Masks

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.