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Mask

 

Kendra's world turned upside down on the day of her performance review. She hated performance reviews. Stupid form. Stupid questions. Stupid job descriptions that had no bearing on what she actually did. Worse than the bafflegab, though, was talking about herself. How good she was at the job she wasn’t doing. Strengths, weaknesses. What a bunch of bullshit.

She felt like a fraud at the best of times. Her reputation, she knew, was stellar. Colleagues called her “the Author Whisperer.” She was the most-sought book editor at the most prestigious Moseby and Sons Publishing House. Prestige didn’t put food on the table, though. Moseby and Sons paid its employees poorly and treated them worse. Kendra couldn’t remember a time she came to the office as late as nine o’clock in the morning – the start time listed here on the stupid form. It made no mention of her twelve-hour days, the weekends spent in the office, or the long nights on her couch editing manuscripts in her pajamas.

Nope, she thought. You can’t judge a book by its cover, and you can’t judge a Publishing House by its esteem.

She had recently edited a book about something called imposter syndrome. It could have been written about her!  Feeling like she wasn’t as good at editing as everyone thought. Feeling like her tailored business suits were a costume of competency. Feeling like she’d be found out at any moment – more so during performance reviews.

At least this year I’ll meet with Mr. Davis – Steve – instead of that prick Arthur Moseby.

Steve felt as comfortable as a ratty old shoe. In fact, he wore ratty old shoes in the office, slipping on fancy loafers only when any of the Mosebys were on the floor. His door was open literally and figuratively. He was always available and listened when she spoke.  On rare occasions when they disagreed, she felt respected and heard. He was fatherly, yet not patronizingly so. 

Yup, she thought. What you see is what you get with Steve Davis.

On this day, his office door was closed, she assumed to give them privacy during their meeting. He was thoughtful that way.  She gave the form in her hand a shake, took a deep breath, opened without knocking, then stopped, stunned, not quite comprehending the scene in front of her.

The earth opened beneath her and Kendra tumbled through it, falling down, down, down. Steve’s laptop was angled on his desk such that she could see the screen, distorted and grainy yet clearly showing graphic and violent pornography. A naked woman was chained to a stone wall. A man with a whip and leather mask.

The lap top slammed shut and her boss turned red-faced toward her.

“Kendra!  I’m so sorry you saw that. It… it’s not what it seems. It’s not… actually, I’m not what I seem… I have a problem. I… I guess I’m not the man you think I am.”

In fact, Kendra thought as she floated figuratively toward the planet’s core, nothing was what it seemed. Beloved Canadian authors were entitled, demanding and whiny prima donnas. The prestigious Moseby and Sons Publishing House was a meat grinder.  And Kendra’s kindly and approachable boss was a porn-addicted pig. Perhaps the most genuine person was the one wearing a mask – the whip wielding man glimpsed briefly on the screen.

In her mind, Kendra continued to freefall, hoping that once she reached the centre of the earth, she would emerge on the other side to a place where things were the opposite of this topsy-turvy world. Where people and institutions were what they seem.  Where she was confident, calm, and secure in her own worth. Where no one wore a mask.


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