Poles Apart (30 page)

Then I started wading through the hundreds of emails that had arrived in the previous few days to the EofE mailbox. Most of the messages were from supporters applauding the blog in general or commenting on particular posts. A much smaller complement was from right-wing anti-feminist whackos and Bible-thumpers on whom even Beverley’s “daughter card” would surely fail. Finally, there were dozens and dozens of media inquiries, mostly intent on speaking with me. Buried in the email stream from midafternoon was a message from my blog-hosting service.

Okay, that was weird. I had no idea what it was all about. I pulled out my cellphone. I’d had it set to silent mode for my dinner with Megan and hadn’t missed it once. There was one voice-mail message waiting from about five hours earlier, around the same time I met Megan. I punched in my code and hit play.

“Hi, ah, this is Aaron, you know, your ex-blog-hosting service. Yeah, I, you know, just wanted to let you know that I kind of might have just passed your cellphone number over to someone
who was very, very keen to get it. Actually, to be honest, I did just do that. Look, I’m really sorry, but he offered up a lot of money for it, and if I hadn’t given it to him, he promised to beat the crap out of me. And I believed him. He looked very, let’s say believable. He was big enough, and mean enough that I could imagine him breaking my legs without breaking a sweat. You see, I’m very much into self-preservation, and I could sure use the dough. So, anyway, I’m sorry, dude. I really am. But it is what it is. Please don’t call me. Just wanted to give you a heads up.”

The text was waiting on my phone when I woke up the next morning. The sender’s number was blocked. All it said was:

“Gotcha! Won’t be long now.”

Things went south from there, literally. An hour later a second text:

“Ha! Florida! Makes sense. Getting warmer. Yes I am.”

I ignored it. It was probably a wrong number or just another spammer. It happens all the time, right? I ignored it. Yes, that’s right. Those weren’t alarm bells I was hearing, they were doorbells, and school bells, and those bells that sound every hour on the hour in church steeples everywhere. Right.

So I dedicated myself to living a normal day as if the texts had never arrived. As if they weren’t real. That didn’t really work. I did not possess the mental discipline to pull that off. So I existed in a bicameral haze that day. Part of the time I was replaying in my mind the previous evening with Megan, and enjoying the
anticipation of seeing her again on Friday. Then I’d snap out of it and break into a cold sweat at the realization that someone out there, probably deluded and deranged and almost certainly bigger than I – because, after all, most everyone is – might be on the verge of finding me. Could you secure an address for someone if you only had a cellphone number? In spy movies you just had to plug the number into some hand-held electronic gizmo and instantly on the screen would flash the unsuspecting victim’s address, birthday, food allergies, shoe size, astrological sign, and colour preferences. I wonder how long it would take in the real world.

I pulled out my phone and texted Megan.

“Good morning. Just wanted to say I had a great time last night. The time just flew. Who said conversation is a lost art? So looking forward to Friday. Thanks again. Ev”

Within seconds, the little indicator on my phone told me she was texting in return. Eventually, her message materialized on my screen. Magic.

“Well hello. You’re up early. I’m sitting in the departure lounge waiting to board. My head is a bit heavy from the wine, but I remember enough to know how nice an evening it was. Thank you. See you Friday in the lobby at 7:00.”

Yes! That was just the kind of morning-after-the-night-before message I needed. It wasn’t weird, or cold, or needy, or passive-aggressive. It struck just the right tone, conveying that our first encounter had gone well and we could try it again. I liked this
woman. Then again, it was likely that some crazed wing-nut was already stalking me. But think how much worse it would be to contemplate that potentially violent confrontation without the offsetting pleasure of anticipating dinner with Megan. I considered it a wash.

I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I mean beyond stewing in my own anxieties, so I sat down and started working on the research for the blog post Beverley had suggested about sexual consent. After all, I needed a whole book’s worth of content, fast, so there was no time to waste. I found a few academic papers from a small Midwestern college, and
UCLA
, and the University of Michigan. There were several magazine articles and some newspaper stories that touched on the subject, including news reports about the all-too-many date-rape campus stories Beverley had mentioned. But I was just gathering information at this stage. I took a half-hearted stab at outlining a post, but the words weren’t there. Not yet. Too much on my mind, I figured. Besides, the big nut and bolt were cold and still beneath my feet. I was staring at my screen, not writing, when my cellphone chimed with a newly arrived text. I hoped it was another from Megan.

Nope.

“Orlando! Unbelievable. How con-fucking-venient!”

That was not good. I resisted the temptation to respond. What would I say? What would that accomplish anyway, except perhaps to inflame him further? I wondered if I should call the
police. But on what grounds? Again, what would I say? I could hear the call unspooling in my mind:

“You’ve reached 911, the emergency operator. What is your emergency?”

“Oh, hello. Yes, um, I’ve just received three strange texts from someone I don’t know, using a blocked number.”

“Are they of a violent, sexual, or threatening nature? Are you in danger right now?”

“Well, no, not really. But it is a little unnerving.”

“I’m not following.” A note of testiness enters her voice. “You’ve called 911. Do you need the police, fire department, ambulance, or other first responders at this time?”

“Well, no, I think that would be an overreaction at this stage, don’t you? I just feel uneasy about these unexpected texts … Hello? Operator? Hello? Hello?”

No, I wouldn’t be calling the police. At least not yet. Instead, I shut down my computer and left the building. I didn’t really know where I was going. It was a little early to head over to visit Dad, and much too late to connect with Mom. Her high-powered day would already be in full flight. So I walked for twenty minutes and discovered a major mall. To be fair, you don’t need to walk twenty minutes in Florida to find a major mall. Five to ten minutes in any direction and you should bump into one. I’d chosen an unlucky route.

You know the kind of mall I mean. They all sort of look the same to me. Large skylights welcomed light into the huge
structure. It was almost as if you were strolling outside down a sunlit boulevard, yet you were inside with thousands of shoppers in climate-controlled comfort, with your choice of about 150 retail outlets.

I told myself I just needed some time and space to process what had happened, what was happening, what might happen. The word “process” suggests I already enjoyed a basic understanding of the situation. But I really didn’t. Not by a long shot. So I just walked up and down the air-conditioned avenues of this mall, my brain straining with confusion, speculation, and conjecture. Every ten minutes or so, Megan would push herself centre stage in my head and remind me that last night had gone very well, and that perhaps Friday night might even be better. Then the evil, violent texter, who seemed to be getting warmer and warmer in his quest for my location, would shove Megan offstage and command the spotlight again. Occasionally, I would come to my senses when jostled by another shopper. Turned out I had a tendency to stop walking when I descended too deeply into my thoughts. Several times I would snap out of it when bumped and resume walking.

I don’t think I made much headway toward resolving my plight. As a first step, I decided to list in my mind the knowns and the unknowns.

Knowns:

Unknowns:

“Hey buddy, have you studied it long enough?” said the security guard. “Come on, dream somewhere else. Move along.”

I had stopped again, deep in contemplation, and was looking off into space, lost in my troubled thoughts. It just so happened that I had stopped directly in front of Victoria’s Secret, and the space in front of my eyes was occupied by a larger than life plasma screen in the front window, playing the rather revealing runway show of their most recent collection on an endless loop. I shuffled off.

I circumnavigated the mall a half dozen times, turning my predicament over and over in my mind, examining it from multiple perspectives, probing it from various angles, really going deep into it. I was exhausted from the pure intellectual exertion of it all. But I did draw an important conclusion – I had absolutely no idea what was happening or what I was doing. Yes, I know, that’s two conclusions.

I was walking along the sidewalk, nearly back at my apartment, when my cell rang. I stopped and reached for my phone with considerable trepidation. It was another blocked number.

“Hello,” I croaked.

“Jackpot,” the voice said. “Gotcha.” Then he hung up.

I swivelled my head back and forth like a hopped-up sprinkler, in search of … I don’t know, somebody on a phone, maybe crouching behind a pole, or slouching in a parked car, or even lounging on a nearby rooftop next to a tripod-mounted sniper rifle. I looked for that police drama staple, the unmarked,
nondescript, white stakeout van. But I saw nothing and no one suspicious. Not a soul was looking at me. Everyone had their heads down, getting on with their own lives, and clearly didn’t care about mine. Then I stared across the street at the Chinese restaurant, you know, where I had gained my Tsing Tao Master designation, and I knew. I could just sense it. I was convinced that behind the reflective barrier of the mirrored front window sat my mystery man, staring back at me, perhaps even waving at me, taunting me.

I decided right then I was going to march across the street, barge through the front door, and face him down. I was going to throw down the gauntlet, step into the fire, walk into the lion’s den, go toe to toe in the centre of the ring, and otherwise summon up every other confrontation cliché from the depths of the metaphorical well. Whatever
this
was, it was going to end right now. Still holding my phone, I stood there staring at the restaurant window, breathing heavily, rage building, steeling myself for the clash to come.

No, I don’t think so. Instead, I sprinted to the front entrance of my apartment, climbed the stairs, and locked myself in. This isn’t a movie, and I’m not a complete idiot. As soon as I slid home the deadbolt on my front door and pushed the couch up against it, he texted me again.

“You gotta be kidding me! That’s really where you live? Unbe-fucking-lievable.”

I didn’t respond, again.

I holed up in my apartment until lunchtime. After cooking, and then not eating, a cheese omelette, I decided I would try to act normally and attempt to make it to the rehab hospital without soiling myself. I called a cab. It pulled into the alley a few minutes later, as I’d instructed. I slipped out the kitchen door, down the fire escape, and into the cab, keeping my head down. I had the driver take a rather circuitous route back to the restaurant to pick up my car, I mean Dad’s car. I slipped behind the wheel as discreetly as I could, and pulled into traffic. I then drove around in a rather haphazard fashion, doing my best to throw my pursuer off my trail, if he was indeed following me. I kept my eyes glued to the rear-view mirror trying to see if I was being tailed. It’s hard to drive forward competently when your eyes are glued to the rear-view mirror. After two missed stop signs, three honking horns, a monodigital gesture, one hurled epithet, and a near miss with a motorized wheelchair and its elderly occupant, it was a miracle the police didn’t show up in my rear-view mirror. After about fifteen minutes of this, I was pretty sure I was not being followed. Or as sure as my vast experience in advanced countersurveillance measures would permit.