Mask Now or Get Out

by Anastasia Jill

 

[Editor’s Note: This piece is part of the “Topical” series, with each piece solely submitted to and chosen by the Final Reader Pietra Dunmore.]

 

Tommy won’t wear a mask. He claims that they don’t work. On our ride around town, he ‘enlightens’

me, “The masks are another way to control us. I’m not wearing the devil cloth.”

Tommy is no orature, but his voice is made of grit and stone, all the things that make boulders unmovable.

“It’s just a mask,” I say. “If you don’t want to wear one, just go home.”

“I need gas,” he says. “The last few stations didn’t want my business. And that’s fine. No one can tell me what to put on my body.” His words hold the finality of exile.

Despite him, I wear a mask. Some risks aren’t worth the take. I position it on the bridge of my nose, then tuck my Star of David pendant beneath my collar. The Star doesn’t stay hidden long as I clutch the chain, a nervous habit dating back to childhood.

Tommy reaches over and takes my hand, straddling my small fingers with his own. He pats the hollow space where the chain meets my clavicle. My sweater casts a shadow over the beacon of my faith, hidden further by the pulse of my boyfriend’s hand. The pendant sits firm in his lifeline. An avowal. “I’m proud of you for wearing that.”

I remind him. “You pressured me.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“I don’t like to wear it unless I know every person I’m coming into contact with.” I press his hand to my chest. “I can never tell how people may react.”

He nods in affirmation. “Like what I said, don’t let other people dictate your life. It’s like I told that guy at 7-11—”

“It’s not the same thing.” The scratches of chain blur the panic in my voice. “The one time I wore this to school as a kid, my locker was vandalized by day’s end.”

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “But that was a long time ago.”

“Far from an isolated incident.”

“Babe—”

“You don’t understand.”

He huffs, “I’ll just stop talking, then.”

A sharp turn brings us to a Shell station. There are no other cars in the lot.

“Tommy.” I open my purse, pluck out a spare mask. “Please.”

He picks it up by the string, an indignant snort bounding down his nose. “I have rights, you know that?”

“Masks are not part of the Bill of Rights.”

With a flick of his wrist, the mask dwindles to the car floor. He slams the door and proceeds without me, ignoring the county mandated signs taped to the gas station door. Soon after, I follow, tugging at my chain, the golden star slipping from behind the cotton shield.

A chime signals my entry. Tommy is already perusing beer. The cashier is behind plexiglass, ignoring Tommy’s mask-less self. I make my own chore of collecting Snickers bars when another man catches my attention. I didn’t notice him at first, but he noticed me; his glance sliding from my breasts to the Star of David twisted between my thumb.

The light over his bald head acts as an awning for his hate. Still, I see the vulgar lines of his mouth, the flicker of his tongue above yellow teeth echoing any num. It hangs on his lips. It begs to be bellowed, slathered in beer spit, driven into me like a steel edge into paint.

I refuse him the chance. Instead, I find Tommy. My hand drops the chain for his. He tells the cashier, “Forty on pump number six and a grape Swisher Sweets.”

The bald man slips out the door, slithers past the sticker-clad windows. I watch until he disappears behind our car.

Tommy’s voice hardens, brings me into focus. “…don’t have a mask, so what?”

The cashier-man is not amused. He points to the sign, a sharpie decree: Mask Now or Get the F*** Out!!!!

“I have a health condition,” Tommy says.

“Lots of people say that. You have a doctor’s note?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Doctor’s note.”

“I don’t need one—”

The cashier slaps the counter. “Get out of my store!”

We back out in a frenzy of, “Out!” Tommy shouts back obscenities. I hurry into my passenger seat of sheer embarrassment. Tommy lingers outside the car, grey eyes folding into a cold stare.

He slams the door and grunts. “I hate people so much.”

“It’s just a mask. You’re 30. Grow up.”

He revs the ignition, hits the acceleration, hard.

“Let it go,” I say.

“Don’t want to.”

Seconds later, a sharp U-turn sends us back the way we came.

“You’re going the wrong way.”

“No, I need car paint.”

“For what?”

“We just do.”

The curtness of his words carries our silence all the way to AutoZone. He parks and gets out. I walk to his side, and I see what he sees.

Angry arms twist and grind into a dark symbol, fingerprints rise beside it like filthy steam. It burns my retinas, my myelin tissue, all the way to my brain. A trembling body betrays my mollified voice. “It’s not a big deal.”

Tommy says nothing, for once

“It could be worse,” I say, taking my necklace off.

Tommy’s mask stares at us from the floor mat, visible through the defaced door. He picks it up from the dirt, shakes out the dust, and covers his face without dissention.

 

Anastasia Jill (she/they) is a queer writer living in the Southeast United States. She has been nominated for Best American Short Stories, Best of the Net, and several other honors. Her work has been featured with Poets.org, Pithead Chapel, apt, Minola Review, Broken Pencil, and more. 

 

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