I stand there for another ten minutes before he moves. I duck behind a thick blackberry bramble, as he stubs out his last cigarette, casts one more glance over his shoulder, and walks back down the path. He’s noisy, cracking branches and stomping around. But he has no reason to be quiet, because he’s done nothing wrong. When he’s gone, I look toward the bench. The brunette. She’s leaving with her kids, grabbing them by the hands as they try to escape and run back toward the playground. I smile because it’s funny to watch. Then I glance back the way he went.
“When you don’t have anything, you don’t have anything to lose, right?” I whisper to myself. Good ol’ Samantha Baker and her sage wisdom.
I follow him.
His car—a dark blue Nissan. Nondescript. Then I follow him to the corner store where he buys new cigarettes. He doesn’t smoke the healthy ones. Just crappy, old Camels. I’m disappointed. He drives to 405, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. A couple of cars honk at him and speed by. He gives one the finger, the other he waves at. He heads south. What’s south? Burien … Federal Way … Tacoma … I’m still here—three cars behind, two cars over. I’m ready to cross three lanes of traffic if he decides to exit. He exits in Lacey; he even puts on his blinker to make it easy for me.
“Why thank you,” I say. I make sure to keep a couple cars between us. Three rights and a left. I follow him for a few more miles until he turns down a private driveway, overgrown with weeds and sprinkled with trash. I keep driving. It’s almost dark. I pull into a gas station a mile down the road. I go in, buy a pack of Camels. I ask the guy working the register if I can leave my car there for a few minutes. I saw a house for sale and wanted to walk back up the street and take a look. He’s so stoned he doesn’t care. I light the smoke with my pink Zippo as I walk. It tastes wheaty.
I focus on the gravel beneath my boots—my favorite sound. I am calm, because I don’t know what I’m doing yet. No raging heart, no erratic breathing. Just me and this awesome gravel. I am stalking this dude for no good reason. That makes me crazy, right? Maybe not. Maybe I’m just curious.
He lives in a house. Number 999. Two stories. His blue Nissan is the only one in the drive. There is a light on upstairs. The bedroom? I watch it for a few minutes before I get bored. His mailbox is on the street. I walk back down the dirt drive and look around before I open the latch. He obviously doesn’t care to get his mail, the box is stuffed with mailers, catalogs … I search for a bill.
“Mr. Leroy Ashley,” I say softly.
I take his bank statement … and a catalog … and his Netflix movie, tucking them into the back of my jeans.
I crunch gravel back to my car, humming softly to myself. “Now I know where you live, and I have a new movie to watch.”
As it turns out, Leroy Ashley has terrible taste in movies. I watch the whole thing anyway—a sci-fi flick about aliens impregnating humans. Ugh. Gross, Leroy. I turn away when one of the characters performs an abortion on herself. When the movie is over, I eat the rest of my popcorn while reading through Leroy’s credit card statement.
Arby’s, Arby’s, Arby’s. There are a couple large purchases from a chain sporting goods store. One of those large places that sell guns, and tents, and clothes. There are a couple charges from a company called Companionship. The varying increments tell me he’s probably calling 900-numbers for a little spicy phone sex.
“Do you ask for a brunette, Leroy?” I say out loud. I put the first page aside and begin scrolling down the second. There is a charge from Mercedes Hospital for four hundred and twenty dollars. Directly below that, a charge from a pharmacy.
“Hmmm,” I say. “What’s in your medicine cabinet, fool?”
The catalog is Victoria’s Secret. Unless Leroy has a wife, or wears D-cups in his spare time, I take it he uses these when he’s not utilizing the 900-number.
“I’m not judging you yet,” I tell him. “Juuuust checking.”
This is how it happens though, isn’t it? I become fascinated with someone, and then I stalk them. Stalk is a harsh word. Follow? Yes, I follow them for a while. Just to make sure … I am super precautious like that.
I rub my eyes. I’m in a weird mood. I think of Judah to bring myself back down.
LEROY ASHLEY DOES THE SAME THING EVERY DAY. He smokes on the porch as soon as he wakes up—a joint not a cigarette. Cigarettes come after breakfast, once he’s dressed in his khakis and polo shirt. From what I find in his trash, he’s fond of frozen blueberry waffles and canned orange juice—the kind you mix in a jug with water. He goes through a box of waffles every two days, folding the empty boxes instead of ripping them up. Once he hauls his trash to the oversized bins he keeps on the side of the house, he climbs in his car and drives to work. He is methodical to the point of obsession. Work for Leroy is the giant fishing and hunting store off the highway. He works in the camping department, suggesting tents and gear to fathers trying to bond with their children, hauling their purchases up to the register, and shaking their hands before they leave. At lunch he eats at the cafe in the store, ordering soup and a sandwich with a piece of fudge for dessert. He’s not overweight, but he’s a big guy, and he’s hung up on carbs. After work, he drives to the park where I first saw him. He spends about two hours there, standing against the same tree and chain-smoking his Camels. He watches the mothers across the way. Sometimes I go to the park and lean against his tree when he’s not there. There is a scattering of cigarette butts around its roots. I try to understand him, see what he sees.