by KUBOA
I’d numbered it one through twenty, but for no particular reason. Instead of trying to figure out why I’d stopped at that number, I just started writing next to the numbers, a list of what had happened. One A man had followed me. Two A man had threatened to turn me over in three days. Three I’d followed the man. Four The man had dinner with a woman. Five The man went to a friend’s apartment. Six The man hid in a woman’s apartment.
I looked up, but the young woman seemed to have settled into what she was reading, completely, even absently reached to her coffee, drank from it, set it down, not looking up.
The list was meaningless. I scribbled over it.
I thought about maybe calling my father, maybe calling my mother, some old friend. So I jotted down another set of numbers, one through ten, labeled one through three Dad, Mom, and Herman, started tapping the pen against my forehead.
Why Herman?
I didn’t want to call him. I suppose his was just the first name to occur to me. I didn’t want to call anybody. I scribbled over the list.
Turning the sheet over, I quickly wrote out the name Claudia, set a comma after it and down a little space wrote the half of a sentence I never really got close enough to see how beautiful I knew your face was, I always stayed and then just got pitifully bored, dread creeping over me. I made curlicues of all of the letters of all of the words, a thick spit of ink, smeared it with my thumb side, regarded the paper from each side until I was certain it was indecipherable, crumpled the paper, stood, thinking to tear it in the privacy of the locked toilet, tear it into a hundred squares, maybe swallow them, no chance that any of the words could be read.
It was an excruciating panic, the faucet running, sitting on the toilet with my pants down as though doing this legitimized me, would keep everybody away, make me not a liar. I didn’t count the pieces, soaked them in sets of no more than ten, balled them tight, swallowed them with shaking palmfuls of slurped water.
I didn’t want her name associated with this. No one needed to know about her. She didn’t need to know it had to do with her.
Christ, had I used her name around Montgomery?
I stared at the confusion of my reflected face.
No, I hadn’t. Or I had. Or I had I had I had.
Did he know about her?
He couldn’t. It became a certainty, though, that he did. Yes, absolutely, unavoidably. I’d either said her name or been seen with her before I’d done in Gavin.
Cramps doubled me over back down onto the seat where I strained, neck tensing, hardly able to bend, trying to force any sort of release, stiffened to place, nothing leaving me.
***
Montgomery was sitting next to the girl when I reapproached my seat, still feeling on the verge of defecating, my shoulders in pain from the stomach ache.
I sat to my chair, neither Montgomery nor the girl looking up from their conversation. It took a few moments to notice that it wasn’t the same girl. I didn’t know what to make of it. She had the same paperback, spread open, face down, on her knee, the same bag was on the floor, leaned to the seat side, the same coffee, but it wasn’t the same girl. She seemed captivated by Montgomery’s whispered story, smiling, giggling.
What could it mean?
I wondered also what time it was, scanned for a clock.
Could I ask the girl the time? Ask Montgomery? Just lean forward, croak out the question, sit back? Would they feign concern? Ask me something? Was this the lead in?
It could’ve been the presence of Montgomery was just a fungus over things, my mind recoiling from it, unable to focus correctly, it could’ve been the girl was the same girl.
What was different?
Too much was different.
Hadn’t the one’s hair been up and red, orange, the skin a bit fairer than this one’s, though this one’ s skin was quite fair, pale? Or was this one too pale, this one paler, not the other darker?
Maybe it wasn’t red hair the other had had, but definitely different pants and I’d noted the fact that the other one had open toed shoes, absurd for the weather, this one in sensible boots, thin leather, but obviously warm.
It was another children’s game. A silly picture puzzle.
I glared hatred, murder, bilious venom, curdled insects, tried to secrete odours that would make them ill, cause their joints to ache, make it so they’d bleed from the itches they’d have to scratch at like sick animals.
Even in some incidental motions they made, every reason their eyes could’ve so casually passed across me, they somehow didn’t. It was as though both of them were doing their best to avoid looking at me, but at the same time were both aware of how intently I was regarding them. It was a tease, if they’d been doing it to each other it would be a flirtation. This unsettled me.
Was I their flirtation? Did Montgomery have an erection? For who? The girl? Me? Was she becoming wet? Did her uncrossing her legs, changing the posture of her sitting, indicate that?
I closed my eyes. Nothing I was thinking mattered.
Why were these my thoughts so close to no more thoughts?
***
They spoke so quietly, it was like they were just moving their mouths, a kind of hypnotic rhythm to it. It seemed they put motions at the wrong places, that the quiet mouths were open closing open closing overtop of each other too often. But they were too far away to verify.
Did he want me to just sit here until the authorities arrived? Or did he actually want me to ask him the time?
Three four quick upbreaths, a chuckle, I thought about leaning forward, raising a hand to get his attention and when I did just mouthing the words Sorry, do you have the time?
What could he do if I did?
I wanted to see.
I lurched a bit, wriggled, got to a more upright position, dug one elbow into a thigh, my other hand gripped over my knee. I waved. Montgomery looked over first, the girl, as though genuinely curious, noticing me for the first time, followed his drift in focus from her to me.
-Do you know what time it is? I mouthed, pointing at my wrist to help facilitate things, my throat dried, near to choking.
Montgomery looked at his heavy wrist, no watch on it, using his thumb and forefinger as though he were repositioning the watch face, squinted as though to verify, then looked at me and mouthed, very clearly, Ten fifty-two, the words followed by a smile and a friendly tip tap tilted head of a nod.
My head started to tick as I sniffled, rubbed a knuckle at an itch on my temple. Then I scooted a bit more forward on my chair, repeating without talking Ten fifty two? and Montgomery pretended to check his watch again, but instead of saying Yes or That’s right, when he looked up he said something I couldn’t make out, long, several sentences, lips going fast.
I mouthed What? and he pointed to the girl, mouthing something, then just insistently pointed at her face, as though aware from the intensity of my breathing I was fixated on him, absolutely.
The girl had her eyes closed, was making sips of her tongue out, blinks, lizard snaps, every few seconds, after a few times glugging her neck like a bird swallowing something, right back to the tongue motions.
When I switched focus to Montgomery, he was still blathering, but now was moving as though in slow motion, making strokes to the air with his fingers like spelling out letters, but not spelling anything, just shapes, sticks of motion, or else maybe letters in such poor penmanship I couldn’t read them, slow, indecipherable, invisible scribble scrabble.
***
I felt heavily under the influence of something, wondered if my coffee had been tampered with.
Montgomery had returned to his pretended conversation with the girl, a sudden thack of his head in her direction, a clear jangle to her arm, her eyes opening, bizarre motions ended, no attempt at some subtle signal, a shift of a foot, something to make it seem natural. Montgomery had simply tired of the game and had n
o reason to not let on full well that it had been a game.
I looked at my coffee. Of course it hadn’t been drugged. I was just collapsing, entirely, lack of sleep, mental stress, my injuries, the alcohol clotting my veins into bones.
Or it could have been the clerk had spiked it. This did make sense. Dosed me, called Montgomery. The timing was a little bit strange.
If I hadn’t gone to the toilet, would he have just showed up, pantomimed a greeting to the girl?
No. Because it would’ve been a different girl, before.
Would he have brought the new girl, plainly let me see the switch?
Suddenly, it was more important to me to know if he’d been lying about the time. I staggered up, took a misstep, corrected myself and rounded through the shop, which was now bustling, a lengthy line, people milling, waiting for their orders. I asked a man who definitely had a watch on and he told me Just past eleven, then looked back behind me, so I twitched a look back, as well.
Nothing. Nobody even there at all.
There was a roiling in my gut so I started back in the direction of the toilet, halted when I saw Montgomery, standing, just handing the girl her bag, leaning in, whispering something in her ear, giving her a quick kiss. Or pretending to whisper something in her ear, pretending to give her a kiss.
I wanted to grab him, slap him like a frustrated child, weak rubber limbs plopping harmlessly in flopping swings on and off of him.
Why couldn’t I?
A customer passed behind me, saying a polite Excuse me, so I scooted more toward the window.
-Where are you going to go? Montgomery asked me, abruptly, snapping his fingers to be certain I was listening.
The tone of the question, so sincerely curious, so lacking in menace confused me.
The girl moved past me, out of the café, most likely away forever.
-How long do I have? I asked.
-Until what? he said, now getting an odd look, like we’d gotten on two different subjects.
I started to answer, but he took a few steps toward me, past me, like he’d been walking a line from the back of the room, like I wasn’t even there or else was just in his way, saying So sorry to his gruff Pardon me.
***
I got three, four blocks up the way before, at a crowded crosswalk, Montgomery was beside me, again. I hadn’t been walking at all quickly, no longer cared to, but all the same he was breathing hard, brow clammy, distinct beads of gritty brown, brackish sweat on top of the overall glaze.
The signal changed and everyone moved forward, the mass of people crossing from the other side weaving through the mass I was part of. I had no urge to create a distraction, no urge to run, didn’t even know if I was traveling in the correct direction for the bus depot.
I eyed some taxis, stiff thoughts of Couldn’t I possibly escape in to one?
It seemed I could. In fact, escape might’ve been a more realistic option this late in the game than at the start. By now, there had to be an element of chance in it, the necessity of precision on Montgomery’s end, it could no longer be sloppy, nitwit games, infantile taunting, taking his time. The more his fist closed, the more I might slip out.
I stared and stared and stared and stared and stared at taxis, so many empty, but couldn’t reason it through.
Montgomery must’ve reappeared for some exact reason, must’ve needed to be close to me, now. It was another kind of pretend, he knew I’d be beaten down, so if he showed up it would keep me teetering, waiting for his next move, it would give the suggestion of power, his obscene little games with the girl in the café would make me feel buried when finally I might have dug my way out.
No. Not true. He just wanted to be close. He never had to show himself to begin with, in fact. Obviously he wanted to be close, wanted to torture, it was the part he enjoyed. He wasn’t a conscientious citizen, phoning in a tip. He was reasonless, just here because he could be and I could do nothing about it.
Which, I stammered in my head, didn’t mean I couldn’t get away, now. If I did get in a cab, I thought, forcing myself not to drift from the idea this time, I’d be free. There was no way he could know where I was going, not with certainty. Even if he managed to follow in another cab, I could dash out when he was caught in traffic a few cars back, a mad scramble, he couldn’t keep up. I’d be in another cab before he knew what was happening, jump out of that one, flail and flail and flail and flail and flail, eventually everyone would lose track of me.
***
I turned around, Montgomery stopping, casually getting a cigarette out, seemed so certain I wasn’t tricking him. I wasn’t tricking him, of course, but for some reason his certainty, which was correct, made me feel I could’ve been tricking him, he could’ve been wrong, there was no way he could know I was actually stopping to talk, not about to assault him, make a scene, dash off, although I wasn’t. He knew. No rhetoric. He seemed to know better than I did, though I knew absolutely.
-What if I just ran from you, now? I don’t believe you’ll ever let me go, let me out, you never will, right?
He didn’t respond, so I went on, surprised at the absurd calm of my tone.
-You don’t want anything, you’re going to turn me in. Do I have any chance at all? Or had I just ought to sit over there and wait?
I pointed at some random bit of wall, the outside of a clothing shop, Montgomery turning, squinting at it, seeming to give it all so much thorough consideration.
-How about over there? he said, pointing just up the way, to a sandwich shop or to the bus stop in front of it, I couldn’t tell.
Was it an answer? Was it a taunt? Why was I asking him questions?
-Are you going to turn me in?
He took in funny breaths, stifling a sneeze, sneezed and then said Yes.
I opened my mouth to growl something flippant at this, something blunt, an insult, but drooped before I even sighed, head swaying side to side, looking at my feet, looking at his feet. Then I reached across, took his face in both hands, firmly. He didn’t struggle at all, though he was difficult to grip, exactly, for the slop of him. I could feel his whiskers up through his acne pocked skin, could see a scab over his slightly parted lips.
Nothing. Not even one word. I couldn’t say anything.
Maybe I’d just wanted to touch him, to know he wasn’t some other man covered in a hideous growth of this man, that I wasn’t going to be devoured, forced to slosh around inside of him with other simpering, digesting victims.
This thought crossed my mind, and right away I started dissecting even it, even its ridiculous, abstracted, entire lack of form or logic I had to argue with.
Touching him didn’t prove he wasn’t composed of people he had eaten, arms and legs of them sucked to bloats of soggy bones, it didn’t prove there was anything but stagnating toilet water in him, anything but mounds of filth, not even his, the excretions of everyone he had devoured moving in gulps and fumbling squishes.
Whatever it was I was going to say, whatever moment had entered me just as quickly slipped out of me, flatulence, air down my nose scented sour with mucus. My arms flopped to my side.
He turned his head, raising his arm to cover his sneeze with the inside of his elbow.
***
In line waiting, it didn’t matter to me where, but it was the sandwich shop Montgomery may or may not have pointed at, Montgomery waited behind me, may have been giving the lower part of my back little taps, so light, giving me little caressing tickles over my sides, fingers barely grazing the cloth of my coat. Whether he was or not, I didn’t care, I didn’t even bat at the sensation of itch or chill once. Whatever he was doing behind me, I just hummed to put out of my mind.
Three people from the front of the line—no need to be waiting, as all I wanted was to know if anyone working knew where the bus depot was, which I could just as well learn from anyone on the street, I could just as
well get into a taxi and ask for—Montgomery started to hold my hand. I let him. He used his thumb tip to caress the wet center of my palm, a tingle rising through me, tears welling in my eyes.
He didn’t try to hold me when I slipped my hand free, wheeled clumsily around, dabbing at my face, giving awkward apologies left and right as I bumbled my way back outside.
There could have been no purpose in his touching me, nothing but a perverse desire to molest me.
Or had he been worried what I might say to that clerk?
No. Stupid. I couldn’t even think of anything remotely reasonable to think about anything. I’d no longer any idea if I was functioning properly, if I’d wet my pants, if I was drooling, if I was naked, felt myself crying, hobbled to a wall, covering my face in my hands, a moment later pulling the hand he had touched away, roughing it on the wall, on the side of my pants, fighting against the desire to clamp it back to place with the other one.
A long, blubbering void of time. A trembling, fist to my eyes length of isolation.
Slowly I calmed, touched at my face to clear it as much as I could.
I looked up to see Montgomery standing there, hovering and lazy, directing any concerned look from passersby away with soft gestures of his hands, one hand in the air over me, motherly, like he would have caressed me but knew I needed my space. The people who looked at me, distressed, pityingly, then moved their eyes to Montgomery, regarding him kindly, lovingly, so moved by his display of caring they were envious of me, whatever I was.
***
There was a stink to my every motion, head congested to the point of dizziness, even blowing my nose didn’t help and sucking in, trying to snort phlegm to spit out just made my vision blacken, slowly crackle back to normal, or normal washed under grit, burnt yellowing stale brown.
I really had no idea where I was. Any time I tried to think of the bus depot, the only thing that came to mind was an image of the streets around some museums in another town I’d once lived in. People didn’t seem to find my appearance off-putting however, I must’ve just looked like I’d caught some bug going around, influenza, something everyone knew someone else suffering from.