The Missing Man

The day was 17th of December 2013. It was one of those late-night shifts, again. I look forward to them, really. The walk from my dorm to the university library took approximately 12 minutes and 22 seconds if I keep my paces short and brisk throughout the way. I managed to time the walk correctly on Day 73 of my first year in college. Unless I cross paths with the campus goose that sometimes totter around the dormitory’s courtyard, then the walk could either be longer or shorter, depending on the goose’s mood for the day. One time, the unnamed goose chased me 7 minutes and 12 seconds into my walk, all the way to the doorsteps of the library. I made the journey in record time that day, thanks to that encounter.

“I hope the goose is friendly tonight,” I thought to myself.

On the way, the chilly breeze on a winter’s night stirred the leaves of the willow trees dotting the path from my dorm to the library, with not a single soul in sight. I quite liked the silence – the false feeling of time and movement being suspended around me while I trudge along, going about my mundane routine made me feel invisible, untouchable. On some nights, I would be greeted or stopped by random strangers sitting on one of the old, cast-iron benches placed sporadically along the avenue. On those nights, my walk would take a minute or two longer, depending on how interesting the conversations went. On that cold and wet December night, I met a man who had been missing for 4 years, 3 months and 23 days.

♦

“Have you seen this man?” a poster read, plastered on one of the old Victorian streetlamps. I’ve seen this poster so many times on my walks from the dorm to the library. It has been there since the first day I arrived in college. You could barely make out the features on the man’s face, but I could tell that he’s almost the same age as me in the picture. He had freckles dotting his face. Curly hair, deep set eyes – I don’t know the exact colours though, the poster’s printed in grayscale but I imagined that he had light blue eyes. ‘Last seen wearing a red parka, black gym shorts, and a pair of black sneakers. Reward for any information’ the last few lines read. He must have gone missing during summer.

I heard a lot about students who went missing during the summer breaks – a hitchhike gone wrong, people being swallowed up by the tides, or getting caught in the crossfire of two drug cartels somewhere in Mexico; body never to be identified nor recovered. This is why I stayed in my dorm during the school breaks – I didn’t have to worry about people putting up missing person posters of me only for them to warp and peel off from the rain. A reminder of you, scattered around city blocks, pasted on boards and streetlamps; to be looked at by concerned passerby only when the papers were still flat and new. Once that they’re all wrinkled and torn, your face no longer becomes recognisable; only little details, like your chapped upper lip and your large earlobes remain.

I feel bad for the missing man. Apparently, he suffered from some form of schizoaffective disorder and that he had a couple of psychotic breaks during his time in college. I’ve heard stories from the grapevine about how he went missing during the early summer of June 2009. Some said that he got into a row with his then girlfriend, a Japanese exchange student called Riku, went for a walk and never returned. Of course, the girlfriend’s nationality at the time sparked serious rumours about the involvement of the Yakuza in his disappearance but that was never proven because Riku didn’t seem to be the type you would normally associate with the Japanese mafia.

Another source said that they saw him having a conversation with the unnamed goose, bawled and then ran into the woodlands. These are nothing but speculations although sometimes, I would find myself asking the goose on my nightly walks to the library if they knew what had happened to him on that fateful, summer evening.

♦

“It’s quiet tonight. You can barely hear anything except for the creaking branches of the willow trees. I like it though, the murmurs and hums in my head are the only sounds I have to tune out” said the man wearing a red parka, sitting in one of the benches. “Tell me, what are the most annoying sounds you’ve heard?” he asked, eyes fixed on the empty, dark field in front of him.

I glanced at my watch; the time read 11:21 p.m. “I have time to spare, I am still early” I whispered to myself.

“Well, after living on campus for almost 2 years, 9 months and 13 days, I think one of the most annoying sounds would be our campus’s goose when it honks and chases after you.”

“2 years, 9 months and 13 days?” he asked. He turned his face to me this time around and I could see his light blue eyes, glowing softly under the pale, yellow streetlight. “You’re almost done with your studies here then.”

“I’m about to graduate” I nodded slightly.

“Mmm, did you make any friends?” he asked.

“A few, but I stray away from crowds most of the time. I get bad anxieties, I’d rather talk to the goose, which I do sometimes, but it all depends on its mood, you know?” I continued. “The goose is much easier to talk to than most people on campus.”

“I like the goose. He’s been my only companion for quite some time now. Most nights I would come and sit here, wait for him to waddle up to me and we’ll both talk to each other” he continued. “He’ll list down the people he chased for the day, and who fed him breadcrumbs, although he said he didn’t particularly liked breadcrumbs. He prefers dandelions.”

“Oh, really? He told you all of that?” I asked, perplexingly.

“Well of course. Why wouldn’t he? When you understand geese, why wouldn’t you want to know about his favourite foods and what schemes he had been up to the whole day?” he laughed. “There’s more to him than just honking about all summer, you know. He has dreams and aspirations too - though most people would object to that. People would just rather ignore. When people start to lose their sights on you, be it out of ignorance or a fading memory, you slowly matter less until one day, poof!” he said, popping his tongue inside his cheeks. “No flyers or posters would be enough to remind them of you. Sure, when the paper’s still fresh out of the printers and the glue is still tacky, people would take notes about your eyes and hair, but once the rain comes and you’re all but washed-out and faded ink, they would forget the way your lips part when you smile, the way your shoulders slop. Painfully, you’re reminded that people forget."

“I remember you,” I tried assuring him. “I have never met you before, but I remember you. I knew your eyes were blue, I could tell even from the black and white poster.”

He smiled. “I forgot how I looked like, and what colour my eyes were. Tell me, how do I look like?”

“You have beautiful curly hair; it looks like you’ve washed them recently. Bouncy, not flat. Your skin’s the colour of milk tea, you have freckles around your button nose and all the way up to the corners of your blue eyes. Your cupid’s bow pronounced; it dips and shapes your upper lip. Your strong bushy, eyebrows frame your heart-shaped face, making you look fiercer than you are” I responded.

“Do you know how to paint or sketch? I take it, from the way you described me, that you must be in the arts or have dabbled in it? Could you please sketch me?” he requested.

I ripped out a piece of paper from one of my journals and took my pencils out of one of the pockets of my small, faux leather briefcase and got to work. He sat on the cast-iron bench silently, his eyes looking straight into mine. The more I sketched, the more I noticed about the little details that make up his face. His eyes weren’t just light blue, they were different hues of blue. When the light from the streetlamp shined on them just right, his eyes glowed the brightest cobalt. He had more freckles on his right side, all the way up to his temple. I glanced at my watch, and it was now 11:33 p.m. I only had a couple more minutes until I am late for my night shift.

“Here,” I said as I showed him the sketch I made of him.

“Mmm,” he said, looking intently at the drawing in my hands.

“I have to leave now, I’m sorry but I can’t stay any longer. I need to go,” I said sorrowfully.

“Me too. Thank you by the way, it was nice to feel seen again” he added as he stood up. “I have to make sure Humphrey’s sleeping alright. Show this to him sometimes, I think he’ll love it” he said while slowly walking straight into the vacant field in front of us.

“Who’s Humphrey?” I asked.

“The goose, silly. I must make sure I have enough dandelions to collect tonight or else he’ll be grumpy tomorrow and chase you again. We don’t want you to be arriving later than 12 minutes and 22 seconds for work, do we?” he laughed, slowly fading into the darkness.

“I’ll remember you” I said into the void. I packed my pencils and journal and continued my walk to the library.

♦

Humphrey stopped chasing me. I guess the man in the red parka kept him well-fed with fresh dandelions every night after that encounter. Every now and then, I’d walk up to Humphrey if I come across him on my late-night walks to the library and show him the sketch. He wouldn’t make a sound, he would just fix his eyes on the drawing, then leave, thinking about his goals and aspirations.