Long day. My nonprofit job does not offer overtime pay, but they are willing to comp me time off for working extra hours. To that end, I was in the office till nearly 10p.m. tonight, doing tedious, nitpicky editing chores and planning how late to sleep in on Friday. I got a new book in the mail, another educational tome about how to break out of the world of nonprofit, but it didn't really draw me in. I've been reading The Psychopath Test, by Jon Ronson, and I was itching to revisit that. I have a long-standing fascination with psychopaths (and I am pretty sure I've dated a handful) so I wanted to learn more about them. I was halfway through the book before I realized it was nonfiction. In hindsight I'm not sure how I missed this.
When I realized the whole thing was true I felt very uncomfortable and began routinely checking the deadbolt on my door. Also I was reading the book in bed last night and this morning it was gone.
Want to hear something weird, I messaged Melanie this morning. We were busy enough at work that I did four hours of unpaid overtime, but I'll be damned if I'm going to last a day at the office without gchat.
What's up, Mel asked. Mel will be damned as well.
I was reading The Psychopath Test last night and this morning it's gone. I looked everywhere. It's not under the covers or the bed, or on the table or the bookshelf. It completely disappeared.
You're giving me the creeps, said Mel. Melanie was the one who told me about the book. The catch was that she told me about it after I was already elbows-deep in the first chapter. She said she'd read it on a plane and didn't put it down till she landed in Florida. Presumably, Mel knew it was nonfiction from the get-go. She's observant like that. More bizarre is the fact that we both procured the same book at the same time without realizing it. I adamantly don't believe in coincidence, so there is meaning behind this notion. Aside from my prospects of getting chopped up by a book-thieving ex with a copy of my door key, I can't speculate as to what that meaning might be.
Since I couldn't find the book, I had to settle for bringing my journal with me on the train. I never write on the train but I get antsy at the prospect of a handbag without distractions. This is me playing with fire, because although this journal is a new one, and they typically take a bit of time to break in, shit has been realer than ever lately and I needed an outlet. Someday some unsuspecting mugger is going to take off with my bag full of secrets, and if he knows how to read he's going to learn more about me than he can ever process. The four bucks in my wallet is not going to cover his therapy bills and the resale value on my Kate Spade bag cannot be more than twenty-five (it has an armpit stain, I swear to God. Who gets an armpit stain on a leather purse?). Ultimately I am a waste of time for muggers unless someone is interested my $7 credit to Beacon's Closet. I've been carrying it around with me for about two years now, so obviously I am not.
So where were we. Oh, right. This is going nowhere. I was at work and there are no coincidences. I ended up with no time to read or write today and then my book came in the mail with a surprisingly gigantic font, like 18-point for every page, and as big as a coloring book. It was not what I expected, and honestly I can't carry it with me on the subway. It's awkward enough having people read over my shoulder, but it's even worse when they're in another train car. Plus it's too big to even fit in my bag so I have to just hold it like a protest sign, HELLO I AM CONSIDERING A CAREER CHANGE, and as far as book-jacket broadcasting goes I am more comfortable letting the world know I like psychopaths.
Tonight when I got to my block it was well past dark and I walked with my new book under my arm, probably sweating right through the cover, and I passed the guy on the corner who is always screaming (he is always on that corner, walking in circles and screaming his face off. It is very rare to witness that level of mental illness in someone so young) and then I got to my own corner where there were three men walking toward me. Two of them were arguing in increasingly accelerated Spanish and as they passed I heard the squeak of sneaker on pavement and a telltale scuffling, and when I looked back they were twisting each other into a double headlock. I walked faster, not wanting anything to do with this particular interaction, and wondered how I should respond. On one hand it seemed callous to let the scene play out; what if somebody got hurt? But on the other hand there wasn't much I could do. Certainly I wouldn't try to step between them so the only option I had, if I wanted to help, was to call 911. It's not as though anybody would be shaking my hand in gratitude over that, and anyway I just called 911 like a week ago and if I called back they would have me on file as a repeater.
The reason I had to call was because of our janky front door. We have a front door with a particularly sensitive lock; the key works to open it but only if you stick it in a specific fraction of the way and jiggle the key up and down while you twist. The gist of it is that it takes forever to get into my building. Last week a man was waiting to get in behind me and I offered that he could try (I always offer to let people try; some of them know how to do it) and he said he didn't have his key with him but he would help me with mine, and from the get-go it was clear that he didn't live in the building. He was cursing and banging and shaking the door back and forth, when everyone knows you have to move the key up and down, and then he started trying my other, unrelated keys, till I grabbed them back and said forget it. Then some girl came out and let me in and he followed so I went home and called the cops and said there was a tresspasser in the building. Then I panicked and thought he might know it was me who ratted him out and he'd come and find me and, I don't know, steal my psychopath book or something, so I called back to try to cancel the 911 call. The operator was very nice and told me she couldn't cancel it, but she assured me that I had done the right thing. Ultimately, I was unwilling to make a third emergency services call in the span of a week. So at tonight's showdown I let the men on the street fight it out and hoped that their friend would break it up. Then I slipped into my building without fanfare, because within twenty-four hours of that creepy guy following me in, the management company decided to fix the lock on the front door. Coincidence?
Also when I moved my bed again I found my psychopaths book. In the same place I looked this morning, with the major difference of it being there this time. I still don't believe in coincidence but I also don't claim to understand the meaning in every little alignment. I just write it down.
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