Who Goes There?

On Monday I kept it simple. I skipped shaving, parted my hair on the right and wore a new shirt and tie. I hadn’t even reached my car when my next-door neighbor, Mr. Gardner, waved and called me by name. His real name’s not Gardner. It’s Meldrum or something, but he’s always planting bulbs, so I call him “Gardner”—or “Gardener,” to be more precise. I waved and drove off, feeling somewhat deflated, but determined to try again tomorrow.

By Tuesday, the stubble was coarse across my chin and a moustache was forming beneath my nose. I donned a baseball cap and thick wrap-around sunglasses. Digging deep inside my wardrobe, I pulled out an ‘80s-style gray colorless jacket and matching slacks. I looked a bit like George Michael. I didn’t see any neighbors, but at the downtown garage, Alvin—the guy who collects cash and dispenses change when parkers depart—smiled and asked if I was playing in the company softball game later that day. (He got the idea from the cap, I guess.) His name’s not Alvin—I don’t know what it is. He’s got a high-pitched “chipmunk” voice, so I call him Alvin. “Hiya, Al,” I said, putting the shades in my shirt pocket as I headed for the elevator. He never seems to mind. Maybe the car gave me away. I’d have to take the train the rest of the week.

Wednesday. Time to get serious. I wore lifts that added at least 5-inches and trimmed my hair with an electric shaver, leaving a trail of stubble around the back and sides. The beard was coming in really good. Jessie in reception made that annoying tooth-sucking sound she always makes and winked as I walked past. “Hey, Mr. G! You lose some weight?” Her name really is Jessie. It was Jessie even when we hired her three years ago. At the time, she was a man. He/she spelled his/her name “Jesse” back then.

Next I tried adding henna tattoos to the back of my head. Nothing too intense; they had to be work-appropriate, after all. In fact, I chose the company logo for the space above my right ear. (I practiced for an hour getting it right; luckily, it’s just a globe and the name of the firm, “Granger & Sons,” so it wasn’t all that difficult.) Directly above that I placed a hawk with huge talons reaching out hungrily for the globe. My boss called me into his office first thing. “You OK, Big D?” I didn’t say a word and that seemed to reassure him. He called up last month’s sales results on his computer and told me I’d earned a bonus. His name is Mr. Granger. But he’s not the original. He’s not even one of the “Sons.” His grandfather founded the company 35 years ago. I rose to leave, he added, “By the way... Nice bird!”

Friday was do or die, I decided. Facial hair shaved clean. Hairpiece. Contact lenses. Theatrical makeup to darken my skin tone. Nose putty. Appliqués covering lips and ears. John Lennon-esque glasses with ruby lenses and matching frames. Docksiders. Skin-tight black chinos beneath a long beige pullover. Jesse stared and blinked rapidly but said nothing as I walked down the aisles of cubicles toward my workstation. Granger blustered past, dropping paperwork atop my “IN” box, but likewise didn’t say a word, though his eyebrows did rise a bit and I thought I heard him mutter to himself. Once, the image reflected in the screen had me confused for a split second. Around noon, Stan, the human resources director, put his big hairy hand on my shoulder and cleared his throat. “Let’s have a talk in my office.” As we walked past the cubes, my co-workers either wore blank expressions or turned away. I plunked myself down in a black-leather chair across from the HR guy’s desk, yawned and cracked my knuckles. “How’s it going, Stan?” He leaned forward, sighed and traced his index finger along the side of his face, leaving it slightly smudged with what I recognized as theatrical makeup. “I’m not Stan,” he said.