The Man in the Mask

The door to the lounge swings wide and out into the cool spring air steps the man in the mask, he is finally able to breathe freely as he lifts it from this face. Each fibre of his skin tingles with gratitude at the gesture. It is the same after each shift, his face from nose to chin is red, raw, and chapped. Small cuts and sores from the metal strappings that hold his mask firmly in place leave their mark. What a mess! He hasn’t looked this bad since “The Great Acne Battle” in ninth grade! He reminds himself that he should not complain, that this is the price to be paid for human safety.

Like clockwork it only takes a moment for his face to burn and itch, he rubs it vigorously with the palms of his hands in futile response. With a small thud and a low moan of exasperation, he plops himself down onto the bench outside the lounge. Another heavy sigh laced with fatigue and frustration floats from his lips.

He looks down at his hands with a grimace, they are shrivelled and pruny. He turns them over from front to back a few times to let the breeze give them a gentle massage before running them gingerly through his thick brown hair and tossing his curls this way and that. Breathing deeply, slowly inhaling the fresh air and exhaling the negative thoughts that plague him, he leans his head back to soak in the light and warmth of the afternoon’s sun. His eyes close and his imagination begins to frolic in a life free from masks and gloves while a small grin creeps across his face at the thought.

Sitting there for a time he delights in listening to the sounds of birds chirping in the trees One of the positive results of social distancing has been that the birds’ linger longer in the low ranking branches and the public silence that shrouds the park gives the feathered choir a platform to perform their songs without stage fright. Half an hour ticks away more quickly than desired and the cell phone alarm beeps loudly, beaconing him to return to reality and announcing that break time is over! He rubs his face again, this time not to wipe away the effects of captivity but instead smearing in the sunshine, like a healing lotion, in an effort to capture it for later use.

Reluctantly he rises, slightly refreshed by the afternoon concert, he peels open the lounge door and props it with his body while he rummages through his pockets to reveal a fresh pair of gloves. With the expertise of weeks of routine he slides his hands back into their mitts of captivity and adjusts his mask firmly in place. The cleaning cart sits waiting for him just where he left it. He steps inside and as the door closes behind him so ends his afternoon escapade and begins shift two.

The man in the mask disappears momentarily and then appears again as he strolls past the window pushing his cart. The jingling of cleaning supplies replaces the symphony of the songbirds, he stops, glances out, and winks at the orchestra conductor who sits in the branch nearby. She ruffles her feathers in response as she proudly acknowledges his audience. Until tomorrow, she chirps.

With that, the man in the mask disappears into his shift.