Mitchell's Story Pt. 20

already copied in novel. it's ready to go, I think

It's about a woman followed in a department store, told from her point of view, and about her feelings for her husband and for the person she addresses her story, trying to as clearly as possible so he really feels it.

"Department Store Chase"

Hiroko translated

Speaking of Mitchell's friends "accident" (that's what she called the rape), men have followed me. One did in a department store. He was a big black guy, in his twenties, dressed in black or dark grey, dark and darker, bulky coat with collar up, too thick for the weather (and indoors). He and his outfit looked disheveled, covered with dust- which shows on black surfaces like the fleece sweatpants he wore. You could picture him sitting in a sweatsuit like it in front of a television in a cluttered, messy apartment, one room with food containers scattered around, left rather than discarded. Had he not bothered to change his clothes when he went out? He seemed poor but obviously had enough to eat, was really hulking.

He kept appearing, behind me or sometimes in front, was talking on his phone the whole time, light give and take that seemed, smiling, his steps sometimes looked surprisingly light for such a big man, like dance, as if he were enjoying doing two things at once, following me while carrying on a conversation with a friend about something completely unrelated. I assumed the person on the other end had no idea he was simultaneously tracking me, keeping close behind while they spoke, the big man alone (his only company me!) with a happy expression, as if carefree, freed emotionally somehow by following me! Not fair. Using me that way without my permission!

Funny way to follow, passing each other. I didn't move forward constantly, was still at least going through the motions of shopping at first. That became difficult, though, as it was increasingly apparent his repeated presence was no coincidence (and he wasn't shopping at all, didn't even make a pretense of it, stop and pick items up to look at them as I still did- until that became impossible).

By the way, he wasn't looking my way directly, lest it become too obvious he'd singled me out- as a hunter might an animal to track. I don't know how else to describe the scene; we weren't in a jungle but the department store felt wild all of a sudden. By the way, it was an expensive one in midtown East Side and that guy in his near-dishevelment, almost-homeless-level clothes, looked out of place there; anyone could see he wasn't a regular well-to-do customer but no one had questioned his presence- and why should they? He had as much right to be on that polished sales floor as anybody else. Even if he had no plan to buy anything. Didn't people browse in department stores? The problem was he was browsing for me and had no plan to buy, just meant to take me. Lol. Shoplifting for a woman?

Really, it wasn't funny. I was afraid.

He'd look away, as if there were something at the ceiling that caught his attention. He might have gone so far as to whistle if he hadn't been on the phone. You know how trying not to act suspicious can make someone more suspicious? For my part, I tried not to glance back often, hoped he wouldn't realize I was aware of his pursuit. Keeping him in ignorance might improve my chances of escape, if escape were really needed, as seemed more and more likely. His pursuit was dogged. He moved forward like a football linebacker, unstoppable.

More and more often he appeared behind me rather than in front as I made a more concerted effort to elude him. Every time I turned around, there he'd be, in the same aisle or coming around the corner of a sales shelf or clothing rack, never far, sometimes so close he would, as I said, look away to avoid my seeing his eyes on me. Up toward the ceiling or just around anywhere.

This went on a while. It was ridiculous. And at a point he seemed to no longer care about being discovered; he'd stopped trying to hide his intention. His expression had turned playful- playful but not like my cousin Noriko, instead, grotesque- his big face, yellow eyes (or so I thought them) big white teeth showing sometimes as he took breaths, mouth open, almost huffing and puffing as one thick leg fell, then another; a man that big expended energy walking at the speed we'd reached).

His eyes? What can I tell you? Dull, big, blank. They were disturbing. Who knows what was swimming behind that faintly iridescent surface? Given his threatening behavior, I'm not ashamed to describe him in a way that might seem insulting. I'll say what I saw, that he looked dumb he himself the animal not me, though I might have been hunted by him. It seemed to have occurred to him in his simple mind that even if I knew for sure he was following me there was nothing I could do about it. Perhaps he gambled that as an Asian woman I wouldn't make a fuss, call much less shout for help. His face looked pleased by the idea, if he really were a person capable of what could be called ideas.

I couldn't fight him off. He was so much bigger than me and if someone was alerted he'd deny any wrongdoing, say I was imagining things. He kept a confident, even "goofy" smile and high spirits sounded in his voice on the phone. He was still talking, not especially loudly but from near enough now that I could hear- though his speech went by in a flow too fast to follow- words undifferentiated by my ear- Black American dialect. It was slightly high-pitched, surprising for such a burly man. A tittering sound came when he laughed at something that his friend had said on the other end or else that he himself had. You could imagine spittle flying out.

I had no idea if he was stalking just for fun (enjoying scaring me?) or meant to catch up and if so what he meant to do. After all, we were in a public place.

Sometimes I idled, stopped walking, paused and considered what to do and see what the guy would. He'd have to wait. In a way, I was in control then. He still kept a distant, hadn't approached yet. The department store was posh, by the way. We were as it happened in the lingerie section, bras pantyhose decorously on display. "Posh" isn't American English but it comes to mind and there's a reason. I overheard a woman talking with a friend, the two shopping together now standing by a rack of something I couldn't see clearly but looked like lace gloves. Her pronunciation attracted my ear. It was English, I thought and then was sure because she prefaced a comment to her friend, the woman facing her, by saying, "This may be a Britishism but.." I missed the rest but that was enough.

She talked about a magazine she worked for, Vogue, the fashion magazine. Her accent was refined (posh!) richly toned, and I thought: How can she enjoy talking to the American with her crass-sounding nasal voice and puerile thinking compared to Europeans? But apparently she didn't mind. I guess she liked being in this country, had come for her job. There's a British Vogue too, of course. She was beautifully dressed in light linen, tall, statuesque with flowing, deep brown hair, chestnut brown, an unusual color, luxuriant- no, not really luxuriant but luxuriantly healthy-looking, glowing, like her complexion, though that was pale because she was British. Tall strong but slim, upright posture, shoulders back. I mean her bearing seemed sort of aristocratic. At least she radiated confidence, the kind that comes naturally and makes others comfortable. And she obviously had a good sense of humor, easily expressed.

Needless to say, I kept my eyes on the immediate situation and I wondered vaguely why I was in this country with that man chasing me. I too had chosen to be here, like it here. There was nothing funny going on but I felt a little like laughing.

I guessed that both women worked at the magazine. They were taking lunch break together. The British one seemed to hold higher rank, was an executive, department head, her job creative and one that carried authority. The way she talked, her freedom, gestures, cheerful certainty, resonant voice suggested this. Even her physical posture, her greater stature did. Her companion was shorter and let her do most of the talking, as if that were natural between them.

The American looked nice enough, wore a professional but cheery suit, soft fabric leaf green toned down, but seemed overshadowed by the other, nice though she was. She seemed strong but genuinely kind, not the type to pull rank- she didn't need to; her power was innate.

The American and the one with the lovely English clear-toned pronunciation, full vowels like we use in Japanese, were talking casually but with focus about something indirectly work-related, about their workplace but outside it as they were now in the department store. Someone who had left the magazine had written about it, a view from the inside. I guess she had done that to make money now that she didn't have a job. The book was a tell-all and upset a lot of people still working there. The British shook her head, her hair flowed and she smiled but said with conviction that she didn't take the confessional so seriously or fault the writer. She saw it as just entertainment. The other woman said she hadn't read the book, which her friend found surprising, since she too worked at the magazine, was part of the culture described in those pages.

I heard all this in passing, just as that guy was able to carry on a phone call at the same time as stalk a stranger. I was idling then, watching for what he would do, and the conversation nearby had caught my attention- I was glad to give it to that, escape my fear for a moment. Looking at and listening to the British professional made me feel good.

She was attractive. I wondered why he didn't choose her instead. I realize that's a terrible thought. But he didn't. Maybe she wasn't his type or he found her intimidating. Anyway, she wasn't alone, accessible like me.

Sometimes I wondered why Mitchell didn't go off with a woman like her, enjoy what they had in common. Was it because he worried about leaving me alone?

His hair was rough like a burr on his head, chocolate brown tinged with grey. In his twenties, I'm pretty sure, but looked old for his age. His skin was greyish. You sensed sloth, a poor diet, overeating bad stuff, lack of exercise, though he was pretty quick on his feet loping through the department store behind me, dodging things and people, keeping up. You sensed he had speed like a freight train does. Once momentum began it would be hard to stop.

Was he talking to me sometimes? Sometimes it looked that way. His mouth rose from the phone he held. Or was I only imagining it? Did he want me to wonder if I was imagining it, to question my own eyes? Was he playing with me that way? Of course I couldn't understand what he said. It sounded like endearments, different from the phone conversation, not the way he- someone like him- would talk to a woman. Sometimes it looked kindly, like an enticement to come to him, and sometimes violent. I sensed that was how he would be. Sometimes you couldn't tell if he was friendly or angry. His mouth seemed to show one thing, his eyes another. His lips came together, might have been pronouncing "baby" softly or "bull--!" not gentle but explosive.

This also came up because Mitchell complained about someone at the gym who wouldn't stop talking on the machine next to his.

"How long did he stay?" I asked

"When I finished he was still there."

"Still talking?"

"No, at the end he couldn't find a partner, I guess. He was quiet. Everybody has a limit."

"Some people don't have a limit," I said, thinking of the guy at the department store.

I thought of Mitchell's friend who was raped. This wasn't anything like that, though. Her rapist wasn't black. He was South American. That may sound racist but it's just how it was. Reality isn't racist.

And I remembered that she'd told the police he did every way with her except by her mouth. And I thought maybe that would be the only way the department store stalker would with me because how else could he in an aisle there? Force me to make him come with my mouth, his foam all over. Or maybe that wouldn't be enough for him. He'd drag me out somewhere else to do more.

This may sound strange but I get excited thinking of that happening with you. Remember, it's in the past now.

Sometimes I feel so stupid about Mitchell. It isn't only he stupid about me. Maybe if we're both stupid, it's okay, better than being intelligent together lol.

I continued trying elusive maneuvers- what else to do? he was annoying! I'd just wanted shopping- eventually took a door that led out of the department store proper and into administrative offices adjoining it. Without really thinking. An opportunity presented itself and I acted. It seemed at first a mistake and I felt bad about letting myself get distracted, not concentrating on where I was going, only on escaping him. The administrative network I'd entered actually looked more dangerous than the department store sales floor because it was less populated. No customers were there, only people working and not many. It crossed my mind that he'd have a better chance of catching me alone in those mostly empty corridors. The spaces outside the offices themselves were unpopulated and unattended, as everyone focused inward on the things and people directly around them. Light poured from a window through the blank metallic corridor (off it were also windows into offices but no one looked back through them). I occupied that space alone- I felt like a spider without a web- until he joined me, bursting through the door with a bang and a smile.

Returning to the department store itself wasn't possible and I didn't mind (thoughts of shopping forgotten for the moment!) The administrative wing was brightly lit in comparison to the sales floor or else only looked that way because sparer. No decorations to please the eye of customers distracted from the white walls (actually pale green, a pleasing but cold hue, faint, close to white but not). Nor, of course, were any goods on display. And, as I've said, the absence of shoppers added to the sense of spareness, of little in the way of that man and me.

His appearance there too ended all doubts that his continual proximity for the past half hour as I browsed and then nearly ran owed just to accident. Our relation was clear. He had no more reason than I did to be in that area of blueish walls and windows and offices and long corridors, empty (as I said- sorry to repeat but it's upsetting me) because people were working, none noticing us.

I dimly made out an emergency staircase at the far end of the corridor opposite and far from the window, the daylight, square patch of sky there showing through glass reinforced by steel thread square pattern.

I was wearing a light grey flannel skirt like the kind for a strict high school that requires uniforms, but a play on that because short. It had pleats, which Mitchell said flounced when I walk. "No one can resist that twitching enticement," he'd joked and I hadn't minded though the humor seemed stupid. From him I accepted it, found the insinuation flattering. But maybe that guy thought I was inviting him, welcomed the attention. I didn't. In the first place, I've never thought of myself as especially attractive.

I did manage to reach those those emergency stairs and keep beyond his view even when he followed. After a hurried one flight descent I reached a sharp corner and saw my chance, a zigzag course he'd have difficulty replicating. Choices opened along the way. He wouldn't know which I'd made, which direction I'd gone. Those stairs led to more, further downward progress. By the way I didn't for the moment mind exiting the store, delaying my shopping; it hadn't been serious (I also said that before, sorry).

The downward momentum felt good, like running downhill, everything easy. All to the good, all to the good, each step bring me nearer the exit; there had to be one somewhere below. Stairs and doorways led in and out and around corners of unknown spaces- sometimes I had no idea where I was heading, where the route chosen spontaneously, would lead- I never stopped to consider it lest the stalker catch up.

Forward progress finally brought me to the ground level, where I saw a way to daylight, a door, big emergency, dark green painted metal one you opened outward by pushing a horizontal bar. That led to fresh air, the rush of people on the pavement in front of the store very welcome. I'd seldom felt happier about the city hustle and bustle, the bracing and comforting company of strangers surrounding me.

I hadn't planned to be in that place then but the patch of sidewalk I found myself on was, by coincidence, right near where Mitchell and I had agreed to meet later so I stayed, with people rushing by, some to or from the department store, others just passing, a wind of anonymous city dwellers which, as I said (repeating again!) I was glad to feel, enjoyed the motion, the anonymity after that stranger had tried to force intimacy on me.

When Mitchell arrived he said, "Wow," maybe surprised to see me earlier than expected at the spot we'd specified. As usual, he'd come ahead of time. He had no idea why I was shaken up, had a bright light in my eyes.

Experiences of that kind leave an effect. I didn't dwell on it, pushed that guy out of my mind but later he came back to it. When Mitchell put on a condom last night I thought of him, that he wouldn't.

It started- can I tell you this?- with Mitchel's "Down the throat," he said of my skirt, the short pleated grey flannel one, as if he imagined it a sea bird taking a big fish, his forearm.

Maybe that guy planned to rape me as someone had Mitchell's friend. Is it any wonder I thought about that?

When I got home, Mitchell had work news on his mind. He talked about a sculpture that had been placed in the teachers' office and become a source of amusement. It was there as decoration but he and colleagues laughed because they realized it looked phallic. The object had been set on a desk, where it resembled a standing penis though it was meant as an obelisk. Mitchell gave a description, thinking that as an artist I'd be interested. "Orange- no, rust brown. With zigzag decorations on the sides, looked slightly Egyptian. On the skinny side, like a pencil," he said, then corrected himself again. "But not that skinny. Maybe a pencil sharpener." He laughed and I did too.

Remember my cousin Noriko? I wrote you about Mitchell's conversation with her at the end of our trip to Japan, the one in which he said he wanted to live there, leave the U. S. and settle in my country, surprising us both- not his saying it but the timing. He brought the idea up again right after telling me about the art object his coworkers found so funny. I don't know what connection he saw between the two topics. Sometimes I don't understand how his mind works or really how his world does. His or any other? Anyway, I'm interested in knowing. I guess that's why I turned to art, looking for the patterns in things. Mitchell's penis has none, of course, isn't art, lol, but I like it! Maybe the guy in the department store wanted to do with his the same thing Mitchell does, but of course it would be different, in my husband's case isn't rape.

This is longer than I expected. Can you forgive me? Writing you brings out more and more feelings, good ones even when the subject isn't. I feel the words bristling against your senses, exciting you with me.

By the way, you're not the only person I've told about the chase. It happened months ago, in the fall. I guess I hesitated at first to talk about it to Mitchell because it would remind him of a sensitive subject, his friend's rape (in fact, their friendship changed to a love relationship after the "accident;" they were very close for a few years; this was well before we met, which happened when he was with his other girlfriend Pam. Confusing? Not really. Lol.

Have I gone shopping at that department store since? Yes, talking to Mitchell and friends reassured me there was nothing really to worry about. A second encounter would be too great a coincidence.

And it wasn't a rape ("accident"). Mitchell's friend left the city after hers, afraid of meeting the guy the police never caught (which upsets Mitchell even now) but I'm still here and will be for a while. He doesn't know where to find me but you do!

Mitchell said the guy would have opened me like a cup to put his thing in. I think he was making light of the incident to remind me I wasn't actually attacked, maybe also through laughter ease his heavy feelings about what happened to his friend. His anger, disappointment, sense of outrage at the unfairness of it really hasn't subsided much, I think. He still cares for her, and I accept that. Their relations are nothing like his with me, not any more than ours are like yours with your wife.

By the way, race really had nothing to do with it, except that he might have chosen me because of mine, thought I'd be quieter, easy prey. I took a bus home from the department store that day, after the incident (an "incident" not "accident" as Mitchell said, chuckling) and happened to take a seat, one of the blue molded plastic ones on the bus, near a black guy, different from that stalker, not big and aggressive like him. He was physically slight in comparison and thoughtful. We chatted and it turned out he was a college graduate student interested in photography like Mitchell, like you. He wore suspenders over a white shirt, had a fashion sense, his own style.

The conversation started because he'd been looking out the window. He commented on the view, what he saw and thought. He was very observant, the very opposite of the department store thug, had a lot to say, nuanced stuff. I took to him immediately, opened.

He showed me a photo on his phone. He liked surreal allegorical images, he said, and this one was of a man floating through the sky, arms outstretched, buffeted by winds, soaring actually. He was on his way down and looked elated by the ride, which was slow and circuitous as a gently winding path around a mountain. You felt he would land safely, alight rather than crash.

"Who is he?" I asked the passenger who'd taken the shot- rather, made it; the image had to be a composite. You can't find real images of people in free flight like that!

"He's a survivor of a nuclear blast," the photographer said.

"Is he?" I asked.

"Yes, and there are tens of millions like him."

I thought he might even have said "billions."

So his photos were topical, packed a message about the present as well as delivered lyrical beauty, touching both mind and conscience and spirit, all through the visual sense. I guess that was what he meant by "surreal allegorical." I had to look it up. Beautiful white-streaked blue sky, the blue pale, clouds wisps, pulled into horizontal soft-edged broken shapes, elongated by wind, all vague, evanescent, with that figure sharply defined in darker colors, setting off all the rest, enlivening the composition, igniting it even, his limbs extended, reaching for limits and beyond, expression of body beatific, face too I'm sure but it wasn't visible, mostly in shadow, anyway too small to see on the phone.

After talking a while we were quiet the rest of the bus ride but when we got off, at the same stop as it happened, he said to me, "That was really nice. And unexpected."

I said yes.

"Well, maybe we'll meet again some day," he said and left, we went our own ways.

And it really had been nice.

In Japan most people are Japanese, the same, and we like that. Unity is a source of our strength. But living here I've learned difference is good.

So race was beside the point. My husband is a different race from me, after all. So are you. And my race too is discriminated against.

Meanwhile, Mitchell doesn't know what to do with his job. He complains about it but hasn't made a plan for something different. He says he feels empty, lost going to work, especially since returning from Japan. "How can I fit in here?" he asked. "How can I fit in there?" (Japan)

Writing you makes me feel good. You're so forward looking.

Thank you for reading!