The Man in the Mask
This is the song- Man in the Mask:
Working the late shift at Tesco’s near the Lea Bridge roundabout in Hackney wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it paid the bills while I chased my passion for mixing and engineering music on SoundCloud. Every night, I’d watch a parade of familiar faces shuffle through the aisles, but one evening, a peculiar figure caught my eye.
He was an older white man, slender, with a fedora pulled low over his eyes and a medical mask covering most of his face. His hands were gloved, and he moved with a certain grace that seemed out of place in the fluorescent glow of the supermarket.
“Excuse me,” he said softly, his voice muffled by the mask but oddly familiar. “Could you point me to the dairy section?”
“Just down that aisle,” I replied, trying not to stare. There was something about his eyes — intense yet gentle — that made me feel like I’d seen them before.
Over the next few weeks, he became a regular. He’d buy small items: a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, sometimes just a pack of gum. Each time, he’d strike up a brief conversation, and I found myself intrigued by his quiet demeanor and the hint of a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
One night, as I was restocking shelves, he approached me.
“You work here every evening,” he noted.
“Yeah, got to fund my real job somehow,” I chuckled.
“And what’s that?”
“I’m a music producer — well, trying to be. I mix tracks and upload them to SoundCloud.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Music is a universal language. It speaks to the soul.”
There was a pause before he added, “I used to sing a bit myself.”
“Yeah? Anyplace I might’ve heard you?” I teased.
He hesitated. “Perhaps. I’m Michael Jackson.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. “The Michael Jackson?”
He met my gaze evenly. “Yes.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Michael Jackson? But… you’re, well, not exactly what I expected.”
He tilted his head slightly. “People change.”
“Look, Michael Jackson passed away years ago.”
He shrugged lightly. “Not everything is as it seems.”
Feeling a mix of amusement and curiosity, I said, “If you’re really him, prove it.”
He considered me for a moment. “Give me your email. I’ll send you something.”
Skeptical but intrigued, I scribbled down my address. “Alright, Mr. Jackson. I’ll be waiting.”
And then, just like that, he stopped coming. Weeks turned into months, and I almost forgot about our strange encounter amid the grind of work and late-night mixing sessions.
One morning, as the first rays of sun filtered through my window, I checked my email out of habit. Amid the spam and social media notifications was a message with no subject line from an unfamiliar address. I almost deleted it, but something made me click.
Attached was an audio file titled “Behind the Mask.” Heart pounding, I pressed play.
A smooth melody filled the room, rich and layered, with vocals that sent a shiver down my spine. The voice was hauntingly familiar — soft yet powerful, carrying emotions that words alone couldn’t convey. It was unmistakably Michael Jackson’s voice, but with a depth and rawness I’d never heard before.
I listened to it over and over, each time picking up subtle nuances — a whispered ad-lib here, a catchy riff there. It was mesmerizing.
Could it really be him?
I spent the next few days obsessively remixing the track, adding my own touches while trying to preserve its essence. When I finally uploaded it to SoundCloud, I titled it “Man in the Mask — Afro House Mix” and waited anxiously for feedback.
The response was overwhelming. Comments poured in:
“Is this unreleased MJ?”
“Got chills listening to this.”
“Whoever produced this captured something special.”
As the play count skyrocketed, I couldn’t shake the feeling of wonder and confusion. I replayed our conversations in my mind. The eyes, the voice, the graceful movements — it all seemed to align in a way that defied logic.
One evening, while sifting through messages from listeners, I received another email from the same mysterious address.
“Music is meant to be shared. Keep creating. — MJ”
I stared at the screen, a mix of disbelief and awe washing over me. Whether he was truly Michael Jackson or just an enigmatic stranger didn’t seem to matter anymore. What mattered was the music and the connection it forged between souls.
The next day at Tesco’s, I found myself glancing toward the entrance, half-expecting to see him walk through the doors. He never did, but somehow, I felt his presence — in the rhythm of the songs I mixed, in the melodies that flowed more freely than ever before.
Perhaps some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved. Perhaps they’re meant to inspire, to push us beyond our limits, and to remind us that magic can still exist in the most unexpected places.
As I closed up shop that night, I whispered into the quiet store, “Thank you, Michael,” and for a moment, I thought I heard a soft “Hee-hee” echo in response.
