The Truth About Masks
It has been said that we each wear many masks. We have one for our family, a different one for our friends, another for our colleagues, and quite another for our lover, or dare I say, lovers? Are we trying to deftly hide our true selves, or is it a truth that we have many selves, and a different one shows up to entertain or not, according to who is there as our audience? I like to think that we are all actors on the stage of life, and we take on a variety of roles depending on who we are with, how closely we know them, and what we expect from each other. To delve deeper into this mystery would require that I pull out a fake diploma from my box of Crackerjacks and put on my mask of psychobabble. But as a writer I can take exception even to that exception and make the most of it while falling back on my make believe poetic license to distort in the name of creativity and/or deception, and thus to don a mask that is often accompanied by the pen or quill or word processor. (Reader beware: You are about to be deceived by the mask of fiction).
Once upon a time (a dead giveaway for subterfuge), when I had all my senses (ha!), I would wander aimlessly for days (that’s an exception?) in search of an honest man or woman (without pills this is a delusional pursuit called the curse of Diogenes). While often sidetracked from urgent needs (is this about perverted sex?), I would rest upon a park bench (with or without candy?). People watching calms my passions (the cops are watching, aren’t they?). I love to sketch (a clever ploy), especially when I see a lovely young lady (I knew it. It’s that pervert coming through). Nothing inspires me like youth, and curves, and giggles, and laughter (yeah, tell that to the judge).
And then one day, she came along. She was different. (Aren’t they all?). She moved with grace, and poise, and panache (where did you find that word?). I just had to meet her. She passed me by without giving me so much as a fleeting glance (smart girl!). My guts wrenched, my heart ached, and my passions soared (and they are making the terrain deep with all this blather). I leapt to my feet, ran up to her and said calmly, “Excuse me, miss, but you dropped this envelope.” I extended my hand holding an envelope. She looked confused. (Not half as much as we are). “But that’s impossible,” she replied. “I had no envelope. You must be mistaken.” She began to turn away as I blurted “But I saw you drop it,” while exposing a lot of money that it contained. (You dirty old man). She suddenly glanced at her purse, opened it, and then looking back at me she said “Well, on second thought, I do seem to be missing an envelope containing cash that I was on my way to deliver to the orphanage.” (At least she was quick of wit). I handed her the envelop and added contritely “You’re such a wonderful person. I’m sure the little kids will appreciate your kindness. But please check to see that all the money is there.”
As she began to thumb her way through the cash, she came upon a note that read “There’s more where this came from, honey. Are you up for it?” She smiled broadly, the nicest smile that I had seen in a very long time. Then she said “It seems to be all there. And you seem like such a nice gentleman. Would you mind if we had a cup of coffee together? You know, to celebrate our joy for the kids.” (A proposition that is going to cost everyone concerned, we fear).
“What an honor it would be for me to escort someone of your integrity and virtue” I said as we linked arms and began strolling away.
About half a block later, she paused, reached into her purse, and flashed a badge at me. I noticed the words “Police Department” engraved on it. She quickly snapped a set of handcuffs on my wrists, and said calmly “You’re under arrest for soliciting for prostitution. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand these charges? “ (Well, Diogenes, it looks like you found your honest person).
I stuttered and stammered “But I am the superintendent of the orphanage, and the kids need the money.” She looked at me with fire in her eyes and said: “I am also charging you with grand theft, pervert. Do you want to try for a third charge?” I hung my head in shame and explained “But I didn’t intend to pay for sex. I was going to take the money back.” (Oh, please). Daggers poured from her eyes as she said “Oh I see. Now I am charging you with solicitation, grand theft, lying to a police officer, and attempted bribery. That should get you about 50 years.”
The view from my prison cell was obstructed by a sign that read “Crime Does Not Pay. Losers Do.” Now I wonder what would have happened if I had told them the money was counterfeit. (Who knows? Maybe they would let you wear a counterfeit mask. After all, there is still honor among thieves).
