Morning dawns grey and grainy like the dregs at the bottom of my coffee mug. I wipe my hand across my brow, with the prospect of another daily commute staring me down like the impassive face of a fare inspector when you’re a nickel short of that sweet $3.25 mark.
I glance at the file, limply laid open on my desk, the smoke from my cigarette creating a dull haze over the paper. A new case came in late last night and it’s a real doozy. They want me to catch the city’s most notorious scoundrel: The Sidewalk Ambler. Even seeing his name printed on that folder sends waves of an all-too-familiar mild frustration pulsing through my veins.
The hard truth is, you can’t live in this God-forsaken concrete jungle and not know who I’m talking about. He’s a tough-as-nails sonuvabitch who’d sooner stop to check his phone in the middle of a crowded sidewalk than look at you. I shudder and grind my cigarette into my coffee dregs. Those soggy grains and ashes leer up at me, daring me to fail. Not today, shmucks. I pop the collar of my trench coat, jam on my hat, and step into the street.
I stride through the persistent drizzle, my shoes slapping pathetically on damp cement. I’m heading for the downtown core: the heart of his territory, where he wreaks the most inconveniences. I find him almost immediately.
He looms, central and sluggish, smack in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. While the morning commuters move with purpose, he winds a slow and meandering path. Stopping every now and then, he gazes up at a building. Always open-mouthed and aloof. The commuters slow down, sidestepping him and bumping into each other. You could hear those poor saps’ sighs a mile away.
I follow him down into the grim depths of the subway, where I watch him pull out his classic move: looking for his token once he’s already inserted himself into a turnstile. The commuters pile up behind him. Slight annoyance fills the air like a noxious gas. These shenanigans sure make my blood boil.
In the subway car, the Sidewalk Ambler takes a seat, spreading his legs so he takes up two, staring down into his phone screen. People shuffle into the train, including this dog-tired looking dame and her little kid. Kid’s got a blue backpack, red shoes, and absolutely no balance whatsoever on this moving train. We slow to a halt at the next stop and this kid practically flies the length of the subway car like a squishy little sneakered cannon ball. The Sidewalk Ambler sits in his two seats, impassive.
That rotten bastard.
I decide it’s time to strike when we get out of the subway. I stride up behind the good-for-nothing brute and lay my hand on his shoulder.
“You oughta watch where you’re going, pal,” I growl. The Sidewalk Ambler turns towards me. I raise my eyes to stare into the face of—myself!
Next thing I know, I’m thrashing in my tangled bed sheets, sweating and shaking. A dream—it was all a goddamn dream. I sit up and put my head in my hands, breathing hard. Truth is, the nightmare doesn’t even surprise me. Because I have been the Sidewalk Ambler. Shoot, haven’t we all? I smile grimly and light a cigarette. All we gotta do to get him off the streets is remember that we oughta watch where we’re going, after all. I take a drag. Case closed.