Lost

Thursday. He is standing at the edge of the sidewalk, his back to the road, his heels right on the periphery. One push and he would tumble back, down. If it happens, will passing cars immediately notice in the darkness of the winter evening? Yes or no, he doesn’t seem to care. Or maybe he doesn’t notice.

His eyes are on the ground, looking around, but without urgency. I don’t see anything, but there’s a good chance his quarry is invisible to my naked eyes, so I watch where I place my booted feet as I walk by.

When I turn the corner and walk the emptier roads that lead to the cram school, the encounter has become nothing but a moment I can expunge from memory.

Thursday, the following week. He’s there again. I recognize him by the same black suit and leather briefcase and the gray hair combed to one side and held in place with gel. He’s still searching; his eyes scan the ground as his head moves slowly left to right and back again. The darkness is deeper and my eyesight hasn’t gotten any better, but this time I am certain there is nothing on the ground. I might be wrong and he looks harmless, but my gut prods me to be cautious.

I comply. My steps quicken and the distance between us shrinks until it disappears. Two steps and the distance is restored. Three and it lengthens a bit more. Four and I start to relax.

On my fifth step he turns and pounces on the echoes of my footfalls. I do not see it happen, but I hear it in the heavy clacks of leather loafers that trail the sharp clicks of my heeled boots.

I’ve been warned of stalkers, men following single ladies as they walk home in the night. I laughed those warnings off. I spent the first 24 years of my life in a developing country constantly fearing I would be robbed or raped or killed if I went home in a taxi after 8 in the evening. Being stalked in a G7 nation with the lowest crime rate in the world seemed like a very far-fetched situation.

But now this: a dark night, deserted streets, and two pairs of feet falling almost in tandem. I received warnings, but not lessons, so I do the first thing that comes to mind.

I turn and look him in the face to let him know that I know he’s there, and I will scream and fight if I have to. He stops, but his eyes don’t meet mine. They are still looking down, at the ground. There is nothing on the sidewalk between our feet, but he looks left and right, searching. Then he turns and walks away like nothing happened.

I watch him go until the distance between us is solace again and then, feeling like I won a fight, I walk home.

Wednesday. The gentle spring sunlight falls on his figure at one corner of the intersection. It is a weekday afternoon when most people are just starting to count down the hours to the end of a day at work, but he is there in his black suit with his leather briefcase like he has nowhere else to be but on the street and nothing else to do but search the ground.

I go across to avoid him, but the sweet victory I thought I gained in our last encounter is starting to taste bitter in my mouth.

Friday. It is not the same suit, briefcase, loafers and hairstyle that make me realize that something is off. It is the way he stands still, upright, but at the same time giving off the impression that he can fall at any moment. It is the way he walks in a straight line but in the wrong direction. It is the way he turns, sharp and spontaneous, like his destination suddenly moved somewhere to his left or right.

It is the way his neck is always bent so that his eyes can stay on the ground, searching for not a thing, I realize now, but a place. I look at him and for a moment I wonder what kind of shadow lodges itself in the head and makes a man lose his way even when he’s in the same place.

Tuesday. The rain falls on his already damp clothes. I’ve gotten used to him in the same way I’ve gotten used to the ducks that come to the river in spring and the kindergarteners with bright yellow hats who follow their teachers around the neighborhood in the morning.

He is simply one of those I happen to see on my way to and from work, but still I wonder if someone somewhere is worried about this man who is getting wet and hasn’t found his way home yet. My heart tugs at me, but I pass him by under the shelter of my white umbrella and force him out of my thoughts.

Wednesday. The light is green, but it won’t stay that way for long. In fact, it has already started to blink, persistent in its reminder that vehicles will get right of way in a handful of seconds. He remains standing on the thick white lines anyway, and he looks around like he has forgotten how to get to the safe side of the road or where it is.

His light turns red and the light at the other crossing beckons with a green, just in time for me to get there. I quickly walk by, keeping my eyes in front of me to keep him out of sight and minimize the guilt I feel for not saying anything, for not being a better person.

Saturday. He suddenly turns to the right, like he is avoiding a wall visible only to his eyes. Maybe there is one — a wall of glass that stretches both ways and crisscrosses with other walls throughout the entire city. Or maybe there are naughty ghosts popping up here and there to give him a fright.

It’s been three years, but I still don’t know what he sees and what he doesn’t. I still wonder. I still feel sad. Sometimes I still feel guilty. Tonight, for example, he stopped after he turned because he saw me from the corner of his eye. Does he remember the night I confronted him when he walked close to me? Did I bump into one of the walls of the glass labyrinth he’s traversing? Are the ghosts whispering to him that I have noticed something I shouldn’t?

He stands still, waiting for me to pass. I could give him a little bow or a short greeting, but instead I move past and keep on walking, like I always do.