Mark's Pages

January 1, 2003:

Unmarked white van, no license plates, parked in front of your apartment for three weeks.

During daylight, man in the driver's seat, short-cropped light brown hair, green sweatshirt. At night, man in the driver's seat, short-cropped black hair, sports coat, glasses. Must be on twelve-hour shifts, 'cause those are the only two you ever see.

As you leave for walks to the store, it's tempting to ask if you can fetch them anything. Coffee? Sandwiches? Chips? Or maybe they'd prefer to simply come inside and watch over your shoulder as you work? But then you think, better not to insult their professional dignity.

Inside your apartment, tall, lanky middle-aged geezer in a green sweatshirt sits typing at a computer. That's you, throwing together the Trouble Tickets Web site, late September 2001, in outrage over the war that was obviously about to happen.

By mid-October they'd either gotten bored, or found a more subtle means.

Ring, ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi sweet pea, it's me. So I was thinking. Maybe it's better to lay off phone sex for the time being..."