Just a Chance Encounter

The wind sliced
through my black leather jacket, so I raised the collar and hunkered
down to protect my ears. I slowed my walk. I think I must have lost
them. I was tired of this constant running and hiding, just to stay
alive. Sometimes, I was tempted to let them catch me, and get it all
over with. But old instincts die hard. The cold war may be over, but
not the running, and the danger, and the smell of death. Coffee would
be good. Hot, sweet, black coffee.

"Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzz", the pink and green neon sign invited me in to
Zelma's 24 Hour Diner. The giant digital clock on one of the empty
glass buildings opposite the diner, flashed 3:24 A.M. I combed my
fingers through my hair and entered. The smell and the feel of grease
was overwhelming. The place was empty, except for a man with his face
hidden behind a newspaper. Unconsciously I planned my escape route, as
I sat at a booth, half obscured by a huge plastic plant. Perfect. I
fondled the huge stash of loose change and crumpled dollar bills,
hidden in my inside pocket. Enough money, at least for some time.

"Coffee, hon?" The smoke from the cigarette suspended from the side of
her lips blew into my eyes. "Yes, and a slice of apple pie please," I
whispered. The man behind the newspaper did not move, but I kept him
at the corner of my eyes. I read the blaring headlines from the front
page that was facing me.

"Air force jet recovered from Rockies. Pilot presumed dead," the
letters screamed at me.

"Yeah, right," I mumbled to myself, "and I wonder who could be
responsible for that?" The coffee arrived, and the pie. Mmmmmmm
... ambrosia. How long did I sit there? I am not really sure. I went
through cup after cup of the strong coffee. It felt good as it slid
effortlessly down my throat. The warm apple pie sweetened by mouth and
my throat, as the chunks of mushy apple went down, mingled with the
crust. For a moment, in that intense simple pleasure, time stood
still. And waited. For me to make a move. Or for life to go on.

When did I become so jaded? When I was young, secret missions were
fun, exciting, seductive. The world was black and white, right and
wrong, good and bad.

Everything was an adventure. I had been a member of the elite task
force of the U.S. Government, the Covert Operations Corps (COC). I
remembered a comic strip from my childhood. White Spy Vs Black Spy or
something like that. To an outside observer they were
indistinguishable, as they planted bombs, did nasty things and leered
in anticipation. Except one wore white and the other black. As a child
I had not understood the wry humor. It was only in recent years that I
had figured out the implications. Now, when it was too late for me.

Now, that there were no tangible enemies left, I had become the
enemy. An agent, a loaded cannon that had to be eliminated. I would
not give in without a fight, though. They were out there looking for
me.

"They," that elusive, powerful group that no-one really knew
everything about. It could be former partners of mine, lovers,
friends, strangers. Regardless but I was a marked woman, and I was
alone. They were everywhere.

"Everywhere, everywhere," I chanted, silently, as a mantra to
myself. Rocking back and forth relieved some of the tension, but not
by much. The newspaper rustled loudly, as it was folded and the
reader's bald head and smooth face emerged from behind it. He looked
straight at me. His eyes pierced through me, looking right through.
Something was terribly wrong. I had seen that ruthless stare before,
or others like it. Long ago, in another life.

"Oh no, I should never have come here. Should have gone home, where,
where was that now?"

Visions of a small, immaculately clean room collided with a large
sloppy one. The tidy room where hidden eyes watched my every move,
where I was never alone. Bed neatly made. No pictures on the wall. The
stark, white walls that hurt my eyes to look at them. It reminded me
of being snow blind. I had read about it in old issues of National
Geographic. The bright whiteness of the snow, the sun shining
mercilessly on it, spawned a blindness in those who looked upon
it. And the other room, messy, comfortable, pictures strewn around,
Covers on the floor in an untidy heap. Bare walls, no, no, that was
the other place. Walls with colorful pictures, sagging, wooden shelves
lined with books. "Which one? Which one is true?"

I started that chant, silently "which one, which one?" Over and over
again, almost sobbing. The man stood up. His hand went into the pocket
of the long overcoat he had just put on. A gun, he had a gun. Dozens
of voices screamed at me. They filled my head, obscuring every thought
and I knew I had to act. I had to do something. I would not die like
this, an unknown fatality in a late night shooting at a diner. Just a
forgotten story tucked away in the back pages of a newspaper, if
that. No, I would do nothing to make their work easier for them.

The waitress came around with the full carafe of coffee, ready to
re-fill yet again, the thick white cup before me. I snatched the pot
away from her. "Noooooo," I screamed to deny that he or anyone could
ever get me. The hot coffee splashed into his shocked face. He
screamed and fell, the skin already peeling away from his face. In the
stunned silence that followed, I ran. And I kept right on running.

Dark alleys and abandoned buildings provided some refuge. I could not
sleep yet, had to stay alert. But inviting places under bridges and
old houses lured me. I resisted. Later, in the early dawn, I turned my
jacket inside out, to show the red lining, and cut some of my stringy
hair with a rusted razor-blade and ventured out again. Not exactly a
master of disguise, but it would do for now.

Every television set that blared outside the cheap electronics stores
kept showing that bald, smooth face, a mug shot, taken in a dollar
booth at the mall. He was smiling, slyly. They kept showing him over
and over again. Enough already. Then the camera would pan to the
scene at Zelma's. People rushing around in panic. A prone figure, face
obscured by a mass of paramedics, frantically working on him. The deep
brown stain of coffee on the floor, shards from a shattered
carafe. His hand, the same hand that had held the gun was clutched
tightly around a huge bunch of keys. A clever ploy. Jeeze, they were
fast, getting there before the police and the cameras to make the
switch. And now they knew I meant business. And a prepared enemy was
dangerous. They knew that I knew. Battle-drums played in the
distance.

"Eyewitnesses report a woman in a tattered black leather jacket and
dark disheveled, shoulder length hair, threw scalding coffee on the
forty year old factory worker. At the time of this vicious attack,
only the waitress, the victim and the attacker were in this east-side
diner. Doctors fear 40 year old, Bill Thornton might lose his sight
permanently. Back to you in the studio, Kate."

"Good, serves him right, the old S.O.B. Factory worker, my ass." After
a long time I felt I had gained some ground on the enemy. Uncle Sam,
Big Brother, They're all the same. I knew, I knew, and therefore, I
had the power. And, thank God, there were the others. The nameless
"others", who though not as powerful as "them", were also there,
rooting for me and others like me. They were the ones who helped me,
warned me of danger and advised me on what to do. The underground
movement that directed me. I rarely saw them, but they were looking
out for me, and talked to me in unexpected places, where I could hear,
but not see them. The thought brought me some comfort.

I touched a knob on the watch on my wrist, a secret transmitter, to
report the incident. My only link with the others. "Do not call here
again, Agent 301. This line may be compromised." The voice that came
from the vicinity of my wrist was harsh and authoritarian. I killed
the connection. Of course, how foolish of me. Luckily the connection
had not been for long enough for the transmission to be
traced. Mentally I kicked myself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

At least the others knew. Of course, they would know. The story was
all over the news. How could I be so stupid? But how did they know it
had been me? So, they had been around too, in the vicinity of that
blasted diner. The thought brought me some comfort. My eyelids drooped
and I pinched myself, hard, fighting to stay awake. Danger!

It was the lack of sleep, of course. And the constant vigilance, and
the after-effects of that place. The prison with the neat beds and
bare, antiseptic walls, where they tortured me. The worst of all was
the serum. To make me forget they said, so that I would be normal. In
truth it was burning away my brain cells, so that they could make me
another anaesthetized member of this pointless, mindless society. The
others had told me that. They had managed to get their messages to me,
even in that soul-less prison. What would I do without them? I hope I
never had to find out.

But no time to think of that now. For some time I was on my own. So,
what should I do now? I walked the streets, occasionally stopping to
rest in dark alleys, behind over-flowing dumpsters, filled with the
trash of the city. Later in the morning, the world around me erupted
in a mad frenzy of activity. Since it was a bright morning, I found
the darkest alley-way beside the smelliest dumpster to sleep the day
away.

And I dreamed of ways to eliminate COG and this whole goddamned
government. Goddamned! I rarely used a cuss word stronger than
that. Even that, when I was younger would have resulted in washing my
mouth out with soap. My mother had taught me well. Mother? Who? What?
The after-effects of the drugs were growing stronger, the longer I did
not take them. Strange. Must be some booby-trapped chemical
compound. Something that happened to make you almost believe that you
needed the drug, to make these disorganized thoughts fall into
place. They were clever. I smiled with no mirth.

Darkness was starting to encroach on the city, and it was time for me
to get up. How long had I slept? I could not tell. My watch had
stopped ticking. Great! All I knew is that it was late morning when I
had slept, and now it was after dusk. When it was safer, I would get
in touch with the others. Perhaps in just a few more hours.

I saw a young woman in a neatly pressed suit. All the anger I had felt
about "them" erupted at the sight of her. She had climbed the ladder
of success, probably an executive of some sort. And here I was, I, who
had risked my all for this country, wandering the streets. Hunted like
a feral beast, when I was the worthy one. I, who had been tortured and
drugged, while this nameless, well-heeled woman probably stole the
destiny that was rightfully mine. I should have been a young
executive, climbing the ladder of success, not her.

The others were near now. I could hear them from behind the bushes in
the park, and they agreed with me. "These people, her, especially are
all instruments in your downfall, Agent 301. What will you do?"

All that I had sacrificed and this bitch was crinkling her nose at
me. I smelled of the dumpster while she wafted some fancy perfume, and
an all pervading hate engulfed me. I wanted to kill her, really and
truly choke the life out of her. It was because of people like her
that I was on the streets, hungry, dirty and tired, so tired. She
looked straight at me, an expression of distaste on her face. I
quickened my pace, but before I could reach her, a cab screeched to a
halt next to her and she hopped in. Of course, she had the money to do
that. I stood at the curb watching her being driven away, and clenched
my hands in frustration. I could still feel her eyes on me, and the
anger rising like bile in my throat. Some other time, then, Bitch!



Rosalind Nylar
came home, kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned her dark blue suit
jacket. She switched on the lights, while her hand flipped the on
button on the television remote control. What creatures of habit we
are. Aaaaaah! It was good to be home. She slouched on the leather
couch, and rubbed her aching feet. It would have been worse if she
hadn't gotten a cab as quickly as she had done. That scary woman had,
well, scared her. Other more descriptive words eluded her. Great
vocabulary for a copy-writer Rose, good going, she told herself,
wryly. Got to go home this weekend, her brow creased in a
frown. Mentally she calculated the miles, the hours, the.... And then
she bolted upright, as if shot.

There she was, the strange looking, homeless woman who had sent such a
message of vile doom her way, just before she had got into the
cab. For one instant, before the yellow cab had let her in, she had
felt such a portent of danger that it had shaken her. It was not a
photograph, but a surprisingly accurate police rendering of the
woman. The same lank and disheveled hair, except longer than what she
remembered. The same look of malevolence, sadness and anguish etched
into her face and eyes.

"Authorities at the State Asylum have concluded that the young woman
who attacked a man in an all night diner early yesterday, is an
escaped resident of this facility." The screen split, showing the
police sketch and then an old mug-shot of the woman. Her appearance
was far neater in the photograph, with slicked back hair. Her eyes
though were still vacant. Her white clothes dazzled, an
indistinguishable number in black, painted on her breast pocket.

A worried looking doctor faced the bank of microphones at the
impromptu press conference. It must be a slow news day.

"She is ummmm ... schizophrenic with serious delusional paranoia. She
has serious violent tendencies. This is very worrisome, and we are
cooperating with the police to locate her. Thank you," then he left,
ignoring the flashes from the many cameras.

This was one of the big news stories of the day. The eager young
reporter assigned to the case had pulled off the coup of her
career. There was the hint of a self-satisfied smile under her grave
look as she talked of the sad plight of the mentally ill in an era of
budget cuts.

"The young woman, identified as Loretta Kane, 35, has been in and out
of mental institutions all her life. Her mother, who did not wish to
be seen on camera had this to say. A black, back-lit silhouette spoke
in a thick southern accent. " She was a troubled child, always getting
into fights. Always making up strange stories. Saying voices told her
to do this and that. We just didn't know what to do. The institution
seemed to be doing well with her, and now this," her voice broke. Real
or fake tears?

"I will be following this fascinating and heart-rending story as it
develops fur..." Rosalind abruptly switched off the television. She
hated this city, and she hated all the dirt and filth and the grasping
homeless and demented strolling the street. "I had a lucky break
today." She shuddered. Even the thought of Loretta Kane made her feel
dirty. She called and told the police of the short time when their
lives had almost intersected. She was thanked for her help, and told
that she might be called to identify her, if she was ever caught. If,
she was ever caught. By tomorrow gruesome murders, and drug-busts
would replace Loretta Kane on the news. She would become old news.
The lavender scented bath was relaxing. Wonderful. Time to call her
parents later. Mmmmm. The city faded beyond her consciousness. She was
joined in some strange sense to all the others in the city, who sat in
their houses, watching television and seeing life go by, through a
comfortable window. Mentally she made a shopping list for
tomorrow. Mmmm. Chocolate chip cookies and chips and salsa. The
essential ingredients of life.

Emerging from her bath, she pulled the plug and watched the water
swirl in fast increasing circles down the drain. The scent of lavender
still infused the bath-room, steam misting the mirrors. She switched
off the light as the last of the water glugged down the drain. And
down with it, went the thoughts of Loretta Kane, in fact, perhaps,
Loretta Kane herself.

Tomorrow is another day and life does go on. Her, pink sea-shell
shaped night-light glowed warmly and she slowly drifted off to
sleep. A chance encounter, that's all it was. No dreams, or nightmares
disturbed her slumber. But what an interesting story to tell her
family and friends. Anything to make the conversation at home more
bearable.