THE MASK

          “Smile, willya?!” Squalled Nadine. “Jesus H. Christ, you'd think your face'd crack open!”

Bailey felt a smirk coming on, but now he had a need to fight it back down, which he did successfully. He, Othmar, Emily, Nadine, Dennis and Darren were together for the usual AM coffee splurge and gab at Denny's---Saturday night drifting into sunrise and no one had to go to work on Sunday morning----even Emily had a week or so to kill before she'd have to catch the shuttle back to New York...

“Jesus,” Nadine bitched, “Don't you EVER smile?! You're doing okay, getting a free ride to all the galleries, getting good meals----what's your problem?!”

“Bailey's got no problems,” Othmar, as usual, coming to his rescue, “he just has a sense of purpose!”

“He'll smile when he has a reason,” said Dennis.

“You have to know ole Bailey as long as we have,” said Emily, “to know that when he's zoning like that it doesn't mean he's got a problem.” She reached over and patted Bailey on the shoulder. “He's a very sensitive boy, and a fine artist in his own right.”

“The best,” helped Othmar. “It's just a matter of our convincing the rest of the world so.”

“We'll get there, ole Bailey,” drawled Dennis, “Do not fret. We're all gonna get where we're goin' someday.”

“I know,” said Bailey, and rode with it—Othmar and Emily and the gang were good friends, but as ever, he could have done without the testimonials.

Nadine harped on. “I don't know----I don't get it---we're all having a good time and there you are, pal, off in the doldrums!”

“I'm having a good time,” Bailey offered weakly.

“And you just--”

“You see?” Darren barked. “You see?! He's having a good time, dear! Now, willya get off the poor guy's case?”

Subject matter picked up and moved on---there was no sense in killing a whole evening/morning arguing about Bailey's facial expression.

Dennis was clipping off on one of his college-era road rambles. “So, anyway, Texas, down to the border, right? There are six of us, all crazy and half-in-the-bag in that one tiny car.....”

“Must smelled dandy,” Nadine editorialized.

“So, what do you figure a cop would have to say about it?” Continued Dennis.

The booth was situated beside the picture window and Bailey found himself drawn to stare out into the parking lot---it was three o'clock, give or take, and the asphalt, at least on this side of he building, was empty----dead for a Saturday night, here. It was early September, time of dying sun and heat and Bailey knew the snow wasn't far off, now, that it would be blessing the ground like a sad angel powder...millions of tiny crystals pushing the black out, showering the vacant earth....

“--Hey, Bailey?”

“Huh?”

“I said, 'are you ready to pack it in?' “ Repeated Othmar.

“Oh! Sorry! Sure, I'm all set.”

“Jesus! Earth to Bailey!”

“He looks tired,” said Emily. “C'mon, Bailey, we'll take you home.”

“Later, all.”

“ 'Bye,” the gang saluted, all wired-but-tired and gabhappy.

“And goddammit, try to cheer up, will you?” Yelled Nadine.

A yeah, yeah, yeah would have done, but Bailey opted to retain his dignity with silence. Outside, the wind blew---Bailey was right; Winter, long off, still, but sure, was a shadowy creep aking its overtures to the land.

“Don't listen to Nadine,” grumbled Emily. “She's just a bitch, she doesn't see your inside.”

“Sometimes I wish I couldn't,” joked Bailey.

“Cut the crap,” said Othmar, fishing through his pockets for the car keys. “Man, you bug me when you start talking like that.”

Othmar drove downtown to Bailey's Canal Street apartment---he was animated, as he frequently was on those occasions when Emily was in town, going off ragtime about all things art and sex and machinery. His and Emily's creation-in-the-works was a sculpture of tire irons that were welded together....the whole mess was obviously erotic in nature but maybe the full effect hadn't been fully realized, yet, since at present it still looked like a gnarled patchwork of tire irons. But it was always good to see a surprise unfold, and dammit, Othmar was happy and excited, and that hand to count as a positive, right?

Bailey laughed....he enjoyed Othmar's enthusiasm, but it was hard to get around the fact that he was tired.

Othmar pulled up to the curb. “Need any help getting in the door?”

“No,” said Bailey. “I think I know my way by now.” He loped up to the front door, searched his coat pocket, found the keys, turned momentarily to wave goodbye and let himself in.

Othmar put it into drive.

“Othmar?”

“S'up, babe?”

“I wish you'd put in a word with Bernice for Bailey. I kind of worry about him, living in that dump. I mean, your place isn't THAT much more expensive.”

“Oh, Em,” sighed Othmar, “we're talking Bailey, here, and you've known him as long as I have. You know how he is and you know what he HAS to do----he wants to live in a place that's 'alive', a place where there's a lot going on....it helps him. Somehow. He keeps saying.”

“I know,” Emily grudged. “But I wonder sometimes if it doesn't hurt him, as well. Look at Bailey, in shittown, Bailey, with his candles and his books and his little glass angel figurines----he needs it, or he says he needs it, but there's a big contradiction there. I think he's very frail.”

Othmar shrugged a shoulder. “I know, but it's Bailey, who's on a fixed income, who ain't rich by any stretch, and neither am I, but he thrives on it.”

“He says he thrives on it.”

“Maybe he needs it. Bailey and the glass angels and shittown.”

“Whatever. Still, I worry.”

“Yeah, well....maybe sleep on that worry,.” Othmar pulled into the Dell Street parking lot. “I'll see about talking to him.”

“ 'Kay,” smiled Emily. Obviously no constructive thought was about to transpire before a decent night's sleep at this point.

******

In the dim light of his apartment Bailey admired the decorations on his single end table by the couch he'd fished out of the dumpster last Christmas. He was proud of what was evolving as kind of an interchangeable, free-flowing diorama. There were the candles and all the glass angels, of course, those were a natural given, here, but also the various actors----the Godzilla, Jet Jaguar, Ultraman and King Caesar action figures; Time Traveler, his old, stalwart Micronauts doll from grade school; GI Joe and a few molded plastic ninjas, all forming a phalanx around and on top of his pill organizer. It was almost a political statement for him at this point----no man enters, no man leaves.

He'd had conversations with Bruce and Mike, a couple of the local guys from the neighborhood.

---”hey, Dave, we ain't seen ya much lately!” Everyone in the neighborhood Bailey saw called him “Dave”---not out of any malice, he was sure of that, but everyone, for whatever reason, was sure he was “Dave”, and acted like he should know who they were, even if he didn't.

Was there a guy named “Dave” walking around town that looked exactly like Bailey?

It didn't bother him enough to correct them, though. He was alright with letting it go.

---”we don't never see ya down to the community council no more, Dave! How come you don't go there?”

---”I don't want to.”

----”Aww, you know they got lotsa good drugs, Dave!”

----”Yeah, that's okay, I don't want to.”

----”Aw, everybody misses ya downa community council, Dave!”

Bailey was jarred out of this memory but hooting and hollering from several people outside. It suddenly occurred to him that he was sitting, buck naked, in front of those windows on the side of the house.

Hell, the apartment was like a fishbowl---windows EVERYWHERE. Even here on the second floor, in low light, the neighbors were getting a show.

“WOOO! Shake it for me, baby!!!!” Hollered a woman out in the darkness.

“Getcher pants on, faggot,” snarled a male voice. “You're scaring the children!”

Bailey made to get up and make a run for the bedroom and whatever surgical equivalent to pajamas he could find there but in the end he sat back down. Bolting and getting dressed was almost an admission of guilt, and Bailey wasn't about to play that game with these troglodytes.

The catcalls eventually died down. Bailey made his way to the darkened front room for some peace.

It wasn't that there were less windows in the front room but they mostly faced the street below and the lights were all off.

Bailey sat on a motheaten couch that had been left by a previous tenant. The place, whatever Othmar and Emily wanted to say about it, had no shortage of couches.

Down in the street, some unseen man yelled to some invisible addressee. The man sounded as though at least half his civilized demeanor had somehow taken a slip down the evolutionary board. Scuffle in the dirt, sound of a bottle breaking.

The candles were out. Bailey crouched on the floor and tightened up into a ball.

The man outside screamed in an anguished rage where the last vestiges of his humanity seemed to slip away forever.

Bailey clutched the sides of his head. “Stop,” he groaned.” Make it stop. Make it stop.”

*******

Othmar had a package to pick up at the post office on the South End. Bailey had a few hours to kill---hell----it seemed as though Bailey never had anything but time---and so he accompanied Othmar for the ride.

“Emily get back okay?”

“Yeah....kinda nice, though.....some obligations kinda going by the wayside.....she'll be back up here mid-week.” Othmar looked pretty stoked.

“That's good,” said Bailey. “She gonna be in town for the opening?”

“Yeah, at this point, most likely,” said Othmar.

“I used to go to the South End post office a lot,” said Bailey, “back when I was more into the mail art thing. I'd go out there and then I'd hit the McDonald's and I'd eat my burgers and read my mail. I don't really do that anymore.”

“You look sad, pal, “ said Othmar, “how you been?”

Bailey shrugged. “Okay, I guess. It's just---I don't know---sometimes I wonder what the hell's happening.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's hard to explain.” Bailey's soft voice was more quiet and halting than usual---it sounded funeral parlor to Othmar. “You know....those times when you're moving through a crowded room and you think you heard someone calling your name? Then you turn and you stare at them and you realize they weren't talking to you at all? Then you try to cover up by staring at everyone else in the room in kind of a roundabout way and then you just look confused and stare down at your shoes? Then you laugh to yourself and you shake your head and half the people there are staring at you and wondering what the hell is going on and so you just slink out of the room but halfway out you say, oh, God, what am I doing and you go back in and you look around again but nothing's any different, it's just, like, pffft! Pffft! Pffft!” He made small, sad, explosive gestures with his right hand to accompany each “pfft”, “and there's nothing you can do so you leave anyway, but then it feels...unfinished? You've got this bad feeling deep down but it's like there's nothing you can do? You know those times, Othmar?”

“No,” Othmar frowned.

“Oh,” said Bailey, his fingers roaming delicately, nervously, across his face. “Well, it's not too important.”

They arrived at the post office. There was no line and Othmar mailed off his package. Bailey cut loose and ran down the hall to check his P.O. Box. He rejoined Othmar out the door.

“Anything?”

“Nada,” said Bailey. The two got back in the car.

“Didn't realize you still kept your P.O. Box down here. Thought you'd given up on the Mail Art thing.”

“Oh, yeah, I have,” said Bailey. “I still get my monthly check, you know, and I figured it'd be too early in the month to come looking for it, and I was right, but we were here, and I thought, well, when in Rome....”

“How's that going?”

“It's alright,” said Bailey, “You know, you go down to your appointment every six months or so and they draw your blood and the Chinese guy gropes your balls and tells you to cough and then they ask you questions. 'Have you had any accidents over the last six months?' And you say, 'no,' and they say, 'do you hear voices?' And you tell them, 'no,' and they ask you, 'do you have any special powers---can you turn invisible or fly or read minds?' And you say, 'no, I can't do any of those things,' and they sign a bunch of papers and re-up you on your meds and you keep getting your nut check in the mail.”

Othmar winced. “Dude, don't say that.”

“What---'Nut Check'? Dude, if I can have a sense of humor about this, you can, too.”

“Bailey, ole bud, are you doing okay?”

“Yeah, I guess....why?”

“Emily and I were talking and sometimes we worry about you, living out there on Canal Street and whatnot.”

“I'm okay.”

“We're not real sure. Listen, Bailey, all I'm saying is that if you want to move to, say, where I'm living, I'm sure I can badger Bernice into cutting you a decent deal on the rent...”

Long silence. “That's nice, Othmar, but I'm okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You SURE you're sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Absolutely, positively, a hundred percent sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Pinky swear?”

“Dude.”

So began the long, quiet drive back to Canal Street. Bailey spoke up first. “Winter's coming, soon.”

“Yeah,” said Othmar. He hated Winter.

“I like the snow,” said Bailey. “When it's virgin snow. It's like angel powder, and I like it when it covers up all the dirt.”

“Yeah,” said Othmar.

*******

It was a long time ago----Bailey remembered he was eight and he and his father sat together on a jetty on the Cape. He was crying and his father was trying to brace his leg, trying to yank a rusty, barbed fishing hook out of his foot. It was painful----blood was all over the rock. “Eeeyeeyeeee,” cried little Bailey.

“Shaddap,” yelled his father. “It'll be out in a second...quit yer yeein'.” His father pulled. It was still caught in his foot. It seemed that blood was everywhere.

“Eeeeeyeeeyeeeyeeeeee,” squealed Bailey.

His father boxed his ears. “Stop that goddamn yeein',” he snarled.

Blood on the jetty and the boy was crying. Seagulls yakked and tittered. Ocean bellowed.

*******

He knew his name was Bailey and that was the end of the discussion. Othmar and Emily knew he was Bailey-----even Nadine knew he was Bailey.

It didn't matter what all the people on the street said, what they said down at the temp agency, what they said down at the neighborhood bar where he cashed his checks. He was BAILEY. And all those check stubs on the kitchen table addressed to “David Sinclair”, whoever had put them there, didn't matter, either.

He was going to make a moral stand and be who he was, regardless of the box people tried to put him in. He grabbed a pair of scissors that he had lying loose on the couch cushion for God knows how long....relic from the mail art days. And goddammit, he thought as a side note, all his friends and colleagues around the country----whatever may have happened to them at this point.....they knew him, too. They knew he was Bailey.

The first things he pulled out of his pocket were his driver's license and his social security card. He cut them both into tiny, jagged pieces.

There were others, of course----the library card was one-----these two were the big ones, though. That was an ideal place to start.

For a hot second it was his plan to take the whole bolus of gnarled, segmented card stock and laminated plastic and dump it all in the trash. He hesitated, though, and thought better of it. If it was all located in the same place it was almost a guarantee that anyone could assemble all the remnants, no matter how erratically he may have cut them, and reassemble them as they'd been before.

He wasn't going to let that happen!

He dropped a few scattered bits in the trashcan....he had a couple of little dustbins around the house----one in the bathroom and one in the den-----he supposed these were options, but even then, were they all too close for comfort?

No----Bailey decided he would dispose of them over a period of several weeks, so as not to arouse suspicion. He played with the idea of dropping various pieces around town----maybe he could take the bus one day, have a little trip around town and deposit the random pieces in various trashcans and dumpsters.

He wished it were more feasible to travel out of state.....that would be even better.

He sat and thought about that for a while.

********

Wednesday, and the TV was going. Some lecherous kiddie show host rasped in a cancerous deadpan while holding a tiny girl on is lap. Bailey winced.

Out in the muddy courtyard, two dogs were tangling and snapping---could it have been that two of the men from Saturday night had become dogs?

He laughed out loud, then scowled. He hurled one of the glass angel figurines at the far wall. It smashed. On the other side of the wall, next door, a fist pounded in response and a man's voice boomed, foreign and judgmental.

Bailey crept over to the broken angel on his hands and knees. Fretting and whimpering, he scooped up the pieces. “You never hurt anyone,” he told the broken glass as he wept.

Bailey felt stray shards digging into his knees and the heel of one hand. He tried to sooth himself. Winter would come soon, it would come soon....

Winter. The snow.

Crystal showers in the dark.

Bailey stood up. He ran over to the figurine shelves, heart beating rapidly, and he yanked the top shelf off its brackets....

********

It was two o'clock Friday afternoon when, after two hours of trying to raise Bailey either by phone or by knocking on the door, Othmar, Emily and Dennis finally got the gumption to get the spare key from Jake, Bailey's landlord, and get into the apartment.

They pulled the bed covers away from him, fearing the worst. Bailey was alive, though locked obstinately in a fetal position. They dragged him out of bed.

Bailey's face was frozen in a horrific grimace that resembled that sad-or-tragic side of the two dramatic personae masks. The corners of his mouth were turned down in a grotesque, exaggerated manner—it was a perfectly formed crying-mouth, matched by two similarly perfect crying-eyes, which were, in turn, complimented by a tragically knit brow.

“Bailey,” whispered Othmar, “what the hell is this?”

Bailey refused to answer Othmar, barely acknowledging anyone else in the apartment. He sat on the foot of his bed, his rueful facial expression gruesome and unmoving.

Dennis sat down beside him. He put a sympathetic hand on Bailey's shoulder. “Buddy, what is it? Huh? Are you okay?”

“Apparently not,” snapped Othmar.

“What's the deal, man?” Asked Dennis, undaunted. “We're your friends, man!”

Bailey shook Dennis off, stood up feebly and hobbled into the kitchen, where he collapsed by the sink. He lay there, imploded and mute in the corner, his back to the other three.

Othmar followed him. “Bailey! Come on, man, talk to me! What's wrong? What's with the face?”

No response.

Emily noticed a small, college ruled notebook on Bailey's reading table. The book was marked, in ballpoint scrawled block letters, “JOURNAL”. She picked it up.

Othmar was in the kitchen, talking softly to Bailey, who wouldn't drop that ugly, wounded facial expression. Dennis sat where he was, on the edge of the bed, quiet, staring at the floor. Emily began thumbing through entries in Bailey's journal.

One simply read,

Despondent.

Emily flipped a few pages. Another one read,

Othmar, Emily, Nadine and all the others. I love them. I am not functioning on their level

of existence, never can, never will. I am everybody's silly child.

More pages. She stopped on another one dated Sunday.

A bunch of neighbors, sitting on the porch, were just hanging out. The one lady's big, black dog started barking at me like it always does. Everyone else was friendly enough. “He still doesn't like you,” she said, referring to the dog. I went inside and I heard her say, “because you're an asshole, that's why he don't like you.” I spent the whole night wondering what I did to deserve that, from her AND the dog.

She felt her eyes filling. More pages. Lots of long raving about his identity, the long fight for it, and moral stands against....she wasn't sure what. His father? People he barely knew around town? It read like a thesis statement. Then the last entry.

The angels are dying! The angels are dying!

It was then that she saw all the smashed crystal on the far side of the living room.

“Oh, God,” moaned Emily, hands to mouth, “I saw it all coming, I saw it all coming....”

Dennis looked up. “Huh? Saw what coming? Hey, Em, you okay?”

“Othmar....”

Othmar was in the kitchen, trying to talk to the unresponsive Bailey.

“Othmar?” Emily's hands were shaking. She dropped the journal with a loud Thak! On the linoleum.

Othmar looked over his shoulder for a second, then turned back to Bailey.

Emily's voice was weak and tremulous now. “Othmar....? Pal....?”

“What?!” He snapped. It was the first time he'd ever raised his voice to her.

“I feel sick,” she said. She was aware of her legs giving way. Othmar bolted halfway across the kitchen and caught her as she pitched forward.

**********

They brought him to the car, almost having to carry him. He wouldn't drop the face.

Their first notion was the emergency room. It turned into a fight at the Admissions Desk.

“Bailey,” said Othmar. “Bailey Sinclair. We don't know what's wrong with him. He won't talk.”

“David,” said Emily.

“What?”

“David Sinclair. That's his name.”

“Bailey. His name is Bailey.”

“No, Othmar, it's David.”

“Bullshit, he's Bailey. We've known him most of our lives. He's Bailey!”

“That's not his legal name, Othmar! You know that!”

“I know who he is!”

“Listen,” scolded the Admissions Nurse. “If this is going to turn into a screaming match you can take it to another hospital in another town, okay?”

Eventually it wound being pointless, anyway. No insurance, no info, no word on any family members. Othmar and Emily were aware that Bailey's father was SOMEWHERE out in the world but they didn't know where and they doubted Bailey had kept tabs on him.

Ultimately the little group were tossed out.

For a couple of days they carried on stoically, hoping that conditions would change and that Bailey would revert back to normal, but his peculiar catatonia persisted. He functioned, but would not change the frozen frown, would not speak and appeared not to listen.

They took turns minding him overnight---Dennis on Friday night, Othmar and Emily on Saturday. They brought him to Denny's Sunday night to sit with the gang. He wouldn't eat or drink. In fact, if he ever ate or drank (or pissed or shat, for that matter) in the state he was in, no one ever saw him do so.

Nadine was her usual pain in the ass self and took it upon herself to wreck the already rough proceedings.

“I told ya,” she harped, “you brought it on yourself. You never listened. I said, 'smile!' And did you? No. What----was your face going to crack open? Now it has! Look at you now, you freak! You're a joke!”

“You watch what you say about him,” said Emily through her teeth. “You don't know him---you never knew him!”

“Go back to New York, miss fancypants! Go back to la-la land! You and your fat, stupid boyfriend have done everything to enable this and look at him!”

“Fuck you,” exploded Othmar, and now the whole room had eyes on their booth.

“Come on,” said Nadine, physically yanking Darren out of the booth with her. “Not dealing with these people and their delusional garbage anymore.”

“'Bye,” called Darren helplessly after them.

“Yeah, 'bye,” hollered Nadine without turning around. “Call me when the UFO lands!”

The remainder of the gang was quiet and somber. Things soon broke up and Othmar and Emily packed up Bailey and dragged him along. There was no point left, nothing to discuss.

*******

The silent, grief-faced golem that was once Bailey stood by the river, staring at it through the chain link fence. Othmar scuffed his feet in the dirt and loitered uncomfortably and spoke to it.

“Emily says it's a waste,” Othmar said. The Bailey-thing, like always, said nothing.

“I don't get you,” Othmar continued. “Why?” He was ready to cry. “We're your friends, man, and we're here! We always have been!”

No reply. Bailey squinted tragically at the polluted river and the old mill district.

“Dammit, Bailey, what's it take? I'm not a mind reader! How do I reach you?”

Nothing.

“Jesus.” Othmar cuffed the Bailey-husk on the shoulder and started crying. “Bailey? Say something, willya? Emily's waiting. I have to go. Bailey?”

Nothing.

Othmar wiped his eyes and touched Bailey's shoulder. “I'm done, man. I love you.” He was halfway down the length of the old, blown-out factory when he turned, looked back, saw no change and kept walking, eventually disappearing around the corner.

The Bailey-thing, now unattended, crumbled into a semi-fetal sitting position and the river burbled beyond the fence. Bailey rested between the corner of the building and the fence, staring through the pained slits of his eyes at the rolling water. Hours passed. The shadow of the fence grew long and cagelike across his form. Bailey calmly hid his face in his hands.

Winter was almost here.

Published in THE MEAT FACTORY AND OTHER STORIES (Alien Buddha Press)

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:
ALICE COOPER-Love It to Death
ALICE COOPER-Goes to Hell
SKINNY PUPPY-Rabies
SKINNY PUPPY-Mind: The Perpetual Intercourse
BLUE OYSTER CULT-Agents of Fortune
THE GUN CLUB-Larger than Live