The tall, skinny, ugly man

I'd set up my stand on the Ave, sold a few fish, and there were no Christians preaching, so it looked like a good or at least an ordinary day. Until I noticed the same tall, kinda skinny, kinda funny-looking guy I'd spotted a few weeks ago (5/26).

This time he wasn't wearing the baseball cap, but he has a distinctively ugly face, a face you'd remember, more memorable for me because the last time he'd hung around on Telegraph he'd trailed me all the way back to San Francisco, gotten off at the same station as me, rode the same escalator up, and followed me across the street before I shook him off.

Ever since, I've wondered if it had been my imagination, and then today he was leaning on a wall on Telegraph again. His pointed his head in various directions, didn't openly stare, but it felt like he was watching me. That's unlikely, right? Impossible. So I sat and sold fish, keeping an eye on that man who seemed to be keeping an eye on me.

In the mid-afternoon, I asked Umberto to watch my table, and headed for the basement boy's room in a tavern across the street, where they don't mind vendors peeing.

My route would take me past my watcher, and I was going to stop and talk to him, introduce myself, make a snide remark, and see what he'd say. After I'd crossed the street, though, he was gone from where he'd been leaning for half an hour. When I came back to my table, he was still gone.

He stayed gone for the rest of the afternoon, and it was a relief. It's all only been in my head, I figured, as I packed my cart and said good night to Umberto and a few other vendors I don't hate.

Rolled the cart to Jay's house, locked it up, then walked to the BART station, where that same man was sitting on the subway platform, reading a newspaper.

My heart leapt, my spirits dove, and I was suddenly certain none of this has been my imagination. From across the platform, I waved at the man, and shouted a friendly, "Hey, fucker!" I wanted him to know I'd seen him. He didn't respond.

We got onto the same westbound train, but in different cars. I wasn't sure what to do. I enjoy watching spy movies but never wanted to be in one.

A natural-born coward, I decided to put distance between us, and as the train rolled along I stepped through the doors into the next car, and then the next, further from my possible/probable pursuer. 

At MacArthur station, I transferred to a San Francisco-bound BART, and didn't see him step aboard, but he was on the train. I knew it. Exactly the same thing had happened two weeks ago. Exactly the same everything, actually.

For safety's sake, I did something different — rode past my station, all the way to Glen Park. I got off but stayed on the platform, scanning the crowd for the tall, skinny, ugly man, but he wasn't there. I boarded the next eastbound train, and stepped off at the station near my hotel. Didn't see him, and I did spend some time looking.

I rode the escalator up, and decided to walk away from my hotel, not toward it. Crossed the street and walked further from home, waited, then walked all the way around the block until I was back above the subway station. Still didn't see the guy, but I wasn't feeling good about not seeing him. It was all way too much, coincidence after coincidence.

It didn't seem wise to walk home, so I stepped into the cutaway entrance for a shop that was closed, and stood in the shadows. I hadn't even seen him coming, but almost immediately, the tall, skinny, ugly man walked briskly by, looking into the distance instead of seeing me in the cutaway, right beside him.

"Hey, motherfucker," I said softly, and he jumped but stopped. "Why are you following me?"

He slowly turned, found me in the shadows, and said, "I'm not following you, mister," but damn, he looked flustered.

"Bullshit. You're following me, and I want to know why." He didn't answer, and the situation started to overwhelm me.

Ever wondered what you're capable of, under the right or wrong circumstance? I've wondered. I was wishing my switchblade was with me, but it wasn't. I had my mace, though, and fingered its safety latch in my pants pocket.

"Look, asshole," I said to his silence, "the longer you stand there and say nothing, the rougher this is gonna go."

And still I was thinking it might be a big fat misunderstanding. Maybe I've been mistaken about all of it, today and two weeks ago. Maybe the man lives in my neighborhood, and he's headed home. Maybe this, maybe that. I wanted him to convince me I'd been wrong.

"I just," he paused and swallowed hard. "I just like your zine…" and I didn't even hear the rest of whatever he said.

I'd thought he was a cop or a pervert or simply a nutcase, but hadn't seriously considered that he might be yet another reader trying to get past the paper-and-mail wall, to meet me in the flesh. It's happened several times, and I hate it, but it's never happened like this before.

"You like my zine," I said, slow and angry. "Why didn't you say hello on Telegraph, like the other nutzoids?"

"You don't like it when people say hi on Telegraph."

"I don't like it when people follow me, either!"

My mind was whirling ahead of itself, stumbling around, falling flat on its face, trying to understand.

Is this John Bennett, I wondered — the jerk who used call-return to find me at the hotel's pay phone? (5/6)

Is he Mr Previn, the man who'd offered me a gig, but been a no-show when we were supposed to meet? (5/29).

Is he Mr Urgent, the caller who's called a dozen times to hire me, but won't say what for? (6/3)

Maybe he's some goofball whose zine got a bad review in Pathetic Life, and he's looking for bloody revenge?

So many possibilities, none of them good.

And another thought — this man had followed me home from Telegraph Ave, but on my way to the BART station, I always stop at Jay's house to lock up the fish cart. So this fucker might know where I live, but he definitely knows where she lives. I'll have to call her, and tell her to be paranoid and scared and worried, just like me.

"What's your name?" I demanded like a cop.

"Lance Collier." His eyes were reddening, like he was about to cry. Well, boo hoo, butt-head. 

"Give me your wallet."

"Why?"

I let the question hang there. It didn't deserve an answer. "Give me your wallet, you fuck, or you get a face full of mace."

He reached into his pocket, handed me his wallet, and I opened it and found his driver's license: "Lance William Collier," I said, and he smiled like we were pals.

"Sit down, Lance." He hesitated, so I pointed at the concrete base of the vestibule I was still standing in. He stepped over, put his back to the wall, and slid down until his butt was on the ground.

I pulled my notebook from my backpack, and wrote down his name, address, and license number, then put the license back in his wallet, and dropped it on his head. 

"Tell me, Lance Collier — are you sane?"

"Yes," he said, "I'm sane." He glanced embarrassedly at a few people passing by, and I can only wonder what they were wondering.

"Why are you following me?"

"I don't know," he said. "I— I just wanted to see where you live." Thoughts of John Lennon flashed across my mind.

"You are so far out of line, I ought to mace you just on principle."

He said nothing.

"And what were you going to do after you'd followed me home?"

"Well, nothing," he pleaded. "I'm not some stalker."

I gave that a single fake, exaggerated "Ha! You're not? Man, you do what stalkers do. You followed me from Telegraph, twice — hell, maybe more than twice. Twice that I've noticed. If that's not stalking me, what do you call it?"

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, and I sometimes call myself pathetic, but this guy really was. He was shaking, maybe starting to cry, rubbing his watery nose with his shirt sleeve. "Can I go now?"

It took a few seconds to think what to say. "You're not under arrest. You can leave any time you like." But I was standing over him, and the angle was perfect for giving him a hard kick to the nuts.

"Sorry," he said again, as if that mattered. He put his hands on the cement to start hoisting himself up.

"There's just one thing," I said, and he stopped mid-hoist. "I have your name and address, which I'll be sharing with a few friends of mine. Just know… you fuckin' schmuck… that if I see you again, ever, or if anything unlucky happens...  to me, or to anyone I know, there's not gonna be a knock at your door. You won't know what's coming."

"Jeez, I said I'm sorry," he said.

"But I haven't said all is forgiven, and it's not. Something to remember, Lance Collier — if there's a next time, I won't just be standing here, talking. If there's a next time, I will kill you."

"I said I'm sorry!" he said, now standing up.

"And I said I will kill you. So, do we understand each other?"

"Yeah." 

"Goodbye forever, Lance Collier."

He said "I'm sorry" for the enth time, promised he wouldn't bother me again, and then he walked off toward the subway station.

I stood where I was, and watched until he went down the stairs. Then I crossed the street and went into Western Donuts, bought two glazed and a big cup of coffee, and decided this would be the last entry in my diary/zine.

T H E     E N D

From Pathetic Life #25
Sunday, June 9, 1996

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life
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