The Sphinx's Final Riddle

The sequined bowler hat sat on the edge of the bathtub like a dead bird, its feathers matted from humidity. I'd been wearing it for twelve years—twelve years of playing the Sphinx at Pharaoh's Paradise, a failing Egyptian-themed resort in the middle of Florida. My wife had packed her suitcase that morning, leaving nothing behind but her lipstick stain on a coffee mug and a note that said I'd disappeared inside the costume years ago.

I ran my palm across my scalp, feeling where the gold paint had permanently stained my skin. The gig had seemed romantic once—mysterious work, decent tips, the illusion of wisdom. But somewhere along the way, the riddles I posed to tourists became the only questions I asked myself. What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in evening? The answer wasn't man. The answer was: whatever version of yourself you can still bear to be.

The bear clock on the wall ticked loudly—some gag gift from a guest, its plastic arms moving like broken wings. 2 PM. Showtime.

I'd stopped at a gas station on the way to work and bought a lottery ticket. Forty, with no savings, no marriage, no backup plan. The clerk had looked at my painted face and said nothing.

Now I stood backstage, the cheap gold lamé sphinx costume smelling of sweat and broken promises. I could hear the music start—something vaguely Middle Eastern, vaguely tacky. For twelve years I'd posed on my pedestal, asking riddles, accepting dollars, pretending mystery. But the real mystery was how a person could spend so long being something they weren't.

I picked up the hat and placed it on my head. Then I walked past the winged purple curtains and stepped into the Florida sun, past the fake palm trees and the empty pool, toward the interstate. The Sphinx's final riddle wasn't what I was anymore. The riddle was who I'd become when I stopped asking.