9/29/03: Which Are You?

After I get off the phone with the nice detective -- the one who shares his last name with my third favorite ex-boyfriend -- I take a moment to stop and review the notes in my logbook. That's my evidence, so I'm careful with it. It lists the exact times and dates of the phone calls, as clocked by my caller ID. Not that the caller ID helps much besides being a fancy chronometer -- the calls are made from a blocked line. In case you're wondering what kind of calls they are, they're the kind where I am awakened in the middle of the night and the man on the phone whispers that he's going to slice my throat. Oh, you say. That kind. I have been very careful writing down all my information. One must be accurate. One must be precise. One must as sharp as a knife.

I stow my logbook away in the drawer of the phone desk and wash my face again and get dressed. The business of life continues, awful but cheerful. I choose my second-favorite tee shirt and my least sexy shoes. I have places to go today, and work to do.

The man at my deli smiles at me. A man at the subway station holds the door for me. When I go into the next car, the man I sit opposite from seems pleased. I wonder if that accordian player really is blind. I get pulled into a throng at my transfer station. Nice Detective Ex-Boyfriend said it's probably a man who likes me, a man whose feelings I have hurt. I search my past: who have I hurt? Is there anyone I have hurt, more than he hurt me? Helpful Mother says it could be someone watching me, following me. So good then, it's either someone I know, or someone I don't. The noise that the subway makes when it pulls to a stop is actually sickening. I actually feel sick.

I will not be coddled, though. I won't be mollified. There is someone out there when he should be inside of something else, like a jail. Why just block my phone line from taking "private calls"? I traced all his contact points and now I have an outline and that bastard's going down.

All this is hungry work so before class I stop by my favorite pizza place. As my slice warms in the oven, the man behind the counter studies my tee shirt, which shows a cat playfully reaching for a mouse. The caption reads: "I love the chase." The pizza man passes me my tray and asks: "Are you the cat or the mouse?" I am totally unprepared for this question. Who was this man, to ask me this?

I take my money out of my pocket and plunk it down on the lucite counter. "I sure as hell am not the mouse," I say. His returning smile is unreadable as he hands me my change.