A Penny for Your Thoughts...A Thousand for Your Soul

I was walking down the street the other day and saw a penny on the ground. The face was looking skyward, so I picked it up and put it in my pocket. I heard you are supposed to pick up pennies if they are face up so that you can have good luck. I’m not exactly superstitious, but there’s no point in taking chances. I didn’t notice the guy across the street. I was on my way to visit a friend I have known since second grade. She had moved to an apartment in this neighborhood about three months ago, but this was the first time I could finally come by. I was unfamiliar with the area, so I stopped to pull out a piece of paper from my pocket, the pocket without the penny. I already knew the address by heart, but I checked it again anyway for the hundredth time. I can be compulsive that way. I looked up to check the number on the building, and, for some reason, I turned around to look across the street, even though I knew I was on the correct side. That was when I noticed the guy.

He was standing on the sidewalk, and he was wearing a brown bomber jacket and a rabbit fur hat with ear flaps. He had his hands in his pockets. It looked like he was staring right at me, but I’m not conceited enough to actually think I was the center of his attention. He was also wearing sunglasses, even though it was the cloudiest day in recorded weather history, although I’m not sure if the weather people actually record cloudiness. I couldn’t really tell if I might possibly know or even vaguely recognize him. Not to be a profiler or anything, but he looked like a serial killer or a terrorist or maybe just a creepy guy who likes to stand on street corners. I started walking again towards my friend’s apartment, and I allowed the strange man to slip from my thoughts.

I finally reached the right building, and I looked up at the tall brick structure. It looked like all the others I had just passed. My friend was on the second floor, number 202. Don’t ask me why, but instead of entering the building, I glanced across the street. The bomber jacket guy was there! He was staring at me. I know it was me this time because I was the only person on this side of the street. Should I be scared? Who was this guy? Why was he wearing a jacket and a fur hat in the middle of summer? My stomach decided to move north into my throat, and my bowels threatened anarchy. It was a good thing I had reached my friend’s building. I had never been stalked before, so I didn’t really know the correct protocol in handling the situation. I suppose I could have screamed and flagged down a car, but I think I would have come across as a paranoid girl with too much time on her hands. I decided to do the next best thing: I turned my back on the guy. Denial isn’t so bad. If there had been a pile of sand nearby, I would have stuck my head in it.

I yanked open the main door of my friend’s building and sprinted up the stairs. I quickly located number 202 and pounded on the door with both fists. My friend cracked the door open just enough to peek out. She had a startled expression because I had not stopped pounding the whole time. I pushed open the door and slammed it shut behind me. I told her there was a creepy guy following me and that he was across the street. We both raced to the front window to see if he was still there. He wasn’t! It was nothing after all. Boy, did I feel silly. I breathed a sigh of relief and we turned around.

The guy was standing in my friend’s apartment wearing his brown bomber jacket and rabbit fur hat with ear flaps. He still had his hands in his pockets. My feet took root in the carpet, my tongue made its way to the roof of my mouth and stayed there, and my ears started ringing. My vision blurred, and everything looked like a freshly painted water color with too much water. The room was slowly melting into the floor. I was pretty sure I was going crazy, but there was no doctor around to confirm my suspicion. I guess I could still be asleep and was just having a really bad nightmare. Or this could mean I was dying and life as I knew it was finished. Or maybe I just ate too much cheese last night and this was the result. All I knew for sure was that even though I could no longer feel my body, I was positive I had just peed my pants.

***

I couldn’t tell how much time had passed, a minute maybe or a year, but coherent thought finally returned, my vision cleared, and the ringing in my ears faded to a not-so-unpleasant melody. I was relieved to notice my pants were dry. I was sitting on a couch and holding a sandwich: ham and swiss on whole wheat. There were two bites missing. I was sort of sure I wasn’t responsible because I didn’t have that lingering sandwich taste in my mouth. I could hear my friend talking in another room, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. As I finished analyzing the sandwich, I noticed the coffee table in front of me. I saw about fourteen open jars filled to the brim with pennies. The jars were lined up in rows like coppery soldiers. Their penny smell wafted up to my nose, and my upper lip curled up in disgust at the brassy odor; they smelled like blood. I suddenly tasted ham in the back of my throat, which meant I really had taken those two bites of the sandwich, and those two bites were clamoring to get out. I swallowed really hard, and I tossed the sandwich across the room. The bread fell away, but the ham and swiss kept going until they hit the wall. I could tell my friend was coming back because her voice was getting louder. “You wanted a Bloody Mary, right?”

I looked up at her, and I noticed she was wearing a brown bomber jacket and a rabbit fur hat with ear flaps.