Confession

                                                                                      Confession

                                                                                                                                                              by James R. Coffey



         I lost sight of her once down in Midtown.  But I caught up with her again up on the fifty-second street platform.  No reason to get anxious.  I instantly thought of Esther M. and all her funny hats.  Made her easy to keep track of in a crowd, even in Grand Central.  But now, of course, she’s . . .  Good thing she had on that bright yellow dress, though.  The one I like.

         She took a different route home that day.  The long way.  Almost screwed-up the whole plan.  It wasn’t easy, timing it just right.  But you can tell a lot about a person by the way they make their way home.  The things they do along the way.  This one liked New Age books . . . cheap underwear . . .  comfortable white shoes.  Hell, for the longest time I thought she must be a nurse or a waitress or something.  Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.  I like women born to serve. 

         Yeah, she almost screwed-up my whole plan--getting off the train early.  She did that once before; but that was to stop at the jewelers.  I knew that one was coming.  That damn watch!  It just wouldn’t run right!  She kept looking at it and tapping on the face as she hurried down fifty-third that day.  So, I knew that one was coming.

         It wasn’t hard to figure out the trains.  Hell, they don’t stop or change schedule even if someone falls on the tracks.  But the light.  That was the tricky part.  Not the trains or her little detours or her comfortable shoes . . . they were nothing.  She was good that way.  Predictable, predictable.  Never even used a cell phone.  But wondering if she would change her pattern when the days started getting shorter--that nearly drove me nuts!  People--lots of people--start acting funny when it starts getting dark early.  But in the end, sunset was the key to the whole thing.

         There was this time back in August when I thought for sure she was on to me.  I mean, there was no way she really could have been--I’m so slick sometimes I almost giggle out loud.  But still, you can never be absolutely sure.  Bundy found that out the hard way.  It was the way she kept looking back over her shoulder.  The way she seemed to look into everyone’s face as they passed; then she’d turn around and give them a second look.  But she got over that.

         But I was way too slick for her anyway.  Even if she suspected, she’d never have figured me.  Not me.  I’ve always had that going for me.  That regular guy look.  The guy you stop and ask to help you find your lost dog.  And I can blend into a crowd faster than you can say kiss my . . .  But that doesn’t mean I can afford to take chances.  Huh-uh.  I’ll never forget this time ‘bout a year ago, I almost took a header down the East fiftieth street stairs.  Man, you never saw a guy recover so quick!  Picked myself up so fast you’d of thought the guy next to me took a spill.  Shit.  And all the while I never took my eyes off her--though she never figured it.  That’s one thing you get good at or find yourself some other source of . . . entertainment.  So you can bet your ass, I’ve gotten damn good at it!

         Five months.  That’s how long it took.  Five months making that same trip day after day, five--sometimes six times a week.  Six-forty-five off and running, five-ten for the flip side.  Seeing the same faces day after day, over and over again, but never letting them see me.  Busy writing numbers on that little white pad that wouldn’t mean a damn thing to anyone but me.  But that’s the only way to really know.  To be sure she’s the one.  Gotta do the ritual.  Nothing worse than losing interest; realizing she doesn’t do it for you anymore.  Or having her allthesudden change her pattern--new boyfriends can really fuck things up!  That’s why you gotta pick one that’s unattached, then just hope she stays that way.  Never pick a pretty one!

         But knowing for certain she’s the one can have its unsettling side, too.  There was this one day when it started raining real hard, and I almost gave myself away!  I couldn’t believe it--what the hell was I thinking?  See, we both stepped off the L and it all the sudden started to pour.  Really pour.  Me, I always keep one of those collapsible jobbies in my back-pack just in case.  But she . . .  Anyway, I almost stepped right up and offered to share mine.  Can you fucking believe it?  To share mine!  But that’s when I knew she was definitely the one.  Shit, I wouldn’t share my umbrella with my own fucking mother!  Ya know?  But I caught myself and just kept it in my pack--walked on down the street looking like a drown rat.  And so did she.  Man, you should have seen the way that dress stuck to her big, fat ass!  Don’t get nearly enough chances in life to see a sight like that!

         But, it was good she was obsessed with that damn watch.  Gave me a chance to tighten up my method.  A little slap of reality to keep me on my toes.  So for the last six blocks, I’ll bet that’s all she had on her mind.

                                                                                        *    *  *  *

         No looking back.  No glances up at the sun that had already dropped behind the big smokestacks across the River.  No attention to the guy following even closer than usual. 

         Barney’s Irish Pub, that office supply store, the new bakery, City News--I can still name them all in order though I’ve never been back since that night.  And I can even tell you which have awnings; which kept their windows clean; which leave their mats out all night.  And I still know every shop’s closing time by heart.  Funny the details you can commit to memory when your life depends on it. 

         Like it was yesterday, the headlights started coming on, two by two; storefronts were closed up and dark or lit up bright for the evening.  Fridays, all but the nail place stays open late.  But not Thursdays.  Thursdays, half the places are dark by five.  Can’t say it enough, timing is everything.  And all in all, running a little late that particular day didn’t hurt.

         The sun was gone.  Lights far off were popping on or flickering to life.  Most storefronts were just silhouettes.  And she just kept glancing down at her watch, smiling.  Nodding her head side to side the way she did.  And every window we passed saw me inching closer and closer (though she didn’t) like a shadow at noon.  Shortening the space between us.  Pumping adrenaline into my veins like a hard-core drug--and me like a straight-up junkie.  Fate always favors me in times like that--more than them.  And when that bright yellow skirt ruffled in the glass beside me, it was all I could do to keep myself reined in.  To keep the urges quiet.  Patience, patience. 

         Fifty-fourth street, fifty-fifth street, fifty-sixth street flashed by like some dizzy dream--but nothing like the nightmarish visions that keep me up at night.  A dream more like that psychedelic film I saw once at The Underground--a roller-coaster ride I could control just with my thoughts--picking up momentum--careening to the very edge of every curve--racing faster and faster until the blood pounding in my ears deafened me.

         Fifty-seventh street, fifty-eighth. 

         The first four shops from the corner, dark and dusty; long gone-out-of-business.  Then that wrap-around deco type, like they got in Miami, always lit in flashing neon you can see from two blocks away.  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Will anyone in the shop look out?  Not even a glance.

         Doubling my pace, our footfalls blended as one; she in her comfortable white shoes, me in my high-tops.  She looked at her wrist again and nodded.  (Turns out that old Jew finally got the damn thing right!)

         I continued on unnoticed.  Smooth.  I saw her glance up at her apartment building up on the next block.  Up to the fourteenth floor.  Eyes focused ahead, she pushed both her hands into her coat pockets.  Her hair was flying back close enough now to grab.  An onlooker might even mistake us for two playful lovers--playing teasing games!

         “Miss . . .” I uttered, reaching out and placing my gloved hand over her mouth as she turned.  A muffled scream.  Frantic eyes.  Into the black of the alley we disappeared, never to be seen again. 

         That’s just how I did it.  That’s how I’ll do it again.