Strangers

Strangers

By Christopher Mancuso


Did you ever wonder about strangers? You see them almost everyday. They stand next to you on subways, buses and in lines at various locations. They’re always there, filling the ranks, walking sidewalks and crowding the shopping malls. You can hear fragments of their mundane conversations as they constantly yammer into their cell phones. They sit next to you in movie theaters and restaurants. They cough in doctor’s offices without covering their mouths. They drink with you in bars. They are the faceless masses that cheer at concerts and sporting events. These are the people who, if your life were a movie, would play the extras. Who are they? What kind of secret lives do they live?
Most strangers just have a blurry walk on role in your life, hurriedly passing you on a busy street or pushing a squeaky shopping cart down the aisle in a supermarket. Every once and a while you may briefly encounter one asking for the time, change of a dollar, or if you can spare a cigarette before they disappear back into a veil of obscurity. Occasionally, some of these individuals may become familiar strangers, as recognizable in your daily routine as any landmark. Maybe you see the same woman on the bus during your commute every morning. She gets on before you and you find her sitting is in the same seat with her nose buried in some cheap, dime store paperback. She is smartly dressed in a gray business suit with her hair pulled back into a tight horsetail, stretching out the skin on her face most unattractively. Just as sure as you see her out of the corner of your eye, she is aware of you for the split second it takes her to turn the yellowed pages of her romance novel. Although you may never physically admit to her existence, you do recognize each other. You are just as peripheral to her life as she is to yours. But just exactly how inconsequential is her life really in the grand scheme of things? Will your lives ever cross in a more substantial way? Is there a reason you see her everyday or is it really just by chance?
Or perhaps it’s the old man with the plaid pants that were already too short, yanked up to his chest and of course, his shirt never matches. Where the hell do these old guys purchase their clothes anyway? What cruel bastard would allow a man at that age to buy a wardrobe on his own? Is there some special store that caters specifically to people with Alzheimer’s disease? And what’s with the baseball cap? You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? No matter what kind of outfit they’re wearing a baseball cap sits awkwardly atop their head. Never pulled down, mind you. The bill is always flat and stiff. What are they afraid that if they bend the brim the hat will wear out? Unlikely, those hats have more years left than the poor old geezers who don them. And how come they can never have a team hat? Why can’t they wear a Yankees hat or a Mets hat, or even an out-of-state team? Why is it always for some obscure business that thinks it’s cool to give out free baseball hats with their logo to senior citizens? What the hell is wrong with– oh, I’m ranting again and have totally lost my original train of thought.
Sorry. It happens.
Strangers. Yes, that was it. We were talking about strangers, weren’t we?
As kids we were all warned by our parents not to talk to strangers, don’t take anything from strangers, especially candy. Don’t ever get into a car with a stranger. Don’t answer the door for a stranger. You can’t trust them. They’re up to no good. They want to kidnap us like thieves in the night; molest us with their dirty hands; viciously murder us and bury our cute, little corpses in shallow graves behind some old barn on an acre of forgotten farmland upstate. Our epitaphs will end up printed on the back of milk cartons and sit on breakfast tables across the country serving as a painful warning to other innocent children of what can easily happen to them if they’re not careful. Fear is our best defense for survival to adulthood. We read silly little books full of colorful cartoon animals that teach us these all important life lessons. Our parents hold our hands in public places, keeping us close to their side, trying to protect us the way elephants will protect their young from lions hunting in the wild. But when we grow up the strangers don’t go away, they continue to circle the herd just as dangerous as they ever were. And who will protect us now?
Suppose there’s a man who gives you the creeps. You don’t know why he does, but he just does. Could it be his crooked teeth? Is it his bad breath - breath so foul you can’t help but wonder what crawled inside his mouth and died? Is it because he has a lazy eye that appears to drift with a mind all its own? Perhaps it’s your own prejudices manifesting against the unattractive, much of which is likely based on what your collective society regards to be alluring. Whoever doesn’t fit the narrow criteria is surely deemed “strange” and therefore suspect. No one fears the beautiful people, in fact, as a general rule you are all drawn to them like magnets, as if their beauty can rub off on you by mere association. Or maybe your fear of the lazy-eyed man isn’t unfounded. Maybe he is the one who brutally murdered the pretty young woman whose body had been found in all those trash bags dumped behind that substandard Chinese restaurant the other day. Left for the rats to gnaw at her serrated flesh. Left to decompose and gather flies with the stale egg rolls and burnt fried rice. Maybe he had raped and sodomized her before he took that freshly sharpened ax and decided to turn her into a human jigsaw puzzle. Or perhaps the article in the newspaper this morning just has you spooked. But it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
You never know about the strangers you see every day. They may actually be stranger than you think.
I secretly watch them, watching me. I see them everywhere. They drive passed me in cars and gawk at me in their rearview mirrors; they piss in smelly public restrooms; they watch me through the blinds of their bedroom windows; from the seats of their wheelchairs as they negotiate the handicap ramp. They follow me to and from work, maintaining a three-car length distance so as not to arouse my suspicion. They’ve even been known to suddenly change lanes without using their blinkers or speed ahead of my car for miles at time, eventually I’ll pass them on the highway again and they’ll fall in line behind my vehicle once more. On the street they pose as happy couples, feigning love for the benefit of concealment, but their malign eyes are ever watchful behind dark sunglasses. They hide in plain sight for the appearance of normalcy is their best camouflage. Sometimes they masquerade as entire families, their automaton infants programmed to record my every move with hidden cameras in their strollers. Every time I look over my shoulder someone is there. Some stranger. On occasion they’re blatantly staring at me from a distance, other instances they pretend to be inconspicuous by standing at a bus stop, walking a dog or even delivering newspapers on a bicycle. They’ve been stalking me for years. And they know I know about them. No longer can they hide from me masked in anonymity, my keen senses have become attuned to their presence like that of a bloodhound or a hawk. We walk by each other with passing glances, but try to hide our recognition of one another, each futilely attempting to keep our own secrets. Sometimes I’ll offer to light their cigarettes, or meet their eyes with a crooked smile for no obvious reason. In public, we exchange subtle gestures like some secret language. And the rest of you are completely oblivious.
I can see it in their eyes that they desperately want to kill me because I am aware of their presence. Over the years they’ve had ample opportunity to end my life. I’ve walked in front of their cars; I’ve been alone with them in the dark, surrounded and defenseless. I have felt their cold, bloodless stares burning through the back of my skull like fiery daggers as I stood on the crowded subway platform at rush hour waiting for the R train to arrive. They want to strike, to painfully draw blood with gnashing incisors, to consume my flesh and bones with their ravenous hatred. They long to devour my soul like hellish serpents squirming in the pit of fire. They want to do all these things, yet they have not. For some unfathomable reason I still draw breath. They must be waiting for some signal or command, or possibly some alignment of stars. Perhaps they hesitate because I have shown no signs of fear or weakness, at least not outwardly, and they’re wondering what kind of enemy I truly am. They wonder why I don’t carry a weapon to protect myself from their imminent attack and quite possibly that has them spooked. Or maybe they’re just toying with me.
I know you probably think I’m just another lunatic running amuck in a city of insanity; I’m just some poor schlep with an unfortunate mental defect, arguing with himself as he lumbers down the boulevard, a fresh load of feces dripping out of his underwear and down his pant legs leaving a steaming trail of shit in his wake. That is not who l am. Perhaps you’re under the assumption that I suffer from some sort of chemical imbalance in my brain and the synapses aren’t firing correctly, causing paranoid delusions or making me more prone to wild conspiracy theories and violent, psychotic episodes. That’s not me either. So you figure that the stresses of everyday life and my mind-numbing job have caused my fragile, little brain to snap and lose its grip on reality, sending me spiraling into a dark, tortured fantasy of my own creation. It makes you sleep better at night to think that I’m suffering from a nervous breakdown after losing my job and the woman I love all in the same week. You’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you? Me too, but that didn’t happen. I really wish I were crazy. It would make things so much easier. Insanity would be pure bliss compared to the hell I’ve been living. It would indeed be a welcomed change. I would enjoy nothing more than to sit in an asylum Day Room, coloring in the newspaper photos with crayons as I waited for my daily visit from the pretty, young psychiatrist in a white lab coat and floral print dress that reveals her shapely calves deliciously covered in sheer pantyhose. If I were insane medication would help, but it doesn’t. My sister, Jennifer, used to say I was paranoid. She didn’t believe me either. She suggested that I make an appointment to see a psychiatrist because she wasn’t equipped to deal with my problems. “You need professional help, Stan,” she’d tell me. She used to say that all the time in fact. She’s not saying anything nowadays. She’s been dead for almost a year. Hit and Run on her way home from work. Some stranger. Maybe you know him or her. Or maybe it’s you.
Unfortunate accidents happen all the time, but deep inside I know that my sister was murdered, a casualty in my own private war. Collateral damage. An unknown assailant driving an unspecified vehicle mowed her down in cold blood, leaving her broken body twisted and splattered on the blacktop like mere road kill, not unlike the deer carcasses you see on the side of the road while speeding down a Pennsylvania highway. Obviously there were no witnesses to write down the license plate of that speeding death machine, at least none that lived to speak of what they had seen. The strangers would have made sure of that. I had been on the phone with Jennifer only hours before her death confiding my suspicions of them. I begged her for help, but instead she gave me a number of some therapist and told me to stop calling her at work. She hung up on me. Less than eight hours later I received a phone call from some stranger claiming to work at Mother of Mercy Hospital, he informed me that Jennifer was killed in a tragic accident. The man tried his utmost to sound sympathetic, but I swear I could almost hear laughter in his voice over the phone line. That Bastard. This was no mere coincidence and by God it was no damn accident. They did it! They did it to get to me, to prove a point. To make me realize that they operate within a vast network - even in Virginia - and they can get to anyone anywhere at anytime. I had underestimated the depth of their inner circle, putting Jennifer at risk with my every word. She paid with her life. Now you understand why I’ve kept my secret for so long. Everyone I care about is in mortal danger from the truth. Anyone I tell will wind up dead, just like poor Jennifer. I don’t know whom to trust anymore so I bare this terrible knowledge alone.
Had I some kind of megalomania, I might think that I had been chosen by God to see these strangers for what they really are. I would believe that I am some brave warrior handpicked by the Almighty to act as his wrath and smite the wicked as He has had done so many times in the past. I’d be a righteous soldier delving out death like the Reaper on Judgment Day. But even if this were the case, even if God chose me, truth is I am a coward. I would be a poor vessel for His work. I am no hunter, no warrior soul. I am weak and frightened, living my life in secret fear of them for longer than I care to remember. In truth, I really don’t know who or what they are. I have no doubt that their intentions are malicious, but their reasons remain a complete mystery. I have given much thought to them on long, sleepless nights, attempting to deduce their covert objectives. Can they be an alien race here to study me as a typical representative of the human race? At first I assumed they were extraterrestrial beings from a distant, dying planet, masquerading in human skin as part of some secret, military reconnaissance mission, gathering intelligence for an impending mass invasion of our world. They would arrive in huge, saucer-shaped ships by the thousands and destroy mankind with their powerful death rays, disintegrating the population one city at a time, or perhaps all in one synchronized massive assault. I no longer believe that to be the situation, I suspect their presence to be of a more personal nature. I am their focus, they’re target, their prey. They only have eyes for me, of that I am certain, although I still do not know why and they have been careful not to provide me any clues. It is probable that they are federal agents, like the Men In Black we’ve all heard rumors about, carrying out some classified surveillance assignment because I have been flagged as a threat to National Security. I’m well aware that our government keeps tabs on all its citizens despite our Constitutional Rights. Perhaps the President issued an order to the Secretary of Defense who had a team of top military scientists develop a super-computer that uses advanced algorithms to calculate an infinite number of possible future events of which I am some integral part in the downfall of our government. They probably have an entire warehouse in Utah dedicated to my file, including thousands of photos, endless rows of video cassettes documenting my every move, medical records, letters and emails, tapes and tapes full of intercepted cell phone conversations. Are these strangers some kind of a secret society that I unknowingly stumbled upon and they fear exposure to the public? Are they a cult of Devil Worshipers, praying to an ancient, evil deity under the full moon, satisfying a thirst for blood with ritualistic human sacrifices and arcane magic? Or is my death to be a symbolic catalyst that will set future events in motion like falling dominoes? These strangers very well may be demonic entities taken on human form intent on destroying my very soul through the slow process of time, hunting me for the mere sport and patiently awaiting the inevitable mental breakdown, leading me down a dark path of immorality from which there is no salvation, damning my soul to the Pit for all eternity. Or maybe they are my own fears manifesting themselves into living, breathing, evil incarnate, haunting me and feeding off my fear like an all you can eat buffet. All of these are very real possibilities to consider. I must admit that I find no comfort in any of these scenarios.
Over these last few months I’ve noticed their numbers have been multiplying, increasing almost exponentially. Every day there are more of them, pumping gas, shopping in the stores I frequent, fixing the streets where I drive. I have been forced to take extreme precautions in order to protect myself. I avoid repetition of actions so as to remain unpredictable. I ensure that I never do things the exact same way twice. I never shop at the same store rather I’ll travel to New Jersey or even Connecticut to purchase the simplest items. I never follow the same route home from work; I’ll make many detours in attempt to lose them. Sometimes I have to drive around in ever expanding circles for more than two hours before I am fully satisfied that I have evaded my pursuers. But in response to my preventive measures, they have only intensified their shadowing. Conveniently, they’ve been settling in my neighborhood one house at time. They started buying up property and are working their way inward, surrounding my home on all sides. It began with old Mrs. Ackerman, she died of a sudden heart attack in February, two months later there was an entire “family” of strangers moving in not four doors down from me. I saw the way the children looked at me as they unpacked the U-Haul van. There was malevolence in those mechanical young eyes that spoke volumes. And the strangers continue to encroach upon me like a circling shark. Only last month the Weinstocks sold their two-story duplex for well below market value to some strangers. Rumor has it Eugene and Alana packed up and headed for Florida to be closer to family. The neighbors I’ve come to know are disappearing at an alarming rate and being replaced by strange faces that constantly lock their gaze on me. Lately, they are always around. They take shifts watching me as they pretend to wash their cars, water the lawn or even shovel snow. There’s always a “reason” for them to be outside; always a disguise for their true purpose of stalking me. Even with the doors bolted and the curtains pulled closed I can feel their eyes on my house, trying to peer through the cracks of the window shades for a look within at my sanctuary. Things have gotten so bad that I haven’t ventured outside after sundown in almost six months. I can hear them late at night rummaging through my garbage cans while I cringe beneath the bed sheets like a frightened child hiding from the monster in his closet. Digging and rattling and clinking and clanging. You’re probably thinking that it’s some poor hobo collecting empty bottles and cans for the refund, trying to scrape enough nickels together to buy his next fifth of booze to get him through one more night of sleeping on a bench in the park or a cardboard box behind a local restaurant, waiting for scraps of food like a mangy, stray dog. That’s exactly what they want you to think; it’s the perfect cover. One of the first rules in any combat situation is “know your enemy”; learn their motivations, their strengths, and most importantly, find their weaknesses…and exploit them. You can learn a lot about a person by digging through their garbage under the cover of darkness. And that’s what they’re doing - research for some vital information about me. What? It could be almost anything. Sometimes they send their familiars to look through my trashcans figuring that I would be unsuspecting of such a move, but I’m no fool. Dogs, cats, raccoons, opossums even rats stalk the shadows of my driveway, digging through my garbage pails to bring back information about me to their masters. Or maybe some of the strangers can change form. Shape-shifters? Some form of lycanthrope perhaps? It is an unlikely possibility, one of which I’ve never given much consideration…until this very moment. I can no longer afford to take any chances. The risk is too great. The least bit of knowledge they can gather may prove to be my ultimate undoing. I’ve been forced to take painstaking steps to ensure that I provide them nothing of consequence. I shred every piece of paper, no matter how seemingly insignificant. I spend hours every week scraping the labels and price tags off of items that I clandestinely buy in the stores. I thoroughly wash everything with bleach before I throw it out, cleansing my fingerprints as well as any residual DNA. You never know how far they’re willing to go, so you must always be a step ahead of them. I’ve even had to resort to more drastic measures by storing some of my trash in the basement in order to keep it out of their hands.
They ring my phone and ask for someone else; they try to sell me mortgages, insurance, or sometimes they simply just hang up when I answer. They leave messages on my answering machine trying to convince to switch my long distance provider. As if. No matter how many times I change my phone number they still call and use a mockingly pleasant voice pretending to have my best financial interests. Day and Night. Without mercy. Needless to say, I unplugged my phone some time ago, however that has not dissuaded them from their ceaseless tormenting and trickery. They have other ways to try and get to me. I find envelopes placed in my mailbox on a daily basis offering to give me pre-approved platinum credit cards so they can track my bank accounts or even steal my identity and turn my life into nothingness. I’ve won three sweepstakes last year alone, all I had to do was call in and claim my prize with my super special, nine-digit voucher number. The envelopes were all marked with red, bold lettering “URGENT! LIMITED TIME ONLY.” Yeah, right, I know better. There were no tickets to an all inclusive dream vacation in Hawaii, five days and four nights of total relaxation and fun in the sun. The only prize I would have redeemed by opening those envelopes is a powdery dose of Anthrax or something equally as deadly. They must think me stupid. I am bombarded with a constant onslaught of deception in hopes of finally catching me off guard, but their transparent attempts only assert my resolve. Perhaps that is part of their methodical plan – to eventually wear me down with an endless assault from all fronts. It’s not just soliciting phone calls and fraudulent letters, they send me e-mails with attached viruses that will hack my computer and grant them an all access pass to monitor to my on-line activity. Special offer. Buy Now. Great Deal. I receive hundreds of these bogus e-mails in my In-box every week. Once upon a time I used to surf the net as loyal as any other typical American, but now I am no longer certain which websites are safe to browse and which will leave microscopic tracers to break though my security firewalls and retrieve all of my virtual information. Modern technology has allowed them to stalk me while remaining out of sight; they can use it to triangulate my coordinates by pinging my cell phone via satellite. They also can have instant access to my whereabouts if I were use an E-Z Pass or GPS device in my car. No thank you, I prefer to stay beneath their radar. This is why I have chosen to abandon and avoid such technologies for my own protection. I have closed my AOL account, unplugged my computer and permanently discontinued my cell phone service. These items have been carefully dismantled, their circuit boards crushed nearly to dust.
Then they started watching me through the television, on every channel. With their two-way cameras they send a direct feed through my cable box invading my home with their transmissions. They act like news reporters, feeding me lies about the weather and current events to gauge my reactions. They air propaganda for pharmaceuticals during commercial breaks of my favorite television shows, hoping to convince me to placate myself with their mind-altering drugs. I’m not suffering from depression or erectile dysfunction. I do not have Herpes, A.D.D or P.A.D. or R.L.S or whatever other acronym they can string together to mimic a real medical problem. I will not consult my physician. I refuse to become easy prey. I will not willingly render myself a mindless, drug addled zombie to advance their clandestine cause against me. Sometimes I can decipher their subliminal messages emitting from the static: “We see you, Stan and you see us everywhere.” They dedicate songs to me on the radio to remind me that they’re still out there, watching. Always watching. Every step I take, every move I make. They’ll be watching me. There’s nowhere to run to, there’s nowhere to hide. One way or another they’re gonna find me, they’re gonna get me get me get me get me…
They have invaded every facet of my life and allow me no peace. No rest. Not for a second. They know where I live, where I work. They’re waiting everywhere I shop, no matter how far from home I drive. There’s always some man, some woman, some “child” lurking in the background with their intent focused on me. And it seems they grow bolder with each passing day. They must have spied on me entering Gino’s Pizzeria last week. All I had wanted was a slice with pepperoni – just one goddamn slice! Gino has the best pizza in the five boroughs. Not to mention, it’s a place that I could trust. I’ve known the old man personally for many years. He still calls me Stanny. When I was a boy, he would let me sweep the floors and bus the tables in exchange for a free slice at the end of the day. Aside from my house, Gino’s greasy, little parlor was the only place I felt any measure of safety. He would never allow strangers in his establishment and somehow I think they knew better than to attempt going inside. Maybe he would be able to spot them like me and he wouldn’t be afraid to chase them out with rolling pin in hand. In all this time, never had I seen a single one of them sitting at a table with steaming, melted mozzarella strings dangling from their mouths. But when I walked in last week I noticed that Gino was not there, instead some stranger stood behind the counter in dirty cook whites. He smiled at me and asked if he could take my order. Now they have someone on the inside there too. NO! I all but ran out of there screaming. When I finally got back home, I must have cried for two hours. I don’t know if poor Gino is dead or alive, but I cannot risk returning there again. They’ve taken everything away from me! Two nights ago an unfamiliar man rang my doorbell pretending to have a pizza delivery even though I placed no such order. I’m not dumb enough to answer the door and let a stranger in, no matter how much I like pizza.
Every man has his limit, his breaking point. There comes a time when enough is enough. I’m tired of living in terror, quivering in fear beneath the immense girth of their shadow, of not knowing when the strangers will finally bring death to my door. It could happen at any time. Tomorrow. Next week. Next year. They are nothing if not patient and persistent. When I am at my most vulnerable they will ultimately move against me. They’ve spent these last few years setting up the chessboard, placing all their pieces and key players into position, leaving me compromised and exposed. There’s nowhere I can run to escape their ever prying eyes and ears. There’s nowhere I can hide that they won’t find me, their sphere of influence is too wide to allow me to slip through the cracks and disappear for very long. Where would I go? The strangers are everywhere; I have no misconceptions about it. Eventually, they would catch up to me again. And if I tuck tail and run now, they will know how afraid I truly am of them. My bluff of fearlessness will be blown, perhaps giving them the push they need to finally maneuver against me for the endgame. Part of me wants to give up, give in, succumb to whatever terrible plans they have in store for me. Surrender has always been the path of the weak, of the coward, however even a lowly rat that has been backed into a corner will lash out in a desperate attempt for survival. I have made a decision; it’s time to strike first lest I am driven completely insane. I am vastly outnumbered, however, I have the element of surprise on my side and I’m going to take full advantage of it.
Tonight I jacked my phone back into the wall just long enough to make a single phone call. I ordered a large, pepperoni pizza with extra cheese from Gino’s, but I have no intention of eating it. No sir. When that delivery guy shows up and rings my bell again with his box of death, I’ll open the door and I’m going to bury this knife deep into his skull without hesitation or preamble. Then one by one, house by house, I’m taking the war to them. What will happen then? Will they all come marching out dressed in black robes, carrying torches and Satanic medallions? Will the masks come off, showing their true faces? Will they all beam up to their giant spaceship, hovering just above the earth’s atmosphere, and return to their own world? Will a black car full of CIA operatives show up at my door within minutes to take me to a hidden, underground location in North Dakota and imprison me forever under the guise of the Patriot Act? I am not certain how they will react, but they will finally be forced to fight or flee. Either way- I won’t let them take me alive. And win, lose or draw, this nightmare will all be over soon. My pizza will be here in thirty minutes or less.