Masquerade

He decided at the last moment to go. A Halloween party given every year by the senior partner in the law firm where he had recently been hired. Hired to settle small time bankruptcy cases. Saw ten to fifteen clients a day. Clients, that was an over-used tern if there ever was one in his line of work. They weren't clients as far as he was concerned. They were working stiffs and waitresses, students and salesmen, all getting themselves way in over their credit card heads.

It paid well, the perks were good with vacations awarded for meeting certain quotas, but it just wasn't what he, Jake Wilson, 27, had in mind when he had first set out to be a lawyer.

"You know there comes a time when you have to make a decision, a wiser-than-your-years decision about your limitations and where you fit in the overall scheme of things. We can't all be trial lawyers, Jake. Otherwise there would be a world of other legal problems all gone unsolved. Know what I'm saying?"

Of course Jake knew what he was saying: Jake wasn't smart enough. Jake wasn't intuitive enough. Jake didn't have that killer instinct, that internal drive, that all-consuming desire to be a trial lawyer. And what hurt the most, what really went straight to the marrow was he was right and Jake knew it. Knew it well before it had to be said, but deep down inside in that part of oneself that steadfastly believes anything is possible, and clung on to that truly ludicrous pipe dream like a cockroach trying to escape being washed down the drain.

So he had given up trying to be a trial lawyer, knowing that uphill climb he'd encounter would be like trying to climb El Capitan with kite string and paper clips.

They would try, it would be their job, their duty, their obligation to use whatever it took to dissuade - and that was putting it nicely - Jake from ever becoming a trial lawyer. And if by chance he survived that onslaught, that full-frontal verbal barrage of criticisms and put-downs and negatives and setbacks they would, in their own humble way, admit they were wrong about him. That diamond in the rough he would be known as from then on; a poster child for perseverance and hard work. But Jake was at least smart enough to know he was not that diamond in the rough. He would not be the Aladdin of the legal world.

So he concentrated on small claims court, a Pandora's box of legal snafus, the kind of snafus that could land the right kind of lawyer - the kind that couldn't cut the trial mustard - a lucrative, if not satisfying, living. Small claims court was the level Dante had intended for lawyers once they died and went, unquestionably, to hell. At least that was the common knowledge at Pitt law school when Jake was attending and probably would be for centuries to come.

But even before he graduated, even before Jake took the bar exam, he had been offered a job at Grimm, Berkowicz and Abernathy in the small claims/bankruptcy division.

"How can you not go to this Halloween party?" Brian asked.

Brian Reed, another lawyer, among many lawyers, sharks, all swimming in this vast sea of Grimm, Berkowicz and Abernathy. Brian Reed, a roommate and Pittsburgh product who had told his father, a GB & A client, about Jake, and then through the it's-not-what-you-know-but-who-you-know pipeline Jake got a call from a GB & A recruiter.

"We've got a list a mile long waiting to get in here," the recruiter, a middle-aged guy by the name of Mitch Gundrim had told Jake over a recruitment lunch at Pittsburgh's posh Franz restaurant across the river from PNC ballpark. "They're particular about who they bring in."

"Why's that?" Jake asked, and Mitch stopped just as he was about to shovel a mouthful of wheat pasta with hollandaise sauce, cucumbers slices and diced vidalia onions all on a small plate that looked like it cost more than the shoes Jake had splurged on for the interview. Mitch looked surprised.

"Because this is the place to work. Haven't you already heard?"

Jake had, in fact, heard, but was unimpressed because the lumps of coal he had heard it from were begging to get jobs anywhere - preferably ones that would flip the bar exam bill so they could study and work at the same time. Jake just considered GB & A another meat market.

Mitch, dressed impeccably in a Thurston and Barnes suit, Polo glasses and dark hair that gleaned like freshly polished shoes, dabbed the sides of his mouth with the linen napkin, leaned back in his chair and in one swift motion removed his Polo glasses and cleaned them with the same linen.

"I was told you'd be a tough sell," Mitch said, placing the Polos back on the perch of his nose. "So let me lay it on the line for you, Jake. You're the kind of lawyer Grimm, Berkowicz and Abernathy is looking to hire. I've got your grades, high recommendations from your teachers, even the head of the department has nothing but good things to say about you."

"And Mr. Reed," Jake added.

"Don't underestimate the power of who you know," Mitch said, turning suddenly serious, playing hardball recruitment now. "You understand you're not getting a job offer solely on a reference by Mr. Reed. Don't get me wrong, Jake, Mr. Reed is certainly a valuable client, has been for a number of years, but we can't just hire someone because one of our clients suggests it." Mitch sort of laughed. "Christ some of the recommendations we've got over the years..." Mitch laughs again like an inside joke was just told. "Let's just say we'd no longer be in business. Do you know a Carl Schaffer?" Mitch asked, taking Jake by surprise, leaving him, for a moment, speechless.

"He was one of my advisors," Jake finally answered.

"I know," Mitch said. "I had a good long talk with him. Remember what he advised you to do with your legal career?"

"I remember," Jake answers with an edge to his voice now, remembering the sobering talk they had and then Jake refocusing his trial lawyer aspirations to less inspiring heights.

"Let's just cut to the chase here," Mitch said, leaning forward throwing his best pitch when he had Jake in the hole 0 - 2. "This is as good as it's going to get for you, Jake. An offer like this is not going to come along again. I know," Mitch said, turning more empathetic. "That this isn't the type of legal work you had set out to pursue, but contrary to a popular belief of the less fortunate, money can by happiness. Or in your case it can buy a lot of consolatory happiness."

It had been a blazing fast ball like one thrown by Nolan Ryan when he was up in the 105 mph range. So fast he didn't even see it coming and before he knew it he had swung, but by then the dust from the catchers mitt had already settled.

It could have been worse he supposed. Even Brian Reed hadn't ended up making nearly as much money as himself and was still wallowing in passing the bar exam, something Jake had done on his first attempt.

"I'll go," Jake had finally conceded to Brian.

"I'm glad," Brian said. "Give the interns and legals a chance to snare the illusive rabbit."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning if you'd loosen up a bit you'd be quite the hit around here with the ladies. I mean look at the clothes you wear."

Jake looked down at the simple white shirt, gray tie and black pants. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

"I've seen your body Jake," Brian said. "Your clothes don't do it justice. They never have. Christ, if I had a body like yours I'd be showing that shit off."

It wasn't as if Jake didn't know what Brian was talking about. He did. He had a body that any Abercrombie and Fitch model would be envious of. But he worked hard at it. Always had. He knew if had gone out with some of his fellow workers and had wore one of his tight polo shirts that showed off, not only his pecs, but his thick-muscled shoulders and ripped biceps, that it would cause a whole new set of problems.

"I like to think my sparkling personality is enough."

Brian smiled. "People think you're stuck up. I keep trying to tell them you're not, but any time a handsome, dark haired lawyer keeps to himself, with an ample supply of ladies at his disposal, he's either stuck up or gay."

It wasn't the first time Jake had experienced such misconceptions. He'd always had a masculine look that attracted women like bugs to a light. He had a jaw line that looked like Michelangelo had been commissioned to sculpt; high cheekbones with deep set, dark brown, mischievous eyes, and thick, full lips that every woman he had ever met wanted to devour.

"I don't think I'm gay," Jake chided.

"Ha, ha. Seriously, Jake, I think you need to loosen up and coming to this party will help your image around here."

"That's a comforting thought," Jake replied.

It had always been easy for Jake when it came to women. Too easy. Like having money and never knowing if people liked you for just you. Jake did have women at his disposal but what he wanted, what he longed for was a meaningful relationship. For someone to see through the the good looks and chiseled body. To see the man behind the mask.

"From what I understand it's a huge deal with Mr. Grimm," Brian said. "Hundreds of people, great food and drink, and it goes on until the next morning."

"And lots of women."

"Tons. And not just the interns and legals from here."

"What kind of party is it, exactly?" Jake asked. "I know it's a Halloween party, but do we dress up or what?" And it was the only reason he had decided to go, because it was a Halloween party, and being in some kind of disguise appealed to him.

Brian smiled and said, "Read your invitation. It's a masquerade party you idiot."

After Brian had left - went down to some other lawyer's office to drown in the leg work he'd be given to do, the kind of leg work meant to drive home the point, "pass your bar exam and you won't have to do this any more" - Jake opened his desk drawer and pulled out the unopened invitation.

It was an off white envelope, a 40lb weight paper, not cheap, with his name hand-written in gold, Old English type: Jake Wilson

On the back of the envelope was a gold sticker in the shape of a smiling Jack-O-Lantern that sealed the invitation. The bottom of the sticker, creased and sans adhesive, was easy to grab and came away without a hint of fiber from the paper. Jake extracted the single card invitation etched with a rectangular center and read the card:

You are cordially invited to the fifteenth annual Grimm

Halloween Masquerade Party on Saturday the twenty-eighth

of October in the year of our Lord two thousand and six

at the Grimm residence, 18345 Primrose Place, Pittsburgh.

RSVP promptly

Russell and Sherrie Grimm

Jake had found the address of a costume shop and went there after work. Located right in the downtown area it reminded Jake of that place in Harry Potter where they bought their wands. There was even a big brass bell arriving his presence when he opened the old, wooden door.

"Hello," Jake called out.

The place seemed deserted, dark but for the small lamp on the far counter that was the only source of illumination.

Jake thought of coming back, after all it was after seven o'clock in the evening and perhaps they were closed. But hadn't they told him, when he called, they were open until nine every night?

"Is anyone here?" Jake called.

Still there was no answer and not a whisper of noise. The place smelled of mildew, like there was a basement below that was perpetually damp from being so close to the river and the smell - a smell you could never cover completely - drifted up like invisible smoke into the main store.

Jake was ready to turn and leave when he noticed the collection of masks on the wall above the back counter. They were lined up on three long shelves. There must have been two hundred masks of all different sizes and designs. And it was then that Jake understood the symbolic nature of the Halloween party. The masks, like the masks all lawyers wear, that all people wear, at one time or another, were meant as a way of expressing yourself, like typing over the internet, so you could be yourself behind the facade.

Jake moved to get a closer look, the intricacy of the designs becoming more detailed like a microscope coming into focus, and to Jake they looked almost ceramic in texture, almost real, shiny with a clear coating like an expensive vase. The painted designs, not like some cheap paint-by-numbers pattern, but hand-painted, designed to fit each and every mask. Like the white mask with a plume of dark blue feathers centered at the top and fanned out like a bird's wing. The paint around the eyes and along the cheeks flowed out from the feathers like the natural flow of a stream.

The hollow-eyed faces of the masks seemed to be staring at him. Jake walked to his left, the imaginary eyes following him like the eyes in those posters where they seem to track you, stare at you like you're the only person left in the world. So strong was the sensation Jake began to feel uneasy. But then that was ridiculous - wasn't it? He was in a costume shop, albeit a strange costume shop, but a costume shop nonetheless. They were masks for chrissakes.

"Can I help you?" a woman's voice said.

Jake looked and there was a woman standing there. And where had she come from? There wasn't a doorway leading to some back room. The costume shop was small and Jake couldn't see any other entrance other than the one he had come in.

The woman was dressed like a gypsy, like Esmarelda, her dark hair tied back in a pony tail and covered with a scarf like a cancer victim undergoing chemotherapy. The dress, light colored, almost white with capped sleeves and a three button front, all three buttons undone revealing a warm, inviting fissure of flesh. Every finger covered with rings; turquoise, opals, onyx, all reflecting light from the small lamp like one of those mirrored balls in a discotheque. Her eyes were dark brown, nearly black, tucked away behind the almost too much makeup.

"Can I help you?" the woman repeated.

Jake listened to the deep voice, not like a man's voice, but carnal and earthy like a stripper whispering your name as you slip more money than you had intended into her G-string.

"I need a mask," Jake finally creaked out.

"What for?"

What for? Why else would you need a mask if you weren't attending a masquerade party?

"A party."

"A masquerade party?"

"Yes."

She came out from behind the counter dressed in a long dress, a kind of gauze material, thin, transparent and the light from the small lamp, behind her now, shone through the material, her long legs casting tantalizing silhouettes riding all the way up to her waist, her buttocks smooth and uncovered. She was naked under the dress like she had just thrown it on seconds ago and the image stirred him. It shot through Jake like a bullet of desire fired point blank at his sex.

"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions...?" she said reaching out her hand like an introduction.

"Jake," Jake answered taking her hand in his and shaking it, feeling the warmth, the utter womanly texture.

"Nice to meet you, Jake. My name is Alexandria, but please call me Alex."

Alex, Jake thought - still mesmerized by the supple feel of her hand in his - if ever there was a perfect name for a woman this was it. Alex, and there was absolutely no masculinity to the name; no correlation, like Alex was meant to be a woman's name and not a man's. And then he realized he had held her hand too long and suddenly let it drop like a brick.

"Alex."

"So do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Jake?"

"No."

"Good. That will help me determine what mask will be best for you."

"Okay."

"Is this your first masquerade party?"

"Yes."

"Formal dress?"

"I think so."

"Any specifications of the type of mask?" Alex asked.

"I don't know. What do you mean?"

"There are half masks, three-quarter masks or full masks. Sometimes the host will specify what mask is required."

"I don't think so," Jake said.

"It would have been on the invitation."

"I have the invitation with me."

Jake handed the invitation to Alex. She opened it and her eyes widened, Jake unsure of the reaction.

"This is to the Grimm Halloween party."

"Yes," Jake said. "Is there some kind of problem?"

"No," Alex answered. "The type of mask is up to you. The type of mask will say a lot about who you are. It's part of their tradition."

"What do you mean?" Jake asked.

"You don't really know anything about this party do you?"

"Obviously not."

"You will pick a mask," Alex said, as she walked over to the shelves and drew one from wall. "Say this mask for instance." She had taken down a full mask that looked like one a Jester might wear. "If you wore this mask to the Grimm party then it might say you were full of life, but took very little of it seriously. But if you picked this mask," Alex pointed to a mask that was black with simple gold trim around the eyes and mouth, the expression emotionless. "Then it could be assumed you were too serious, humorless."

Jake was a bit confused. Was this not just a Halloween party? Why did the choice of a ridiculous mask hold so much importance? After all these were just his co-workers and, granted, there were many he had never really met on a formal basis, but their personalities had long since been revealed. Hadn't they?

"Isn't that a bit extreme?" Jake asked.

"One might think so, but your employer, Mr. Grimm does not," Alex said. "He believes many things are hidden away and the choice of a mask, sub-consciously, brings those hidden treasures to the surface."

Jake couldn't help but chuckle. He didn't want to offend Alex. No he did not want to offend her in the least, but thought her assumptions about the Halloween party were way off the mark.

"I don't think it's that big of a deal," Jake finally said.

Alex didn't look offended, not in the least. In fact she gave Jake a faint smile, the kind of smile Jake could have easily mistook for flirting, but it wasn't. There was something behind the mask she was wearing but Jake couldn't quite decipher what it was.

Alex had shown him a variety of masks, masks she had recommended, but uncharacteristically, he had said no to all of them. Jake had a feeling - although it shouldn't have mattered one way or another - she was trying to guide him.

"Is there a particular mask you are interested in?" Alex asked.

"I like the one at the far end of the second row," Jake said half pointing.

Alex, in a kind of slow motion pirouette, turned until her gaze froze upon the mask. Jake could swear she had died and rigor mortis had set in the way she stood there utterly motionless, frozen like block of sculpted ice.

"That's the Chameleon," Alex said. "Androgynous in nature. Sexless , yet sexual in every way. The Chameleon wears many masks."

"That's the one I want," Jake said firmly.

The mask, like blackened steel, reflected every color in nature. It was a three-quarter mask letting the wearer free access to speech, yet covering enough of the face to keep anonymity.

"You're sure?" Alex asked, like he was a child making a bad choice.

"Positive," Jake said without hesitation. He was a man of many masks and the Chameleon was a perfect fit. At least that's the way he felt at this moment.

"Then you should try it on to make sure," Alex said, walking towards the mask and pulling it from the shelf.

Alex had that I-have-secret look on her face again. But Jake just thought she was angry he hadn't taken any of the masks she had tried to pick for him. Giving him that mother like look that was supposed to inflict enough guilt to change your mind. He was having none of it.

Jake reached out and took the mask from Alex, the weight so much lighter than he had anticipated like it was made of paper, but this wasn't like some papier-mache project in high school. This was made of some kind of light weight plaster, the likes of which Jake had never encountered.