Masks
Dylan lives on the northern tail of Meadow Haven, on the court that bends and buckles at the end of Meadow Haven Way. The faux-iron gate separates him from the woods. From behind the fence, the elms and hickories seem to glower over him. Then again, Dylan was never one for nature. If it were up to him, he’d stay inside. And it is up to him.
Aside from brute necessity, Dylan isn’t apt to communicate with a soul. He doesn’t own a phone. He doesn’t own a computer. He doesn’t own furniture. Five thousand square feet – just like new. Empty. His house echoes. He sleeps on the floor. Wall-to-wall carpeting. In the middle of the living room, there is a place where the tulle is pressed flat. It reminds Dylan of deer nestings.
The walls are not bare. Dylan has hung his masks all over the walls – dozens in each room. Rather than hanging them at eye-level, Dylan hung them all over: some just above the baseboards, some just below the ceiling. He wants the masks to occupy the house. He wants them to take over.
He owns masks from around the world. They don’t represent anything to him, symbolically speaking. He simply likes the look and shape of them. He only cares to know the basics.
Gretchen said she thinks the masks represent his ancestors. This is not so. He does believe in ancestor worship, but it has little to do with the masks. This is why Gretchen is his ex. He never liked the word “girlfriend,” per se. Dylan is forty.
The days when Dylan worked at The Company seem as distant as another lifetime. He was fortunate: stock options. He cashed out at the right time, at the peak.
Dylan eats dry Ramen noodles for dinner. A hard-boiled egg. A mealy pear.
When the exterminator raps on his door, Dylan is tempted not to answer. Except for maroon boxers, he is naked. He’s wearing his Shinja ghost spirit horns, a look of surprise.
He did not expect a woman larger than him – a large, sturdy woman. Stout. Strong arms. On her back is a can of poison. She wears thick rubber gloves.
“Mr. Pearson?” Her expression does not change. She does not seem fazed by his condition.
“Yes,” Dylan says.
She hands him a sheet of paper.
“The county is requiring all houses to be sprayed. Vermin in the area, sir.”
“Vermin?” Shinja does not concentrate on vermin.
“Rats,” the woman says.
The woman slides a black guard over her mouth and nose, goggles over her eyes. She turns and begins spraying along the base of 615 Meadow Haven.
When she finishes spraying, Dylan opens the door. He asks her if she would like a tall, cold glass of lemonade. The woman mops her brow and nods, and says she would appreciate that.
Dylan doesn’t have any lemonade or ice. He pours the woman a glass of coldish tap water. Her mask and goggles dangle from her neck. Dylan is still wearing his mask. He is also wearing his green and orange striped bathrobe.
Dylan hands her the water. She looks at the water, then drinks it.
“Funny tasting lemonade,” she says.
They exchange pleasantries. Dylan realizes he doesn’t have many pleasantries to exchange.
Dylan asks Brenda whether she also sprays for termites.
“I do,” she says.
“Can you come back?”
Brenda withdraws a date book from her hip pocket, writes in the Monday square: Pearson/615 Meadow Haven. 12:00.
“Sure. See you a week from today.”
Dylan removes the mask to watch her drive off.
Dylan wears his Dominican carnival mask. He thinks of it as a fork face. The Peapod people deliver his food. When night falls, he wears Tribal Frog.
On Wednesday, Dylan tapes photographs of his dead relatives on broom handles. He places these around the table. He believes in thinking actively of the dead, who live with him in some way. He serves them each a yam and a hardboiled egg. Dylan wears The Wise Protector from the Eastern Pende People. He runs his fingers along the mouth of the mask. The mouth reminds him of a racetrack.
On Thursday, Dylan looks at the sky and wonders if he should go outside. This would mean wearing clothes, showering. Through the slits of Ganesha with Tusks, he sees the sky is the color of bathroom mold. He decides to remain inside.
A man from the extermination company calls to confirm. Dylan is excited. He decides to go outside to start his car. Dylan hasn’t run his car in a week. He drives himself out of Meadow Haven and down Route 7 to the building that looks like a void sign, makes a u-turn and drives back home. He dreams of a gigantic toy chest filled with masks.
Dylan makes a list of his girlfriends. The list includes Anna, the one-legged German punk-rocker, Yvette, who wore turtlenecks and gargled her drinks constantly, Phyllis, who wanted to be a mermaid, and Stacy, who gave him hell for everything he did. It was after Stacy that he took a liking to masks. She used to say: “You’re not listening.” She was right, always right.
On Saturday, Dylan fantasizes about Brenda the exterminator. In his fantasy, she has eyes like black marbles, like midnight panels. She removes his red, bull-like Ryu-shishi mask. He peers through his fingers. The sky is the color of day-old tangerine rind. In the sun, the edges of his fingers are pink. The edges of his fingers glow. She is fully clothed in her exterminator outfit. But her voice is soft, sultry. The gloves thrust into his vision – strong, webbed fingers.
On Sunday, Mr. Newson complains that Dylan parked his car the wrong way on Meadow Haven. Dylan comes out of his house wearing Yeongno – he of the hairy forehead. Mr. Newson shakes his head, turns away, mutters. He asks Dylan to park his car in the driveway like a normal person. Mr. Newson mows his lawn three times a week. He arranges his pink flamingoes into geometrical patterns – rhomboids, trapezoids, quadrilaterals.
Dylan carries an orange day lily in one hand. He wears a suit and tie. He is clean-shaven. He wears The Strong Antelope from the Dogon – sharp points. It is the sign of the hardworking farmer. Brenda knocks on the door. He holds out the flower for her. She takes it. Her eyes are like dark marbles.
“What’s with the masks?”
Dylan shrugs. “Would you like lunch?”
“I don’t have much time,” she says. Dylan watches her toss the flower in her truck. It will wilt there, he thinks. Dylan tries to remember how his mother used to do it. He pours water into a zip-lock baggie, drops a paper towel into the baggie.
“I have to be getting on,” Brenda says. She hands Dylan a bill.
“Did you want that lunch?”
“Busy day,” Brenda says.
Dylan is ready with a yam and a hardboiled egg. He even bought pink lemonade for the occasion. Ice cubes clink expectantly in glasses.
“Gotta get to my 12:30,” Brenda says.
Dylan sits on the toilet, unmasked. Belt in hand; he beats himself after each question.
“Why am I so strange?” Whap!
“Why am I so secretive?” Whap! Whap!
“Why can’t I just get along?” Whap!
“What am I hiding from?” Whap! Whap!
“What do I want?” Whap!
He contemplates grinding his masks in a wood chipper. He contemplates throwing them into the Potomac. He contemplates stacking them in a pyre, burning them in a ritual potlatch.
Dylan drives to the drug store to use the pay phone. He calls Brenda to schedule another extermination. He gets a man’s voice.
“My records indicate you’ve had termite and rat sprays. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Dylan says.
“In that case, I’m not sure we can help you. Our typical—”
“Can I speak to Brenda?”
But the man says Brenda is not available. Dylan already knows this. He wants to make this obstacle dissolve. He pictures her strong shoulders, gloved hands.
A creek runs behind Dylan’s house from the Meadow Haven Drive runoff down through the gate into the stand of larch and pine, and beyond. Dylan wears his Kojinmen mask – blue, angry, gaping red mouth. He wears boxers. He hasn’t showered in a week.
Dylan climbs the gate, follows the creek. He notices the way the sun glints in the water. Trees release their leaves and the leaves drift to the bed of the already fallen. Occasionally, a leaf falls into the water. The water is clear. Small insects dart against the current, cling to sticks, clumps of grass. His grandfather said family is everything. Dylan was twelve, and he scoffed. Dylan wanders. Acknowledging a mistake is the sign of growth. Growth is part of existence. Dylan follows the creek. He can smell the moss, the loam.
Dylan remembers the name of this creek: Difficult Run.
Dylan showers, shaves, dresses.
Dylan will eat the yam and egg. He will drink the lemonade. Tonight he will cycle through each mask, beginning with the Half-moon Tlingit, then the triangle gable mask not meant to be worn. He will pack each one in its individual box. He will leave the nails. They will remind him.
– Nathan Leslie’s six books of fiction include Madre, Believers, and Drivers. The just-published Night Sweat (2009) is his first collection of poems. His short stories, essays, and poems have appeared in many literary magazines including Boulevard, Shenandoah, North American Review, and Cimarron Review. He is fiction editor for The Pedestal Magazine and was series editor for The Best of the Web anthology 2008 and 2009 (Dzanc Books). www.nathanleslie.com
