The Man in the Mirror

The Man in the Mirror

         The accusing face in the full-length mirror decorated by an ornate gold frame mouths the words, “So you think you can do this job better job,” The words are mine; however, the face disappears like a snowflake on a warm cheek until only my reflection remains. Startled but undistracted, I make my way through the small row of lockers in the employee lounge of the Buon Appetite restaurant looking for one assigned to “special guest”. That would be me. The locker squeaks as I open its door, to reveal a cardboard box and a heavy grey garment bag.  I am having serious doubts and heart palpitations as I hastily drape the bag over the wooden bench and examine the contents of the box. I lock the door and unzip the bag.  Everything I need for the job is here. My biggest fear is being discovered; especially by my three-year-old son Sean or my seven-year-old daughter Samantha. My wife, Pat, on the other hand, knows exactly where I am and what I am doing. She is the mastermind of this operation. I hang my grey dinner jacket in the locker.  Removing my red and grey striped tie, I am reminded how slowly she had tightened the noose.

    Two months ago, the HOA was seeking someone to play an important role at one of their events. To be more specific, a volunteer as the budget was very small. Pat was a relentless recruiter. Hugging my ample frame and caressing my love handles, she would say, “You would be perfect”. I had replied, “For Christ’s sake I’m a CPA.” I am only good with numbers.” “The end of the year is my busiest time of year at work”. Hurt but undeterred, she persisted. On a rare occasion when I arrived home from work on time, she heard me chuckling as Samantha and Sean tickled my belly. She cast a knowing look in my direction. She added that Samantha had begun to ask some difficult questions, and that next year may be too late. Sean has never been more excited.  The party is all he talks about. She had set her trap by asking me for a critique of last year’s event. I recalled that the venue was too cold, the food subpar and the highlight was a tremendous disappointment. A poor facsimile and totally unbelievable. What followed were the fateful words I now regret. “Even I could do a better job.”.  The taste of the spaghetti I had for dinner now tastes like crow as I let out a long loud belch seems to have started in my toes.  I recall all the lucky men at dinner who had escaped my fate. Jerry is a baseball coach. John is a Sunday school teacher. Sixty-year-old Steve wouldn’t even need a disguise. Pat had emphatically said, “It has to be you!” “If you can do a better job, prove it”. With those words, I reluctantly surrendered.  Feeling the beginnings of a third belch, I quickly pop a Rolaids in my mouth as I slip out of my loafers and change from my dark blue khaki pants into a loose fitting and soft pair. The pants so roomy suspenders are necessary. I feel the cold terrazzo tile through my socks and am grateful for the footwear provided. The face in the mirror gives a look of encouragement and, in an instant, it is gone along with my indigestion.

    It was imperative that I leave during dessert. Pat had a contented look on her face as she raised the white ceramic mug of steaming cappuccino with both hands to her mouth. Her red lips savoring each sip.  Her tongue lingered over each bite of New York style cheesecake smothered in a cherry sauce. The children were too bent over devouring their bowls of vanilla ice cream and sugar cookies to notice my departure from the party room.  The mastermind could adeptly lie if there were questions.  Her smile was not only the result of superb culinary skills, but from knowledge of a battle won. Sitting in the lounge I still wonder if I am up to the challenge. The walls of the lounge are so thin, I can hear voices over the P.A. system leading the various games and activities. Squeals and laughter bounce off the walls like sleet hitting a windowpane. While tucking my shirt in my pants and adjusting the straps of the black suspenders, a face in the mirror lingers long enough to place his index aside of his nose. I am now becoming comfortable with the visage and wish it had stayed longer.

    The cacophony in the party room grows along with the anticipation of something special. Four items remained in the box, but I still felt inadequate for such a task. Numbers don’t lie and I know this job isn’t about lying or acting. “I want people to know that Christmas is not about presents but giving love each and every day!”, I exclaim pulling the curly white wig over my shiny bald head. “Help me show parents how to listen and to lovingly correct their children,” I shout before covering my face with the beard. “How I wish for every boy and girl to be loved and made to feel special”, I say as pulling the cotton white gloves over my sweaty hands.  Covering my head with the red fur lined cap, I hear a familiar voice proclaim, “Help the children to believe”.  It was from the face I first saw in the mirror, and he was gently applauding his approval. His gloves muffling the sound. Strangely I felt at one with image and for the first time I felt confident.

    My revelry is halted by the first piano notes of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” I open the door of the party room to a chorus of “Santa!” Santa!”  I reply with a booming, “Ho!” Ho!” “Ho!” “Merry Christmas!”  The looks on the children’s faces were priceless; especially when Santa told Samantha and Sean that they could keep their rooms tidier. Pat was in the corner talking to Steve, but I swear she called him Santa. She is a mastermind.