The Layers of His Mask

My nails are pressing into my palms as I bite my lower lip. I can't believe I'm doing this. I inhale a deep breath as I walk closer to the glowing lights inside the restaurant. The place is full of happy customers, and I dread walking into the perfect scene. I look down at myself and pray to God I dressed appropriately. I tug on my formal shirt and try to saunter confidently into the establishment. I approach it and the strong solid bricks begin to look ominous, despite the inviting atmosphere radiating from the restaurant. My steps become shaky and smaller until I come to an unanticipated stop. "Rebecca Daniels, you will march yourself in there and do that interview!" I say out loud to encourage myself. I straighten my back and lower my shoulders. My steps are now firm and sure. I arrive at the door and open it to reveal a smiling hostess. "Welcome to Romano's! How can I help you?" "Umm, I-I'm here to see Chef Brooks for an interview." I stutter over my words at the now frowning hostess. She looks me up and down while I adjust my clothing self-consciously. Looking slightly disgruntled, she leads me to the back of the restaurant and through a narrow hallway. I keep walking closer and closer to the office door at the end of the hall, my palms beginning to sweat. I wipe my hands on the leg of my pants. I stand before the large door and raise my fist. I freeze, lowering my head. What am I doing here? I thought I was good enough! I should just leave. Then the reason I came here in the first place flashes through my mind and it pushes my hand to knock. At first, I tap gently but they get stronger and a voice echoes out of the room carrying the words, "Come in!" When I enter I am greeted by a tall, dark haired, heavily bearded man wearing a black chef coat, and black chef pants. My heart stops when he confidently rises up from his office chair to greet me. He adjusts his coat. "Hello, I am Chef Brooks," he says blatantly, offering his hand to me. I shake it nervously, my grip loose, his firmer. He returns to his seat, his tall frame lowering slowly down into the overly large black office chair behind the desk. I take a seat in the leather chair opposite of his desk. His moderately deep voice doesn't seem to match his appearance at all. It comes off as arrogant. But, I sense that he doesn't want to portray any signs of weakness to me. As he stares at me I feel his icy blue eyes baring deep into the depths of my soul, searching for any signs of intimidation. My eyes grow wide and I feel the pace of my heart quicken against my chest as I grip the sides of the plush burgundy leather chair, digging my nails into it. I close my eyes and quickly recover, taking a deep breath to calm myself. I need to show him how much I want this internship, how much I need it. I open my eyes again and straighten myself in my seat, clearing my throat. He gives me a look of worry, and then confusion. Resting his chin in between his thumb and index fingers, his features tense up. "Tell me about yourself," He says carefully, folding his arms, placing them atop his desk as he leans forward. "Well...my name is Rebecca Daniels. I am a culinary student at the Art Institute in Atlanta. I um, I've always had a passion for cooking, ever since I was little..." I see the tenseness of his features diminish a little as I continue to talk. "My father is actually a chef. He trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris—" "What is his name?" he interrupts, obviously interested in this tidbit of information. I fall back into my seat, floored that this man actually had the nerve to cut me off after he told me to tell him about myself. "Russell Daniels," I reply hesitantly. I start to fidget with my fingers in my lap before looking back up again. "The Russell Daniels?" A look of shock and awe flashes across his face as he leans back in his seat, crossing his arms again. "Yes," I nod. "He's a very well-known and respected chef around here," he taps his pen against the desk, glancing downward. "He is also a big inspiration of mine. His work, the passion and the drive that he has, inspired me to start cooking at a very young age as well. If I were to hire you, I would expect to see a lot of that same hard work and dedication," he says sternly, staring back up at me. Oh. My. God. I think I just dug myself an early grave. I rub at the side of my temples. He notices this, and I spot his eyes narrowing at me in confusion. I stop mid rub as I look up at him from under my lashes. I quickly place my hands neatly back in my lap. A lot of people ask me why didn't I just train under my father for my internship, and I quite simply tell them, I didn't want to. Even though his focus, passion, and skill in the kitchen is something amazing to witness, I just don't want to do it. I witness it almost every day. When he and my mother invite me over for dinner, when I go to visit his restaurant. I don't want his last name to be a constant cloud of judgment looming over my head with each interview that I go on. I want people to recognize me for me. I want them to recognize the same passion that I put into my work. I look down to the floor as I explain my objective for being here. "Of course. It's the main reason that I chose to apply here. I wanted to go somewhere where I knew that people wouldn't use my namesake as a form of judgment. I wanted to go to a place where I knew they would push me, because my father never did. He didn't want me to go into this industry at all because of what others would initially expect from me. He wanted me to go into this industry only if I had the passion for it." I look back up at him. He says nothing more, he just nods. The remainder of the interview goes on like this. Him asking me simple questions, me answering them, putting in more information than needed. Finally, the interview is finished, and I walk out not knowing how I did because he never gave me any indications as to how it went. All he told me is that "I'll be contacting you if I feel you are the right fit for this establishment". Whatever the hell that means. He then leads me back out through the kitchen, to the lobby of the restaurant, shaking my hand once more. After that he walks away, just like that. I mean, I think I did okay, or at least, I hope.