Ever since the incident at the dinner table at the youth hostel, I can't stand the sound. Not just the sound, but the person attached to the sound. I just heard it. Three rows back, by the window. There he is. The guy clipping his fingernails. What’s his deal? Looks techie, maybe in his late thirties, early forties, probably upper management. He’s a little bit tall, meat on his bones. Not fat, exactly. Sport coat, small plaid pattern over a zip-neck sweater over a collared shirt, like a clothing turducken. Earthy colors. Thinning hair, but messy on purpose to distract people from the fact. Earbuds in his ears, and he’s smirking like he’s listening to something amusing. His computer bag looks Japanese, sleek, designy. His shoes, custom Nikes, orange soles. I can hear him clipping his nails through the podcast I’m listening to on my headphones.
I fantasize that the MUNI cop checking fares walks over to him, yells, "SIR!" and when he looks up at her, she says, “Seriously?!” and punches him in the face, causing him to drop the fingernail clippers, then she bends each of his fingers backward, snapping them like carrot sticks.
I rewind to the part of my podcast I missed with my day dream and try to put Clipper Man out of my mind. But I’m having hard time with the clipping noise. I get caught up imagining at what point in his upbringing things went so horribly wrong that clipping your nails on a crowded train during the morning commute seems like a good thing to do.
At the next stop, he rises, moving out of his row before the pregnant woman beside him can stand up to let him out, his computer bag bumps her belly. It’s not my stop but I get off anyway. I follow him into a nearby coffee shop and stand behind him in the longish line. I need coffee. I also need to put in two hours of surveillance for this week's private detective school homework.
He pulls his phone out his pocket. TOK. TOK TOK. TOK TOK TOKTOK. WHOOSH. Phone back in his pocket. A few seconds later, Motley Crue’s GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! starts playing and he pulls his phone back out of his pocket TOKTOK TOK. TOK TOK. TOKTOKTOK. WHOOSH. He chuckles at something on the little screen and slides his phone back into his pocket again. We move up in line. He inspects the nail of his texting finger and then runs it back and forth between his two middle bottom teeth.
He orders something complicated and specific. The barista repeats his order. Clipper Man says, "DUDE. It’s a triple shot, no fat, N.O., extra hot. Got it?” shaking his head as he taps his phone to pay. We’re near the coffee pick up spot at the other end of the counter. He does a little wait for your coffee dance: TOK TOK TOK WHOOSH on his phone, left foot tap tap tapping on the slate floor, head to the right to glare at the barista at the espresso machine, big sigh, and “Jeeesuss,” under his breath. TOK TOK TOK WOOSH and so on. My coffee comes up first and he “Jesus fucking Christs” at nobody and everybody. As I’m emptying a raw sugar packet into my cafe au lait I hear “Triple. No fat. Extra hot for Dick?”
“Dirk, not Dick. Jeeesuss.”
He leaves the coffee shop and heads down the street in the direction of my office. As I trail him, I think yeah, I could be a detective, he has no idea he's being observed. He holds his phone in front of his face and yells "CALL LAURA." After a few seconds, he says “Yeah. Laura. What the fuck?” he listens for a bit, then says, “I don't know why you don’t ask for my opinion on this shit. It’s not like I don’t have years of experience or anything.” More listening, then, “I’ll come find you when I get in. Be ready.” He holds his phone in front of his face again and yells "CALL NELLS." Then, "Nells, Dirk. Hey. Yeah, good. Listen. What would it take to get Laura moved, promoted, whatever we want to call it, over to Peter's team?" He listens, then says, "Yeah, I want her out of operations."
He crosses the street and I cross the street and we continue down the next block. He still has no idea he's being followed. I'm trying really hard to be invisible. It's working. About half way down, I see him noticing a dog tied to a bike rack outside a cafe. The dog is short-haired and shivering, whining a little. His eyes are fixated on the cafe door. Clipper Man approaches him and offers him the back of his hand to sniff, the dog gives it a lick and wags his tail. Clipper man crouches down, “Hey buddy, you cold buddy? It’s okay little buddy. Where’s your person?” He strokes the dog’s head and looks around for the owner. I stop walking, pretending to look for something in my bag. Clipper Man stays with the dog for a couple of minutes, scratching him behind the ears, talking to him in a reassuring, friendly tone. Nobody comes for the dog.
He takes off his sport coat and puts it around the dog, wrapping the sleeves around him and tying them together behind the dog’s back. “There, is that better? Be right back, buddy,” he says. Clipper Man pulls open the door of the cafe and yells, “EXCUSE ME. Who’s the asshole who left the freezing dog tied up outside?” The cafe quiets. Clipper Man doesn’t move. He’s waiting. Waiting for the asshole.