Mask

[673 words, 4 minutes of reading]

Anyone remember those long-lost times when wearing a mask wasn’t just for robbing banks, performing open-heart surgery, or confirming if a teenager is alive (and if so, applying extreme force to make them clean their room)?

Yeah, we wore them daily back then—despite the Chief Medical Officer of the Land laughing it off in February, saying, “It’s pointless.” But then they ordered an Antonov plane full of masks (currently the largest plane in the world) and did the math. Turns out, we had to wear them after all.
So, we wore them.

My job (back then, too) mostly involves convincing the unconvinced—though they’re often more concrete than the cement I mix in a bucket. My goal is to persuade without making them feel defeated, bruised, or, heaven forbid, broken—and definitely not drowning them in literal concrete. I pride myself on being focused and meticulous.
But hey, some days…

I had a meeting with yet another unconvinced client in the heart of a big city. Tall office building, parking reserved for the platinum elite, and zero free spaces nearby. Minutes of frustratingly slow and unfunny driving passed—still nothing.

Finally, 1.5 km (that’s almost a mile!) away, I found a spot: free, open, and priced in platinum. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
I activated my platinum-level parking plan, gracefully unfolded my athletic, nimble body from the car, and started walking.
1.5 km on foot, all while dodging odd stares from passersby.

What was their problem? Sure, I’m used to my “Don’t even think about messing with me” vibe, but this felt excessive.
Come on, people, I’m not as mean as my face makes me look—especially if you leave me alone.

Enough pointless pondering, though—there’s the entrance, complete with a wall of 50 doorbells.
Why must every company have its own unique button? Is it a matter of pride to confuse visitors?
Luckily, one button, scribbled in elegant scrawl, read: “Kabestany & Co.”
Bingo. My clients.

Ding-dong.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah, sure. Fifth floor.”
Bzzzzt.

The elevator? Not coming. Of course.
Fair enough. They said “come on up,” and I’ve got legs that carried me 1.5 km already—what’s a few more stairs?

Up to the fifth floor. Another door, this time glass, with only five companies listed.
No labels, though. Maybe they fell off? Or sweaty hands wiped them away? No clue.

No choice. I hit all the buzzers.
After several awkward minutes, three masked women appeared—none of them Kabestany. I guess I radiated some desperate aura because one took pity on the entire floor (and me).
“Oh, Kabestany? I’ll let them know you’re here.”

Finally, Ms. Kabestany herself emerged—masked, of course.
Cue the sudden wave of warmth:
“You can come in,” she said, “but could you please put on a mask? You know… the plague. We’re not scared of the virus—it’s the health inspectors we fear.”

“Sure thing! I’ll just run back to my car. Totally forgot my mask.”

Ah, now I understood those stares earlier!

Quick mission: stairs, door, around the building, 1.5 km to the car.
Got the mask.
1.5 km back. Building, door, buzz—bzzzzt—stairs again, and…

Damn it. I forgot to ask her which buzzer is theirs!
No way was I ringing all of them again.
Okay… I rang all of them again.

Eventually, she came back. I was invited in.

Mr. Kabestany, the boss, tried to hear me out, but between the mask, my ragged breathing from running a total of 4.5 km, and the stairs… well, he must’ve seen something in my eyes because he said:
“We’re not interested right now, but if you leave your business card, we’ll be in touch.”

“You know what? I’ll just go grab it—it’s in my car…”