Irwin Cassidy liked driving downtown for no particular reason. That rush of the unknown fired him up, though his tires had graced the roads many times before. The headlights and neon made him feel punch-drunk as he traversed the streets, watching the yuppies pile out bars and into Mercedes. Massive brick buildings loomed over him as he plowed through. Buddy Guy was playing on the radio. Blues seemed appropriate for the ride through the lonely cowtown. Because it was blues Mr. Cassidy had.
Just an eyeful, that’s all he needed.
One sidelong glance and he’d be good.
The urban surroundings comforted Irwin, but at the same time awoke certain senses that are commonly present in a suburban-born white man. He watched as a black man in a heavy down coat pushed around and old, balding, gray-bearded white man. The black man twisted the white man’s arm around, and shoved him around at this bus stop right on the corner at fairly busy intersection, right outside a Walgreen’s. Dilapidated structures housing newly founded check-cashing rip-off houses seemed perfect backdrops for this wretched scene. He didn’t know if anyone else noticed what was happening, nor if they cared. It could have been the two joking around, but the look of distress on the old white man’s face worried Erwin. That look he wore…a look of true fear; pure terror exuded from this man’s wrinkled face. He became so caught up in the urban drama unfolding to his port side that he nearly missed the traffic light change.
Only a few more minutes, and he’d be there. The buildings slowly began to change. They grew taller, more majestic, more opulent block-by-block. “Poor sandwich,” Irwin thought. That’s a perfect metaphor. There were the skyscrapers uptown, and the swanky shopping area downtown, and ghettos right the fuck in the middle. He smiled at his cleverness.
He’d reached the creek. It was lined with, on his side, the massive outdoor shopping center that was his destination, and on the other, these great lofts that looked like something straight out of Tribeca, and probably cost as much Irwin’s house and car combined per month. Expensive restaurants lined the right side of the street. Irwin cursed as he dodged valets paralleling and indecisive Lexuses.
Soon he delved into the heaping mass of overpriced microwaveables and overpriced threads and ignorant socialites lapping it up like honey and breast milk whipped up in a little bowl in the hardwood kitchen. Ground zero was tucked in the very back, hidden away in a small alley. Slowly, Irwin drove down the road and kept his eyes glued over his shoulder.
Nothing. Not a person.
This didn’t stop him. He drove around again, and again, and again.
He saw nothing.
He felt the frustration building up inside of him. He wasn’t going to leave until he saw them. Just a glance, that’s all. Nothing more.
As he drove by, every young-looking female somehow transformed into the targets for a brief moment. Irwin got a neck cramp from doing so many double-takes.
I’m a bad stalker, Irwin said to himself. Really bad.
The tenth time was the last. Reluctantly, Mr. Cassidy threw in the towel. He took a couple more laps around the area, but for the sake of fuel conservation, he thought he’d head home. However…perhaps the bookstore would be of some use.
He quickly whipped the car around and hauled up an incredibly steep hill to a parking garage. Shifting into park, he hoped the place wasn’t private. Slowly but surely, he walked down the hill, trying not to slip on the remaining ice. Upon reaching the bottom, he felt everything that any normal human probably would have felt long before this point. This was wrong. Totally wrong. He could turn around right now and spare some of his dignity. He could go home with his heart merely duct-taped, but his soul still bottled deep in his chest.
No. He’d traveled this far, and he wasn’t about to give up yet.
The bookstore was surprisingly packed for the time, roughly twenty past ten. Irwin scoured each and every aisle on all of its 4 floors. The building seemed bigger the past times he’d been there. Upon reaching the art section, he saw a cute couple reading some fucking art book, pretending to be interested. This feeling rose up in Irwin, a feeling of regret, jealousy, nostalgia, and hopelessness, all mixed with a bizarre nausea. He scampered all over, trying to be quick, but not stir up too much of a commotion. He used the escalators as a quick scouting point, just in case his subjects actually were there. He stuck his head into the café. Everyone glared at him with diamond-drill-eyes. It was time to leave, he reckoned.
Cursing, he trudged up to the garage, narrowly avoiding a car he’d been too distraught to notice climbing the hill. Cursing, he got into his car and pulled out, leaving the trendy shithole behind. He cursed at himself for being such a terrible stalker, for one, and two, for being one at all, for degrading himself like that. But that was the voice or reason talking, and Mr. Cassidy had no room for such a thing in his life. He instead decided to curse the subjects, referring to some woman named Betty Short in a sinister, mocking way. He knew, as well as everyone did, he’d never hurt someone, but the thought of it helped him.
As the night waned, Mr. Cassidy realized that the night had been a waste. His life, his motives, his actions, mostly wasteful. It didn’t faze him much. He was used to a life of scum, bottom-feeding, shit-sucking, no warmth. The cold lonesome.
