I pull my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around my knees for comfort. There is a man on the sidewalk across the street. He picks up his pace behind a young woman wearing a bulky brace on her left foot. She is hobbling around on crutches as everyone else on foot passes her by. I almost miss it, it happens so fast. He rips her purse right off her shoulder, throwing her down onto the hard concrete. Her chest slams down with a thud as he makes a run for it. There are other pedestrians, but they just look the other way. The thief makes it to the next block and slows to a casual jaunt. Welcome to Hates, Sir.
Across the street from them, a woman in a shiny, new Tahoe pulls into a handicap parking spot. She hops out and heads straight into the adjacent nail salon. I glance at her rearview mirror and check out her license plates to find she doesn't have a handicap permit. Eternal damnation for you, ma'am.
Two business doors down, a small group of college-aged guys and girls clean their plates. They look around the restaurant suspiciously, nod to one another, and dash out the front door before their waiter can bring them their check. If only they knew the torment that quesadilla would earn them.
There is a police officer sitting in his patrol car on the same block. His head is facing down, so I guess he is either looking at his phone or has dozed off. Regardless, unless someone is bleeding out on the concrete, it's doubtful he will look twice. I look at my phone. This all happened within half an hour in plain sight.
My parents have told me stories about how different moral standards were back in the late 1900s to early 2000s. Apparently, grocery stores used to employ people to facilitate the checkout process and some of the other employees would even bag your groceries for you. The doors on public buildings often had to be opened manually, and total strangers would occasionally stop and hold the door open for others. At coffee drive-through windows, one person would pay for the individual's drink in line behind them, and then that person would do the same for the people behind them, and so on. They got the idea from this super old novel, In the Garden of Delight, that then became a movie called Pay It Forward. I can't even remember the last time I spoke to a stranger, let alone pay for their coffee. The thought wouldn’t even occur to me. There is never a reason to. How could I be their best option to stalk and approach these candidates? Based on my observations, most others appear to have sold their souls a long time ago. I suppose avoiding human contact is a minor infraction. At least I’m not mugging crippled people.
The walk home isn’t proving to be more encouraging. I raise my eyes to look at the passersby faces just to see if anyone will look at me. Most of them avoid eye contact, none of them smile and some of them actually scowl at me. They all race by, darting away as to avoid having to brush up against another human being. Now that the world is facing the largest genocide of all time, I just can’t see them as people. Because thinking of them as people would mean that they have feelings and opinions. It would trigger empathy, and empathy would make it difficult for me to do my job. I prefer to think of them as a species. They are all simply Homo sapiens. Their opposable thumbs, hairless skin and bipedalism are what define them.
Once they are all gone, the species is going to be endangered. I guess I don’t really know if that’s entirely accurate. Maybe the environmental scientist I need to recruit will know those qualifications. I turn the corner next to my building, my shoulders slumped, and trudge up the stairs. I reach out to the pad next to the door with my key card and nearly slam my face into a man’s chest. I look up to find he is just staring back at me, and he is holding the door open. He’s tall, his hair is dark and wavy, and his eyes show the marks that crow’s feet would leave had he been smiling.
“Are you waiting for me to go?" I reluctantly ask.
"Yes. That's why I'm still standing here, holding the door for you like a jackass,” he replies.
“I guess they do exist," I mutter to myself as we make our way to the elevator. A perplexing energy fills the space as we climb to the third floor. If we hadn’t interacted, I wouldn’t feel the need to say something. This is his fault for holding the door for me. I may not like making direct contact with strangers, but it’s odd to find someone else who is comfortable with complete silence, in an enclosed space with only one other person. He isn’t even looking at his phone. Maybe he’s an alien. We glance at each other, as if calling one another’s bluff, and then quickly turn back to facing the elevator door.
Hold on, what if he is a serial killer? White American male, check. Emotionally manipulating? I would say holding the door for me counts as superficial charm at the very least, so check. After witnessing the utter garbage the world has become, I wouldn’t be shocked. It could explain his odd behavior. The rickety doors shutter open and I march down the hall trying my best not to move as if I’m onto him. I glance back and see that he is still behind me, moving in the same direction. I walk faster and almost break into a run, whispering to myself, “Please be open, please be open, please be open.” I turn the door handle and fall into Lorenzo’s condo. He is sitting in his underwear, looking at his phone on the sofa.
“I knew it was only a matter of time before you came knocking down my door, Leo.”
I brace myself on his kitchen counter in an effort to catch my breath. “Shut…up…I thought I was being followed by a serial killer and I didn’t want to bring him right to my place where he could cut me up into a million pieces,” I stammer.
“So, you thought you should bring the serial killer to my place, where he can cut us both up into a million pieces instead? Not your brightest moment.”
“Now that I’m thinking more clearly, I can see how that was a bad idea. I’m sorry. Can I just hang here for a few minutes until I know that the coast is clear?”
“I guess so. I could see how a girl like you would find safety in strong, protective hands like mine,” he smirked.
After thoroughly explaining how this visit was in no way sexual, I make my way back down the hall to my condo. I let out a sigh after closing the door behind me, only to look up and see the tall, dark wavy hair guy swigging down a beer with Hollis in our kitchen. I do a double take as Hollis wraps his arm around my shoulder. He pulls me toward tall, dark wavy hair serial killer guy. “Leo, this is my new coworker, Amos. Amos, meet the infamous Leo.”
“Ahh, the strong silent type from the elevator,” he smiles.
A wave of embarrassment washes over me. I have one training session with the Commander of Angels and I go full blown conspiracy theorist on my roommate’s coworker.
“I could say the same for you,” I said, warily returning the smile.
There is something about him that feels familiar, like déjà vu, but just the subconscious memory of him. It’s the way he smells. That’s it. It’s the weird microwave popcorn. Orville Rubenspaker or whatever. He’s the one. He notices that I am staring at him, but instead of looking away, he holds my gaze.
Hollis breaks the silence. “Well, this has been awkward. We are heading to Rosco’s for a drink. Care to join us, Leo?”
“Not tonight. I can’t. Lots of laundry to catch up on. You guys have fun though.”
They chuck their empty beer bottles into the trash and head to the bar. I don’t dare join them. I need to collect my thoughts before I say something that blows my cover.