The Man Returns

3/20/2011

It's 3am in the city, and once again I can't sleep. No, that can't be right. Dawn has cracked and is starting to spill. Must be later.

As is custom, rather than lie in the dark and stare at a ceiling I can't see, I'm at the window, looking down into an empty street. Only it isn't entirely empty. He's there, just below, in trench coat and fedora, leaning against a...tram sign? There are no street lamps on our street, so he's been thwarted as far as his late night spotlight goes. But he appears nonplussed and the Man in the Street continues smoking his familiar cigar in the half light.

It's that rare time of morning when shadows start to bend and dissolve, but the streets are silent, still, unassaulted by the sound of trams or traffic. The Man, solitary, stands waiting, in the dying sighs of an insomniac's morning.

There is no woman at the door this time, no furtive glances or scurrying raccoons, no suspect meetings or hope of reprisal. Just him, standing and smoking and looking now and then at the sky.

Down the sidewalk, in the distance, comes a little round man with a white hat shielding his face from view, his pace slow, imposed upon by a limp. He approaches our Man, who I now see is not smoking a cigar, but a pipe. Odd. A good bit more than odd, really. Whatever may be his dress, stature, character and calling, it's always a cigar. Suspicions rise and I peer more carefully at the Man in the Street.

The round man finally stops and stands near the same tram sign, staring over his shoulder. The options are endless and I imagine the Man in the Street is a messenger or a thief, a friend or a stranger. He could meet the other man, ignore him or pursue. He does nothing for awhile but smoke on his infernal pipe. At last he says something as he taps out the tabacco and sets to repacking. The shorter man laughs, answers and continues chattering on, very much at his ease. He barely notices his companion, but I can't peel my eyes from his every move, turning cold when I suddenly realize he's right-handed.

An imposter.

How? This is my imagination and yet there he is, blatantly, unapologetically right-handed. Maybe this isn't my imagination... Impossible. Reality won't kick in for another hour.

The rumble of an approaching tram signals the end of twilight and the round man finally faces the imposter, still chattering, blissfully ignorant. But now our pipe-packing friend catches a glimpse of his face and starts, yanking his hands from his pockets. His pipe falls from his mouth as he takes instantly to his heels.

I would never imagine an ending so simple and crane my neck to see what the imposter saw. My efforts are fruitless, however, and that face remains an enigma.

I keep watching our friend in the white hat as he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a cigar and lights it. After several puffs, without warning, he tilts his chin upward and looks directly into my face as the early tram cuts between us, leaving me with only the vague recollection of a sly grin and the punctuated pose of his cigar, waiting, lit, in his left hand.