‘No, I realise that.
And I have taken joy from this, I truly have, but that’s part of the
problem. I thought that deciding to
change my life was going to make this year easier but it’s made it harder, if
anything. I only have ten months or so
left in my current role, yet I look round and think, “Why should I put up with
this nonsense? Why wait a moment longer?” Everything makes me angry. All I want to do is scream in people’s faces;
make them wake up to what is actually going on around them. It’s making me crazy…’
I stop because I have said enough. He doesn’t say anything. Instead his blank eyes are downcast, his lips
pursed in thought. I follow his gaze
down to his hands which are gloved as always because, although we are friends
and truly so, he still can’t trust the rest of the world enough to leave a
fingerprint behind. I notice that he is
holding something.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
He smiles, more for himself than for my benefit. ‘This?
This is my mask.’
He holds it up for me to see. It hangs loose and saggy, like a dead
balloon. My breath catches under my
tongue: What would he look like wearing it?
‘Put it on,’ I say.
He bends forward and pulls it over his head, bending back
those pointed ears of his flat down. I
watch him disappear and a new person take his place. He turns to me. I laugh.
‘Bruce Wayne! I
should have guessed. So that’s your
mask?’
‘Yes.’
I feel serious now, like I might die if I don’t extract some
wisdom from this moment. ‘Tell me how I
do this.’
He breathes in, loudly and deeply through his nose and his
chest expands so big I fear he may take up the whole room. ‘You have to pretend not to be bothered. Just smile and through your gritted teeth
say, “Thank you so much for that!”’
That answer doesn’t satisfy me: ‘But when do you ever have
to compromise? I struggle because my
current life going nowhere. There is no
potential to extract meaning from what I do so I am choosing to leave it
behind. But it is very different for you. You have the opportunity to do much good as
Bruce Wayne. Everyone likes you - you
employ half of Gotham, fund all those
charities…’
‘You’re right – of course you are. I have enormous privilege in both roles. But there’s a dozen times every day when I’m
walking round with this thing on and wish, wish I could whip it off and smash
my fist into someone’s face. Like when I
have to listen to people complain over lunch because they only made ten million
from the stock market last week, or how number two of their four mistresses
doesn’t like the Rolex they bought so they’re going to give it to the wife….On
the whole, rich people are not the best company for a man who believes in doing
the right thing. And I have to play goddamn golf. Do you want to play golf? Because if you do, you can wear this thing
for me if you like.’ He points at his face for emphasis as he says this.
‘No. I do not want to
play goddamn golf,’ I reply, laughing.
‘So, you’re telling me that I have to be dishonest, that I have to
pretend to be something I am not. Is
that it?’
‘There is a dishonesty – yes - although I do not like the
word. The compromise comes in that you,
the real you, just has to sometimes turn and walk away from the fight because
there is a bigger battle to be won. You
cannot change everyone and everything, but if you do set out to make a
difference to this world and live by your principles then you are already
winning.’
He takes his mask off. I watch as his ears spring back up
and his eyes turn opaque white once more.
He reaches out to me and puts his hands over mine. ‘I am not asking you to not be yourself,
Joanne. I know that is impossible for
you. But ten months is such a short time
to out up with something for the sake of a lifetime of dreams, isn’t it?’
I look up at him. He
is smiling. I am smiling too. He takes his hands away and I see that he has
left something in mine. I hold it
up.
‘Is this for me?’
‘Yes. It’s not a
gift, exactly. It’s more something I
found.’
I look carefully at it.
‘It’s me!’ I exclaim.
‘Yes,’ he replies.
It is you. You wore it for many
years. Don’t you remember?’
Of course I remember.
I used to put this mask on each day and leave the house and pretend to
be someone I’m not.
‘The truth is we all wear masks,
constantly. And when in ten months you
are finally finished with this one, another will take its place - one that you may
need for certain situations, say, or for different groups of people. Masks are the one great truth, Joanne.’
It is time for him to go. He stands up as though he is made of gears
and winches. When he reaches his full
height he reminds me of a great, black steel crane towering over the
skyline. ‘You are too tall,’ I tell
him.
‘No. You are too
short,’ he laughs, and snorts a little because he finds it so funny.
I show him to the door.
He turns and says goodbye. I
watch him walk down my drive, get into his car and drive away.
My best friend.
Batman.
