The Man Who Arrives at Five

I am on the sidewalk in town, and I come across the strange man again.

He's wearing a tuxedo today, and he stands out marvelously from the crowd around him who are rushing about in shorts and t-shirts. It's as if he's going to a business meeting, yet he has no briefcase, no watch, and doesn't seem to be going anywhere; he stands there, looking on, not at me or anyone else, but more at the horizon or a building before him.

The same familiarity of the mellifluous church bells sounds, and I glance up at the clock mounted on the brick building: 5 o'clock exactly, on the dot. I glance back over at the seemingly surreptitious man and he is not there. A river of chills and uneasiness crash over me as I turn and walk on, towards the cafe at which I work.

I shall have to remember that, at 5 o'clock daily, the man comes out to that same spot right in front of the church. Why? I don't know. Perhaps it has absolutely nothing to do with me--perhaps he is waiting for an old friend or family member. Perhaps he simply likes listening to the chime of the clock and its echo. But his arrival there every day leaves me with no dearth of fear, so I go to the cafe and pray that the possibility of him stalking me desists.

The next day he is there again. I am on the same sidewalk in town.

He is wearing the same tuxedo, gazing out the same way. His eyes are blue, I realize. His hair is black and slicked back with gel. His hands are tucked into pockets, and his mouth is parted slightly. He doesn't seem particularly nefarious in any way; just a man, waiting, watching. Whatever he may be watching.

On this day in particular, I walk over. I am curious. I am waiting as well, for him to turn and hold a gun to my head. He does not. I stand three feet, one foot from him, but he does not flinch, does not move, does not recognize I am even there. Any belligerent action he could have made would've happened moments ago, when I first stood beside him.

I am very close now. I wonder why no one finds it odd to see me, a young teenage girl, standing beside a young man, too young to be perceived as my father, but we are standing too close for anyone to believe something bad is occurring.

I am feeling brave; I purse my lips and dart my eyes around. I click my tongue, I clear my throat. None of this makes the man flinch. It is such an enigma as to why he won't just move. I groan on the inside and almost take a chance of grabbing his arm and turning him towards me simply to scream at him.

But my hand stays to my side. The two of us must seem incongruous in some way, don't we? Yet nobody seems to notice. Nobody! I almost laugh aloud at the stupidity; two people, who don't look related in anyway, and no one can tell the difference.

I sigh, and turn to leave; I suppose he shan't ensnare me yet. I click my tongue once more in attempt to get his attention, but his attention I do not grasp, yet again.

I am in the cafe. The cafe, Jim's Coffee, is not doing well.

Its business is slow, and I at the register can barely be seen working with money, or talking with anybody but the fat white cat named Murray that sits on a cushion on a stool by the register. Murray is not there today.

I suppose he had caught a malady, possibly an infection if I must take a guess. His owner, Jim, is not at the cafe either, which gives me a fright; Jim is always at the cafe, rain or shine or thunder or hurricane, in sickness and in health. Yet he is nowhere to be found.

To no avail I attempt to stifle fear, for I cannot get all upset as I sit here at the register. I look around at the cafe. Cozy, homey, warm. A fire crackles towards the back. A family laughs towards the front. The mother is a woman with a pale and drawn face, yet she laughs. The father is a man with a boyish complexion and a joyful disposition. I can tell from his eyes just who he is. There is a daughter, young, maybe eleven or twelve years old. She sits and sips a drink (hot cocoa, maybe? I can't remember giving that out) as the brown substance dots her nose. And there is a boy, older, maybe in college, who taps on his phone, brown hair covering his eyebrows.

I am looking down at an etching on the wooden table when I hear the bell ring, meaning the door has been opened.

In walks the man, and my breath catches so quickly that I let out an uncontrollable cough. He walks in so highly, so saliently, that I find myself tongue-tied. The man walks over to the coffee machine and presses the button for a dark roast. He adds no sugar, and no smile or presence.

Then the man walks over to me. His eyes are a marvelously piercing blue that I feel are staring right through me. The man looks like a robot; other than his alert eyes, his body sort of hangs on his frame, and his face looks droopy. His hand lazily places down the coffee cup.

"That'll be four euros, sir." I say, stumbling over my words, although I'm not sure if it's because of the man or just my awful ability (or lack thereof) to talk to people.

The man stares at me with a deleterious sort of look in his eyes as he pays, not looking down at his wallet. Amazingly, he pulls out exactly four dollars and hands it to me without so much of a grunt in thanks or parting.

If I were told to be delineate what occurred next, you would not believe me, I don't think. It's so insanely ridiculous and unbelievable. But I will tell you that, at this moment, I felt anything but bravery coursing through my veins. The family that I had mentioned earlier seemed akin to how I felt, their jaws dropped and eyes widened. Are you ready to learn what happened?

The man walked through the wall.

He did not crash into it like normal, he did not even look up. He walked right at the brick wall, right at the painting of the Eiffel Tower that has been there for years, and walked through it. When I saw the last of his left foot slip through, I jumped from the cash register and bounded outside.

Sure enough, the man was there. He stood adjacent to the wall he had just come from, his eyes attached to the church. We could see it from where we stood, the clock, too.

It rang five times, and the man's mouth opened to speak: "Five o'clock, on the dot, this shall be our meeting spot."

The man repeated the words again and again until I grew tired of hearing them. "Well, whatever do you mean?" I asked him desperately, my voice carrying over a slight wind that had begun to pick up.

The man simply gazed down at me and reached out his hand for me to take. "Come to this place at five o'clock, and you shall find what you have been looking for." He told me matter-of-factly, his face never faltering, his eyes never blinking.

"Well, why at five o'clock, then?" I inquired. The wind was a loud howl now, and I had to scream over it to be heard.

The man's carefully placed hair whipped about, and his tuxedo blew in the wind. He did not answer my question. He gestured to his outstretched hand.

And, with no thoughts of me being inept, I reached out.

My hand never touched his, for my eyes snapped open, and I was awake once more.