Prompt. You are walking downtown when you realize you are being followed.
I was on my lunch hour when I noticed my shadow. First in the bahn mi shop a block from my office, then later in the bank. A man, the same man, in both places.
On the surface he appeared average in every way: white, medium height, bland features, bland hair, bland eyes. You wouldn't look twice at him if he passed you on the street but he was out of place in the background of my daily life. I guess that's what made me notice him. Every day as you move through this huge city, you are surrounded by a greater number of strangers than people you know, but are they really strangers? You see most of them every day as you walk down the street, ride to work on the subway or in buses, cabs. You don't know them but they are familiar to the point of invisibility. Their faces blend into the background in the same way cars of every shape and colour merge into the blur of traffic. Those passing faces are so familiar you don't even notice them, until someone unfamiliar moves against the background.
In the bahn mi shop I saw him from the counter where I was reading the morning edition while tucking into a masterpiece of pork, lemongrass, pickled carrot and daikon. I heard a noise, a cough or maybe a sharp laugh, and glanced around. The tiny shop was packed like always, everyone with a fat sandwich in their paws, talking, laughing together as they feasted. Everyone except my shadow.
I caught him staring at me, his brow corrugated into a frown. He was alone in a booth in the rear corner with a full cup of steaming coffee in a saucer on the table above the newspaper, but no sandwich. Not even an empty plate. I found it curious. Who comes to a bahn mi shop for coffee? I wondered. We locked eyes for a second then he returned his gaze to the newspaper spread across the table in front of him. I didn't think much of it at the time and went back to my meal.
I didn't see him follow me out of the shop, but at the time I didn't realize I was the target of surveillance.
At the bank I took my place in line behind an elderly lady leaning heavily on a walker. She smiled up at me and I smiled back. The wickets were all open and occupied by tellers and customers and things seemed to be moving along smoothly. I felt good about the prospect of getting out quickly and returning to the office on time, but those good feelings evaporated like a cloud of smoke when I glanced back at the glass doors through which I had entered. There he was again, the same tan coat, the same salted brown hair, the same unsettling frown. He was next to a kiosk full of pamphlets, pretending to read a brochure on first time home buying, but he wasn't interested in a mortgage or interest rates. His interest was fixed squarely and unapologetically on me. Unnerved and annoyed, I returned his stare but this time he didn't flinch. Instead he tossed the brochure in the trash, buttoned up his coat and made his way toward the door. With his hand closed around the chromium handle, he gave me a last dark stare before shoving his way through.
"You know that guy?" the man behind me asked.
"No," I said.
"He wants to know you."
"I guess."
"Creepy."
You said it. Creepy.
Flustered and a little anxious, I did my business with the teller and quickly left the bank, but through the side door into the lobby of the office tower, not the street doors. At the elevators I merged with a cluster of office workers and expensively tailored executives. My shadow was nowhere in sight. I risked a glance through the glass doors toward the street. Pedestrians crisscrossed in front of the glass, each one on their way someplace important or mundane. It didn't matter. I couldn't see the man from the bank. When the brushed steel doors opened I was the first into the car and stabbed "B". A well-dressed woman with perfect hair and makeup sighed loudly, frustrated that I had inconvenienced her with a pointless ride to the underground garage. I ignored her.
When the doors opened, I stepped off the car into the gloomy claustrophobia of the parking garage. The smell of damp concrete and stale exhaust made the garage stuffy, polluted, and I walked quickly along rows of cars toward the south east corner of the building. My foot falls echoed off the walls and I listened underneath them for a tell-tale second set following me, but heard nothing as I passed slot after slot of Toyotas, Hondas, Fords, a silver Mercedes. I was alone.
The fire door guarding the stairwell to the street was a weathered slab of metal with a narrow slit of a window set near the left door frame. Brown paint had flaked off around the crash bar revealing bare gray metal underneath. I quickened my pace but before I reached the door, a shadow passed behind the window and the door swung violently inward. I skidded to a stop. It was him. I jumped backward.
"Why are you following me?" I barked, startled and angry.
My shadow hesitated a fraction of a second, assessing my potential for violence. Apparently seeing none, he smiled and advanced on me, the snout of a pistol pointing at my gut.
"You're a slippery character, Mr. Jones," he said. "Rather like a mouse when the kitchen light flicks on."
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© 2021 Kevin M. Coleman
Text by Kevin M. Coleman
Photo by Rene Böhmer on Unsplash