I had to watch out for cops, given that it was past curfew, but with any luck th
I had to watch out for cops, given that it was past curfew, but with any luck they would be tied up with accidents. My wheel went sideways and my body didn’t. Luckily, my backpack (and the laptop inside) escaped getting as banged up as me. The shoulder I had landed on ached as I pumped the last blocks home, and I was so wet and cold that I almost didn’t notice the SUV parked a couple of doors down from our house.
It was black and more rust-free than the other cars parked along the curb. (Did I mention we live in South Minneapolis? The part that isn’t gentrified yet?) The parking situation was tighter than usual, with a snow emergency in effect and parking limited to one side of the street. I would probably hear the plows overnight, rumbling and beeping in the darkness. It was a noise I’d soon sleep through as the winter wore on, but in the first weeks of winter it sounded like a nightly invasion of beeping tanks.
Monica might have to park blocks away, unless somebody left at just the right moment. That’s why I noticed that one of the cars not far from our house had a person in it. His engine was on; I could see the steam billowing up from the tail pipe. I watched for lights to go on as I peddled up the street, thinking I would try to hold the space for her. If she came home before I got into a fight with another driver or died of hypothermia, she’d get a great parking space, but the man in the car didn’t drive off. Then I noticed the car had one of those giant antennas on the back and the guy inside was just sitting there, looking bored.
Great. A cop was earning overtime, watching our house. He was staring right at me. I was tempted to wave at Big Brother, but I’ve learned through experience that cops don’t like it when you’re not afraid of them. Besides, I was afraid.
When I got upstairs I checked the apartment thoroughly. I should have left some kind of sign that would let me know if somebody had been in my stuff – a thread stuck in the door that would fall to the ground if it was opened, for instance. I was used to my online life being subject to surveillance, but not my bedroom. Not the kitchen or bathroom. I don’t know why that would make any difference, really. More of my life is lived online than not. But it did.
Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing seemed disturbed – except me. I couldn’t shake off the creepy-crawly feeling that somebody was watching me, was in some weird way touching me. Holding up the underwear that had holes in it. Opening our refrigerator door and seeing that fuzzy thing that used to be a radish stuck to the bottom of the vegetable bin. It felt invasive. It felt dirty.
And so far as I could tell, it hadn’t even happened. Yet.
~ ~ ~
“What are you doing?” Monica asked.
“Cleaning the refrigerator.”
“It’s one in the morning.”
“Yeah, but it’s gross. I cleaned the bathroom, too.”
“Are you feeling all right?” “I thought you’d be in bed.”
“I thought maybe you were.” I waggled my eyebrows like Groucho Marx, but she looked