The Other Shoe

They say that even the longest journey begins with but a single step. They also say that if you don’t know where you’re from then wherever you go is home. So does this mean that to walk in someone else’s footsteps is breaking and entering? I’m thinking about how the things we do every day and take for granted may in fact be criminal, and that I am probably a criminal without even knowing it, and since I have a problem with authority figures (check out my rap sheet), I have become quite emotional and erratic in my old age, though you could never tell this by merely looking at whatever weapon I happen to be pointing at you.

Generally you won’t see me though. I assume that everyone feels pretty much the same way I do about other people, which is that they drain the life out of me. If it’s possible to avoid them entirely I will, for my sake and for theirs. Having said that, I’ve noticed recently that people have an upsetting tendency to go exactly where I need to go, only they’re in front of me the entire way there, and walking at just about the same speed I’m walking, only a little bit slower. In fact our rates are so closely matched that if I were to attempt to overtake them it would take roughly half an hour. So I’m forced to remain in my little invisible prison thirty paces behind them, maintaining.

When I leave the facility at night it’s usually dark outside, and almost invariably there’s a vulnerable young woman walking a couple dozen feet in front of me. I don’t know for a fact that she’s vulnerable, of course - she may very well be capable of extracting vital organs using only her incisors - but the assumption is that the hulking male thirty paces behind her is the antagonist. As we walk she turns the same direction that I need to go at every opportunity, and I’m between gears just so I won’t gain on her too much. It takes an emotional toll on me, but it’s uncomfortable physically too: I’m walking faster than a shuffle, but slower than my usual aggressive stomp, so I feel awkward. Add to this the fact that I’m consciously looking anywhere but straight ahead and I begin to look like someone who may have just clawed his way out of a hole outside the perimeter fence at the local neighborhood happy home.

On the question of whether to walk silently or to make noise I’ve found no solution. Walking like the ninja will not attract as much attention, but may trigger her sense of peril should she catch a glimpse of you approaching as she turns a corner. Making a deliberate sound to announce yourself works for the first few minutes, but after a good 30 minute hike (“Ahem… still here behind you.”) it puts you on par with a Tourette’s Syndrome-afflicted rapist.

I’ve tried going out of my way to get out from behind these people, but I always encounter them again a few blocks up, and that’s even more awkward. Once I said, “I seem to be stalking you,” aiming for a Hugh Grant charming befuddlement, but mustering instead a Peter Lorre caliber facial twinge that actually caused my right eyelid to overrun my lower eyelashes (a feat I’ve been unable to reproduce since).

Now I think it’s a conspiracy, and I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s like these people have figured out a way to follow me - right in front of me. Contact with poison will eventually heighten your tolerance to it, but walking home the same way, somehow, only makes you more vulnerable. It’s humiliating and frustrating, and it reminds me that I am a creature of routine, and that will be my downfall. As far as the law is concerned I am the stalker - and sure, technically my actions are those of a stalker, but on the inside I am the helpless victim.

That said, I will on occasion follow someone home for no reason.

Related Tales

» “What the Other Hand Is Doing” (26 of Apr, 2003)
» “Terminal II” (03 of Apr, 2003)
» “Terminal” (31 of Mar, 2003)