Writing for Fun
December 2021
Behind the mask - Pete Norman
Martin Sutton wore a mask.
It was not the kind of mask that steamed up your glasses or made it difficult to breath . . . this mask was completely invisible.
Just like everyone else in the hospitality industry, he found it necessary to project a certain convivial image to the customers, even when he was exhausted, even when his feet ached, or even when there were still three long hours until closing time and he had had a really bad day.
That mask had to be maintained, regardless, because it was essential that each and every customer believed that to serve them was their waiter’s sole purpose in life, that at a single click of their fingers their every whim and fancy would be indulged and that their dining experience would be second to none.
It was essential that they were so ecstatic when they came to settling the bill that the one thought uppermost in their mind would be to extend some generous gratuity to the one who had been their loyal slave throughout their stay.
Today had been particularly busy – not just busy but with more than the usual number of troublesome, demanding customers and he was well and truly exhausted, his feet ached . . . he had had a really bad day.
When the restaurant finally closed that evening his colleagues burst out onto the street like excited schoolchildren, casting off their ethereal masks the instant they walked through the door, morphing back into their own unruly, self centred, hedonistic selves where the nearest they got to condescension was their expectations from the bar staff at the Rose & Crown.
But Martin’s mask was nowhere as ephemeral as theirs. As the rest of his colleagues turned right, Martin alone turned left. He had declined their invitations so many times before that they now no longer bothered to invite him to join in with their late night festivities. Instead he went home alone, went directly home, did not pass GO and did not collect £200.
It was true that he also enjoyed a cold beer after a busy day – but this was always at home, alone, not in a big crowd, not in a noisy pub where he was forced to participate in mundane conversations in an environment where he struggled to hear anything over the musac and the cacophony of the multiple conversations and background noise.
He closed the door and secured it firmly behind him. In the womb-like comfort of his own private space – his sanctuary, his safe place – the mask finally evaporated and he could finally feel his own comfortable, private, insular self returning, the weight of the day disappearing.
The room was deathly quiet and so he opened up the playlist – what did he need right now? hard rock or silky smooth? – his finger hovered for a few seconds over Led Zeppelin but then slowly and inevitably settled on Louis Armstrong.
He fired up the laptop, pulled a cold Stella from the fridge and sat down to spend some quality time pitting his wits against some meaningless game, allowing the mundanity to wash away the trials and tribulations of the day – the good and the not so good – but no matter which direction his mind wandered off in it inevitably settled back to his own failings. The slaying of the aliens on the screen became almost robotic as he struggled mentally to set right the wrongs of the day – a habitual but always hopeless task.
However there was one happy thought that always interrupted his sombre thoughts . . . like a white knight on a fiery charger . . . like a bright light shone into the inner darkness . . .
. . . but he did not even know her name . . .
. . . but he would like to know that and a lot, lot more about her . . .
. . . but . . . but she was an enigma.
He found it difficult to quantify exactly what it was about her that had such an impact on him: she was a regular and had been so for all the time he had worked there; she always arrived at precisely 12:15 and sat at precisely the same table – No. 7 – which she had made her very own; she always ordered exactly the same meal – vegetarian lasagne and a latte; she had a beautiful but enigmatic smile – a Mona Lisa smile – a smile that had no substance, barely skin deep . . . but a smile which hinted at a deep but carefully concealed sadness.
It was, nevertheless, a beautiful smile.
Her routine each day was so predictable that it would have been possible to complete the entire transaction without speech but he always tried to inject some humorous comment in an attempt to break the ice – to break through the brick wall – but his reward was always the same, a beautiful smile . . . while her finger drummed absently on the table top.
She was an enigma – a total and unattainable enigma.
To make his miserable life even more miserable, she had not been into the restaurant for three days now – which, with her precise and regimental conduct, was almost unheard of – and he was worried that she was either unwell or else whatever was causing her carefully concealed sadness was somehow the cause of her absence. Whatever the reason he firmly believed that he would never see her again . . .
. . . and that would make his job almost unbearable.
The following day he trudged into work with little enthusiasm and he tried hard to busy himself with the mundane routine of the restaurant but his heart was not really in it.
At 12:15 precisely he was carrying two Steak & Ale pies to table 12 when he saw the door open. He froze to the spot, nearly dropping the plates, his heart almost stopping as she smiled her enigmatic smile at him. He abandoned the plates with undue haste and hurried over to table 7. ‘We missed you,’ was all he could manage to cover his delight. Once again she smiled . . . she smiled with her lips . . . but her deep brown eyes were clearly contradicting the gesture. If the eyes truly are the window to the soul then her soul was screaming out in agony.
However, what could he, a humble waiter, say to her to relieve her pain? He was powerless to do more than to accept her order as usual and to turn back to the kitchen to fulfil it.
He tried hard to concentrate on his work but he could not stop his mind from thinking of her, or his eyes from straying over to table 7 where she was idly picking at her food with no great enthusiasm and barely eating a morsel. He had no option but to wait until she had clearly finished and, with still half a plate remaining, she put down her knife and fork and caught his eye.
He hurried over to her table but made no comment about her lack of appetite, instead he asked the required question, ‘Would you like desert?’
He already knew the answer – her routine never included desert – and he dutifully cleared her table.
When he returned with her bill she was staring absently into space and, without the smile to soften the blow, he could clearly see her misery.
He took a deep breath and dived in recklessly.
‘I wear a mask.’ His fingers traced across his face as if to illustrate the point. ‘Nobody can see it you see . . . but nobody can see through it. I am safe here. Nobody can see the real me that is hiding behind the mask. Nobody can see if I am happy or sad. The only thing they can see is the image that I project to them.’
She was staring at him in surprise and disbelief but she said nothing in reply. Her fingers were absently drumming on the table.
He picked up the last remaining shreds of courage and said, ‘My mask is black.’ He scribbled a few words on her bill and slipped in under the salt pot. A blush spreading over his face he added, ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to reply to that.’
He turned on his heel and fled to the sanctuary of the kitchen where, leaning heavily against the wall he struggled to regain his composure and to still his frenzied heart.
Long before he wanted to he was called away from the sanctity of the wall – a bell rang. ‘Service. No. 8.’
Reluctantly he took the two plates and backed through the swing door and carried the plates to table 8 but in doing so he had to pass directly by table 7 . . . which was vacant . . . she had gone. On the table was the correct money – as usual, a one pound coin gratuity – as usual . . . but unusually the bill was still under the salt pot where he had left it. He grabbed the bill and scrunched it into his palm while he carried the money to the till.
He was devastated. His mind was a complete mess. He had completely blown it. He should never have been so stupid. He would never see her again.
His active mind added another possibility – what if she made a formal complaint against him? What if David were to dispense with his services for his ‘unacceptable conduct?’
Whichever happened his job in the restaurant was over – he could not afford the stigma of dismissal, neither could he suffer the sight of that empty table every working day.
He opened the bill and read the five damning words he had written: ‘WHAT COLOUR IS YOUR MASK?’ and the smily face beneath it.
Then his eyes travelled down still further where, to his amazement, she had written, ‘OBSIDIAN’ and alongside it a frowny face. Below it she had added five precious words, ‘We need to talk.’
[‘Autism masking’ or ‘camouflaging’ is a social phenomenon where autistic people learn, practice and perform certain behaviours and suppress others in order to appear more neurotypical.]