Watchers

The men in black suits are outside again. One leans against the knotted trunk of an old oak tree. He wears his hair cropped short-- the sort of sandy color that never seems to stick in anyone’s memory. The other sits on the curb-- his knees folded in an awkwardly acute angle and his forehead contorted with wrinkles. Sweat glistens at the tips of their noses. The spring air seems stifling without a cool breeze to stir it.

I know they see me. They saw me before I saw them. But I tuck most of myself under the white curtains in the guest room, sticking my head out for a fraction of a second and then whipping it back.

Last time I crawled through the house on my stomach so the old carpet left red marks on my forearms and I was forced to inhale the old cat pee from the long-dead Tabby now bones in a box under the wilted daylilies. When I finally stood up the men were gone-- or maybe they were just inching along on their bellies behind a garden wall, the mud leaving dirty marks on their sleeves.

I lean forward as much as I dare. They’re gone. They were back and now they’re gone. I fold in on myself and my weak knees crackle before they hit the carpet.

The time before last I just sort of stared at them for a while. They both stood for an hour until I couldn’t bear looking at them anymore and went to flop on the guest bed and rest my eyes. They both stood and stood with near-perfect posture and sweat stains blossoming under their arms. Such are the dangers of gray suits.

Should I sit here for an hour? Should I peek beyond the curtain? Should I go out and introduce myself? They must already know my name.

I wake up to darkness. The old digital clock blinks at 10:21 pm. I glance outside. No one in a gray suit stands bathed in the lamplight.

Three times ago winter still beat down on my house. The men had black umbrellas and gray coats draped in snow. The wind rattled my window sill as I took shaky breaths beneath it, popping my head up every three seconds like a whack-a-mole. 3,6,9,12,15,18,21. They were gone. 24,27,30,33,36. Maybe they weren’t gone. Two umbrellas caught snow. 39,42,45,48. I just stayed down.

Maybe I will actually be able to sleep tonight knowing that no watchers wait for me on an eerie suburban street. But I feel their eyes boring through the brick and mortar, observing me as I slip into an old Beatles t-shirt and brush my teeth and swallow three different pills with metallic tap water and breathe gently against my pillow. They know my name and they know my house and the snow didn’t bother them and surely the scorch of summer won’t bother them either and they’ll just watch and watch as I sleep and make oatmeal and sleep and sit and cry looking through the photo album Brian left behind. They’ll watch my pathetic life unfold until I walk out to them and let them escort me into death or maybe prison or maybe just to a McDonald’s.

Tonight is the sixth time I’ve seen them.

The second time I saw them I blinked for a long time-- one of those forcible blinks that turns eyelids into ripples of skin. I looked out again and they stood there still, the warm glow of Christmas lights lending them a celestial aura. They looked similar to the men I noticed back in October. One had sandy-ish forgettable hair and stood tall. He must have measured 6 and a half feet. The other looked older and shorter. I wondered if we stood with our backs up against each other who would be taller. He didn’t have much hair, making it even less memorable than his companion’s. Deep creases marked his forehead and his earlobes drooped down to his jaw.

I glanced out the window casually. I couldn’t let them notice me noticing them. How odd that they returned? The rest of the world huddled inside with hot tea waiting for the sky to release the first snow of winter and humming Christmas carols. Carols! Perhaps they were carolers. And the first time I saw them they were trick-or-treating. Grown men. In suits. I sobbed and locked myself in the bathroom. I knew they saw me seeing them.

The digital clock blinks 12:00 am. I slip out of my sheets and grab Brian’s old corduroy jacket from the left half of the closet. I put keys in one pocket and a swiss army knife in the other. They must be out there.

The first time they came, my neck was bothering me. The mechanic had kept my car all week and i felt suffocated in my stupid brick house with nothing to look at but orangey leaves and the Walmart ghosts dangling from the oak acrcross the way. I poured myself a glass of cheap pinot noir and went to the guest room to watch the last of the afternoon light turn into a blaze of sunset. I planned to face west and get drunk and fall asleep.

And then I saw two men standing in gray suits by the tree. The loose threads from the cheap ghosts dangled just above their heads but they didn’t flinch.

Their gaze pointed toward my window but why would they be looking at me? What was worth watching?

I step into the warm night and lock my door behind me. The tall man leans against the oak. The old man struggles to stand up.

The night before I saw them I drank two bottles of mid-priced merlot which stained my teeth red. The landline rang as I swallowed the sediment from the bottom of the second bottle. I didn’t even recognize the ringing. When I picked it up, I didn’t recognize the voice on the line. I hung up in disgust. So insulting to call now. Dammit. I had to get out of there. I didn’t lock the door behind me. I rolled down my jeep’s canvas top. God I had to get out of there.

The paper hangs limp and lifeless. Somebody took a hammer and a nail and pierced the lamination and made a lasting scar in this tree. I tug at the paper. And then at the nail. And I twist it. My nail breaks and my finger leaks blood and I punch that tree. And my knuckles leak blood too.

MISSING. Thomas Carver (71) and his son Richard Carver (48). Last seen October 30 on a neighborhood walk. Call…….

The lamination tears. I have to get out of here. I just had to get out of here and now I really have to get out of here. They know my name.