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I pause, coming to a standstill, and listen.
I’m a couple of blocks away from the speakeasy, in the residential area close to Haight Street, which is busy on a Friday night, and yet everything seems eerily calm. Hushed. Like the houses around me are holding their breath.
Slowly I turn around and stare back down the street.
There’s a lone streetlamp on the corner, showcasing the mist rushing past it.
A shadowy figure, a man, suddenly appears out of the gray, stopping right beside the streetlamp.
Staring right at me.
Into me.
And it’s like all the air is knocked from my lungs.
I’m literally gasping, my body stiffens, going ice cold.
And then the streetlamp goes out.
Plunging the man into darkness.
Oh fuck this.
Feeling strength returning to my limbs, I take in a sharp breath and spin on my feet, running like hell up the street. I’ve always been athletic and fast, despite what some extra pounds might say, and I run like I’ve never run before, not stopping, narrowly colliding with a couple as I sprint down Frederick until I hit Ashbury.
Only then do I stop, taking stock of the situation as I look around.
Everything seems blissfully normal here. Some people walking about, the sound of traffic filling the air. The street is brightly lit, showcasing the colorful Victorian homes on either side of the road. The entrance to The Cloister, one of my favorite bars, has only a few people in line, nowhere near as busy as it will be later. For a somewhat underground speakeasy, it’s awfully popular, probably because word has gotten out that they don’t scrutinize IDs.
I wonder if my mystery stalker was a cop. I turn twenty-one in two weeks, so I’m almost legal to drink, but I’ve been using the same fake ID for years now. Carol Ann Black, from Edmonton, Alberta instead of Lenore Warwick from San Francisco, California. The picture looks nothing like me either, but every person I’ve given the ID to has just accepted it at face value. My friend Elle jokes that every bouncer just happens to want to sleep with me, so they let it go, but either way it works.
But maybe my time is up. Perhaps the cop will show up at the bar, a total shakedown, arrest everyone. I’ll have to keep my wits about me if I see the guy again.
Not that I really saw what he looked like. He was just a hazy silhouette. Tall, at least six feet, broad-shouldered, wearing a long coat. Could be anyone, really.
I try to shake the unsettled feeling from my limbs.
It was just a cop, I tell myself as I rifle through my black studded handbag, getting out my wallet. He didn’t even do anything, just stared at me. If he wasn’t a cop, then it was probably just someone else out and about, nothing more than a stranger, and the light just happened to blow out above him. I’m making something out of nothing.
Cuz you’re paranoid, the voice inside my head pipes up.
I shake that away, too.
I stride up to the behemoth of a bouncer and hand him my ID, doing that thing where you’re trying to look bored and put-out by having to give your ID, like you do this all the time, like there’s no way you could get in trouble because of course that’s really you in the photo.
The bouncer scrutinizes the photo, then looks at me.
Looks at the photo.
Then back at me.
“Carol Ann Black?” he asks.
“That’s me,” I say, flashing him a smile as I stare deep into his eyes. No one with a fake ID would dare be this confident.
“Okay. Have fun,” he says, handing it back to me, staring off down the street like I don’t exist.
“Thanks,” I tell him, and squeeze past him through the gate at the side of the building, my nerves fluttering with adrenaline. I’m so looking forward to finally being legal so I don’t have to get so worked up every time I want to go out and have fun.
Not that I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. With my final final exam next week, I’ve been doing nothing but studying. I’m doing my BA of Arts with a major in Ancient Egyptian and Near Eastern Art and Archeology, hoping to one day get my PhD and perhaps become a museum curator. I’m supposed to go to Egypt in August for two weeks as an internship (unpaid, of course, but at least they take care of the flight), on a dig, so there’s a chance that my dream of working for a museum might change to becoming a hands-on archeologist. Only time will tell.
The Cloister is actually in the basement of an old church, so it’s not just a clever name. Though the bouncer is stationed out front, you have to go through a side gate between the church and a blue Victorian house, then round the back and down the outside stairs to the basement. Tonight of all nights I’m still a little spooked out, and the path is extremely dark.
