Peanut Sauce

How did they find me? I'm not exactly sure. I was walking through the Five Points area and saw a face I'd seen before. Or had I?

I crossed the street and followed the person. On TV, perhaps? A news broadcaster? No, I didn't think so.

I noticed a vehicle with a government license plate parked in front of a restaurant. Thai Garden? That name rang a bell. But not here. Somewhere else in town.

I did it again. I caught myself stepping carefully, avoiding breaks in the sidewalk slabs. "Step on a crack. Break your mother's back." Why do such rhymes ring in my head at times like this? I also realized I was dancing in my shoes, a habit I had developed to help me memorize long passages of time, mixing them with the smells and sounds around me for later playback.

The person walked into the restaurant, followed by three people from the government automobile.

"Should I go in?" I thought, or maybe even said. "The place is packed at lunch. Surely I'm safe."

Attracted to the odors from the half-open kitchen door halfway down the block, I took a leaping step into the lobby, avoiding the crumbled concrete pieces outside the threshold.

"May I help you?"

"Umm...table for one."

"Booth or table?"

"Table is fine."

"Over here, please."

The small restaurant seated about 75 people, the face I thought I knew one of them, along with the dark-suited government people at the same table.

"Your waiter will be with you in a moment. What would you like to drink?"

I glanced at the menu. "The...uh...the Thai tea."

I watched the face a few tables over. Pale. Middle-aged. D'oh. Of course, it was the former district attorney, the patron of the Children's Advocacy Center, a member of Congress, an elected official, an exemplary citizen.

He saw me looking and nodded. A few minutes later, after I'd ordered the house salad and curry catfish, one of the government types walked over to me, a young woman in her mid-20s, ambition written in her teethy smile.

"We couldn't help but see your enthusiasm. The Congressman would like you to join our table."

Who was I to refuse the request of a parliamentarian? "I'd be delighted."

I reached for my drink but the server beat me to it. "Sir, we will take care of everything."

"Thanks." I walked over to the power lunch table. "I'm Rick."

The Congressman stuck out his hand. "Rick, call me Bud."

"Yes, sir...Bud."

"Sir Bud. That's a new one! Daniel, write that down. I'll use it in an upcoming speech. Rick, have a seat. We were just talking about our constituency and the lack of a real feel for what the people want. You look just like the person we want to meet. I bet you have some honest, down-to-earth opinions that represent the fine people of this area."

I looked at the faces looking back at me. Government of the people, by the people and for the people. Liberté, égalité, fraternité. All for one and one for all. The Four Musketeers. The Three Stooges. The Dynamic Duo. The President and The King. The Merry Pranksters. Which "fine people" did I represent?

"Thanks for your confidence in me but I don't really have that much to say."

"No opinions? No issues I can address? Rick, I want to be in your shoes. If there's nothing I can do for you, you've got it made in the shade."

"Thanks. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"See, guys, this is what I'm talking about. People willing to help our government. Rick, what did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. I saw you walking around the neighborhood a few minutes ago and you seemed lost. Maybe there's something on your mind that I can help with."

"Rick, you're observant. In my years of working for the people, it's been people like you who've made my job easier."

There it was again - déjà vu. I saw this scene for what it was, a skit put on for my benefit. What was really going on here? What were they really looking for?

"What was that, Rick? I missed that. What are we looking for? Well, see, that's the thing. You followed me in here, didn't you? It's what you're looking for that we're interested in."

Had I spoken my thoughts out loud? What kind of ruse was this? No, I hadn't spoken my thoughts. I looked at the server who was looking at my drink. My drink! Of course.

"Rick, curiosity is a cloverleaf intersection at a one-way bridge closed for a presidential parade. You can keep going around and around, hoping to find your little Irish good-luck greenery and never get off the right exit because the Celtic Tiger myth was propagated to siphon money from mid-latitude provinces. I know you know what I'm talking about. You exposed that fraud yourself. Well, see, it's my turn to get hold of a piece of information from you before you publish it. All I want in return is to do you a favor. Any favor. You name it, it's yours."

Bud's suits were all looking at my drink by then. I sliced off a few milliseconds, tossed them in a Yahtzee cup and looked at the number patterns, divining my future. If I stopped sipping my drink, they might become suspicious. If I continued to quench my thirst, I might become more paranoid.

That's when a clear voice appeared in my thoughts. It said, "go to the bathroom." I stood up and excused myself.

As I walked to the bathroom, I felt a presence. In me? Beside me? Around me? Above me? Below me? Behind me? In front of me? I was not alone.

I closed the bathroom door and locked it. I turned around and looked at myself in the mirror. My lips moved.

"Subtlety is a lama riding a llama at a transvestite parade," my lips said to me. What? "Do not be afraid?" Afraid of what, my face under the control of some unseen ass? "Go back to the table and agree with the gentleman from the great state of Alabama." Okay, I knew I wouldn't say that on my own so I wasn't talking to myself after all. I took a piss and washed my hands, something I still had under my own control.

Back at the table, I nodded at the people who seemed very adept at using chopsticks.

"Rick, your food choice looks delicious. I had never thought of a salad of iceberg lettuce, potato chips and peanut sauce. You must have a diet secret I don't know about. Anyway, time's a waisting my beltline. Have you thought about my offer?"

"Yes."

"And...?"

"I accept it."

"Great. Daniel, Hannah, and Mike here will coordinate with you. Depending on what you have for me and what you want, we can get this deal done in no time. Price is an object but I'm not objecting to the objective."

"Obviously."

"Oblong though your info may be."

"Obtuse, I'm afraid."

"'Obnobbin' my noggin, I see. Knew you picked us for a reason. Whatever you want, it must be a doozy."

I stood up and walked out before they could act nonchalantly enough to go with me out of the restaurant. I wasn't in a hurry. I just wanted a little more time to myself. They'd find me soon enough. My anonymity was blown.

That was part of the deal I made with them later on. No more observations in private diaries. No more obfuscating storylines. They wanted straight facts. In the public eye.

I'm only giving them what they want since they wouldn't give me what I wanted - to be left alone. Not that their offers weren't interesting to listen to - a second and third home, supplied with a 24-hour-a-day staff of undocumented workers, including my choice of mistresses and sports cars, a private jet at my disposal (time-shared with other "clients"), a company in my name, my own charity, tax-free status for the rest of my life, books on the bestsellers lists, movies written by me in the number one weekend sales slots at least once a year, memberships in exclusive clubs and hideaways all over the world. For what?

At that point, they knew me better than I knew myself. Back then, I was just an amateur writer, a part-time critical thinker, skipping over cracked sidewalks. Sleep-walking. They never expected me to wake up.