The Masked Figure

It was eight forty five. I had finally finished my night shift and crossed the never ending traffic to get back to my little studio.

My studio is located on the 22nd floor of an old building in the town’s center. It’s walls are covered with paintings of the passengers that told me their extraordinary stories each night. My chisel is in the middle of the room and my flat on the ground bed lying in the far left corner by the large windows.

I don’t want to forget any of the people I get to meet during those interesting hours. Therefore as I come back from work as a night shift taxi driver every morning, I pick up my brush and paint the face of the most interesting passenger of that night.

The magical thing about late night hours is that everybody is honest. Everybody is their truest selves. They feel free in the dark. As if no eyes can see them. They believe that they are the only ones who aren’t asleep under the dim light of the moon. Like nobody else exists. They let their imaginations run wild. Their inner children came out. And their tongues started moving non-stop. 

Some were out due to terrible circumstances. Some were there because pain had forced them to. Some were insomniacs. Some had a deadline to meet and others were simply drunk.

I guess the night acts as a shelter for the heartaches that don’t belong anywhere else. Or I could better say, pain that the day can not contain.

Not that I don’t enjoy all these stories of strangers that I wouldn’t even notice if they walked me by during the day, but if I absolutely didn’t have to, I wouldn’t be working night shifts as a driver. It’s tiring me both physically and mentally. And sometimes it hits the right emotional cord and the melody of pain keeps playing for days to follow.

I study arts. My classes are mostly in the evening because of my work. And in the mornings I paint. 

Today’s painting is fairly easy to work on but the story behind it is difficult to comprehend.

The masked figure. Yes, that’s what I’d like to call this one and in a few hours it will be another painting on the wall of my studio joining the other 37 people. Yes, this is the 38th story I want to tell through a painting. And at painting number 50, I will be exhibiting them all at the central town hall. I landed a contract after picking up the town’s mayor on one occasion. And yes, his face models one of my paintings as well. But that is for another time to tell.

I hang my keys by the door and take off my jacket. After loosening my tie, I take off my hair band and let my long, brown wavy hair run wild after being trapped in a low bun all night. I slip out of my uniform and undo the chest flattening strip, so that my breasts can breathe.

I put on an oversize white T-shirt, that isn’t so white from all the paint, alongside my underwear. As always I start by writing one sentence on the back of the canvas before I start painting. One sentence from that night that keeps ringing in my ears. That’s how I remember the details of their stories. 

“I’m tired of this mask. But I hate the face hiding behind it.”

That is what the masked figure said at some point with their harsh yet feminine voice. I couldn't quite tell if they were a man or a woman. Their hands were tired and the skin on them was rough. They had a slender body and were wearing a baggy yellow suit with red polka dots. 

White slick back hair with one earring on the left. And face fully covered with a black velvet mask with two tiny nostril holes, one little mouth hole and two small holes for the eyes through which you could barely tell that the color of those tired eyes were grass green.

I couldn’t quite make out how they put the mask on either. Was it glue or was it some kind of tape? Because there were no strings attached. And strangely enough that soft velvet never fell off or even moved a little on their face.

We received the call at three and it was my turn to pick up the next passenger. I arrived at the small bar that I could hardly locate even though I was using one of the best navigation systems. The masked figure walked out of a tiny door. They had to lean down as the door’s size was half of their height. They gently opened the backseat door and walked into the cabin. 

“To 44th Avenue, but stop by the Skyline Bridge first. I have something to do.” They said.

I nodded because I didn’t know if I should say “Yes, Sir.” Or “Yes, Ma’am.”.

They looked outside the window the entire drive to the bridge. No words came out of their mouth and not a change was made in their sitting position.

What heavy sorrow was this human carrying in their deepest sensory parts?! 

“Where would you like me to pull over?” I asked as we approached the bridge.

“Here is good. Don’t get out of the car. I will be back in 30 minutes.” They said.

“I’m tired of this mask. But I hate the face hiding behind it.” They muttered to themselves. But I had learned to be so observant that I could hear the dimmest sounds that would come out of a passenger’s mouth.

“So tired!” They repeated. But this time louder. 

They tucked their wrinkled hands in the pockets of their big pants and walked to the Skyfall Bridge. I could tell from their gait that they suffered from a disease called Parkinson’s. A disease characterized by muscle stiffness, rigidity, hand tremor and slow shuffling gait. It affects men mostly as I had read in the health magazine so I could assume the masked figure was a he. But the feminine mask over their rough voice and slender body indicated otherwise. So I decided to stick to “they”. 

30 minutes later, not a minute extra, not a minute less, they were back in the cabin and ready to go home.

“Thank you. To my final destination please.” They said and put their trembling hands together. 

This was the first time that a person’s story was so foggy in front of my eyes. But when a person’s voice is overridden by silence, you know the size of their pain. And some things are better left unsaid at those times.

I let the masked figure remain as a mystery. But the eyes that were lit by the street lamps at times left a huge mark in my head. 

I couldn’t help it but listen to the sound the car’s tires made and leave the figure to sink in something that was between them and a probable memory.

I finished the painting by adding the final touches to the eyes. I then got up and looked down the window. Allowing the breeze of the air to play with my hair, I wondered whose story I will be a listener to in the night to come.