William Bayer - Mirror Maze

Mirror Girl

Always on those rainy nights when she decided to drive into the city to play the game, she would first revisit the mirror maze All that afternoon, warm rain danced against the tin roof of the loft, and the faint howling of a dog, somewhere on the fringes of the park, made her think of pain. With darkness, light from the sulfurous street lamp across the road, cut by the blinds, cast soft stripes across the walls and floor. She sat on her hard wooden stool listening to the patter on the roof and the squeak of the ceiling fan as it thrashed the humid air.

When, finally, she made her decision, she moved with swift resolve. She rolled up the little blue rug beside her bed, opened the trapdoor beneath, then made her way by memory and touch down the wooden ladder to the catwalks.

These she crossed with the grace of an aerialist. When she reached the switchboard, she turned on the lights below. Then she lowered herself deftly to the floor down a soft, thick white gym rope. Finally she stripped off all her clothes and walked out to face the mirrors.

The ones in the sharply angled Corridor met her like angry sentinels-fattening, elongating, disproportioning her body. She strode rapidly past them, wound her way through the labyrinthine Chamber, exited via the sinuous Fragment on Serpent, then entered the Great Hall of Infinite Deceptions. Here, in the middle of the vast room, she stopped, then slowly turned like a skater cutting a figure on a patch of virgin ice.

Her glossy tresses of dark brown hair, so dark they looked almost black in the mirrors, cascaded down her neck, broke upon her shoulders and edged her pale back. Pausing to regard her high cheekbones and sculpted lips, she smiled gently at her likeness. Fair skin, brown irises, dark brows, modeled chin-she was a beauty and she knew it.

She basked before the multiple images. The reflections ravished her eyes. Then she began to look beyond herself, searching out corners and crevices in the silvered glass. There was secrecy in mirror space, places to hide and to conceal, corridors of sparkling light, endless shimmering passages and tunnels.

She positioned her image into one of these, stared hard at her eyes, willed herself entry. Then, in an instant that no matter how often she experienced it would always seem magical, she passed through to become her dream-sister the one she'd known since girlhood, the one who lived in mirror world.

She felt safe then, in a place where so many things were possible, where the rules and laws that governed the world outside were null and void.

Here, in the land of mirrors, normally forbidden acts could be performed without fear or guilt and to degrees of intensity undreamed of even in deepest sleep.

Later, wigged blond, dressed smart, artfully made up, she drove into Manhattan through the tunnel beneath the river, then onto the city's rain-slick streets. She kept all her car windows shut. Only music from the tape deck, dizzying arias sung by great divas, reached her ears.

Cruising the avenues of the upper East Side, she raised her eyes from the herd of taxis to gaze into her rearview mirror. Glimpsing the reflection of her dream-sister, she shivered at the sight. What if she were trapped? What if the mirrors turned cruel and refused to let her out? Then I will be lost forever, she thought, dread dissolving in the vision of street lamps reflected in the gleaming wet black avenue ahead.

She was searching for a bar, one she'd never been in before. She would know it when she saw it. There would be an aura: a rich warm glow, laughter and conversation spilling out, perhaps a handsome, well-dressed man entering alone.

Marks were always to be found in such places. Diana had taught her that.

For the first months after she had left, she had continued to follow her old mentor's rules. She had always been better at the game than the other girls-subtler, slicker, far more credible. Diana had told her that she had a gift for it, was a "natural," that with concentration she could out gross the others ten-to-one. Now, a year and a half after striking out on her own, she had begun to rely on her instincts. Now, too, she played only on rainy nights.

She chose a place called Aspen, a preppy jock hangout with an "apropos ski" look: glowing yellow lamps, a glistening U-shaped bar, the whole place carefully defined by its adornments-tarnished athletic trophies, crossed ski poles and lacrosse sticks, framed amateur team photos crowding the walls-all calculated to create instant nostalgia for some nameless generic school distinguished by its love of sports.

She was standing just inside the doorway, taking in the buzz, inhaling the aroma of smoke, perfume and beer, when she noticed a man glance up at her from the bar. Late thirties, expensive striped Italian shirt, thinning light brown hair. He appraised her briefly, met her gaze, grinned in welcome, then turned back to his drink.

In the instant when their eyes met and locked she recognized him as her mark. Not the flashy type of salesman conventioneer Diana had taught her to seek out, but someone better and less gullible. A superior man with cultural interests, perhaps moderately successful with women. A well-educated man, possibly divorced, who most likely owned an apartment in the neighborhood.

Striped Shirt looked up, smiled at her again. Already she felt regret; this conquest, it seemed, would not be difficult. She turned slowly, a signal that she noticed him but chose not to recognize his interest.

Spotting an empty table, she moved toward it, knowing he was watching to see if she sat alone.

The waiter was a puppy: bright eyes, cute polka-dot bow tie, tail of frizzy hair tied back with a rubber band. He flirted with her ("How're you tonight?"), then asked what she'd like to drink.

She squinted at him. "Have I seen you in something?" He smiled. "You a casting agent?" She shook her head. "Well," he admitted shyly, "I was in an ad in Details. You might've seen me there."

They chatted briefly about his career. He was looking to break through with a TV commercial. "Just in case you know someone in the biz " he added, wandering off.

When he returned with her vodka, he told her she had an admirer.

"Striped shirt. Over there." He gestured. "He picked up your tab."

"Nice," she said, "but I like to pay for myself."

"Sorry, too late, I rang it up. But if you wanna make things even, you can always, you know, reciprocate." He grinned. He'd put many a boy and girl together; it was what he liked best about his job. "Actually, Roger's a pretty nice guy. Comes in a couple times a week. Works for a magazine. Never heard any complaints."

She glanced at the bar. Striped Shirt was grinning again. She nodded her thanks. He raised his glass in acknowledgment.

"Well?" asked the waiter. She shrugged. "A girl could do worse."

He gave her his best kid-brother smirk. "This girl usually does better," she said. "Want me to tell him that?" She laughed. "Sure.

Why not?"

Striped Shirt appeared two minutes later, hovering at a respectful distance.

"Hi. I'm Roger."

She stared at him. "Hello, Roger."

He stared back. He looked a little unsure of himself. "Welcome to the pub."

"Thank you."

He gestured to the empty chair. "May I?" She shrugged. He sat down carefully.

"You're-?"

"My name's Gelsey, if that's what you want to know."

"Hello, Gelsey." He stuck out his hand. She looked at it, hesitated, then shook it casually.

"Thanks for the drink," she said. "But I wish you hadn't." She reached into her bag, pulled out her wallet.

His face fell. "Please, oh, no, don't! I know I should have asked."

She noted his wounded pride. "Well, just this once." She put her wallet away.