Do you ever get that feeling that you're being watched? Standing inside your house, you glance at the blinds to make sure they're closed. Expecting to see the shine of a single crazed eye peeking in at you in your home.
Or on the streets, the hairs stand up and you turn to look behind you. Perhaps some bum glaring at you for not giving them your spare change. Perhaps the person with the clipboard you passed by and they know damn well that you weren't really on the phone.
I know that we all get that feeling every now and then, but how often is that feeling right?
I have a large list of things that bother me. Reality television. Cover charges for local bands who no one has ever heard of. Non alcoholic beer. And sitting neatly on the very top of my list, never worried about being replaced by anything else, ever, is religion.
I won't bore you with the details, but let me say this: many countries around the world all have their versions of Santa Claus. But how many Santa Claus stories are the real one?
So it's a Tuesday, like it is on occasion, and I'm walking through a mall in some town (does it matter?) and boy, does my spidey-sense start going crazy. I'm not like most people who look behind them when they get that feeling, I always take a quick glance up. In my experience, most dangers come from above: birds, meteors, ninjas, etc. Nothing there, time to look around me. It doesn't take long to figure out what the problem is. Like two nightmarish, overpaid glory seekers, here comes Tom Cruise. And right behind him? John Tra-goddamned-volta. They are power walking their way towards me. Without a second thought I throw the few bags of stuff I just purchased right into the trash, spin on my heels and start booking it in the opposite direction.
I dig my cell phone out of my jacket and have just dialed the nine and the one when a vice-like grip clamps down on my wrist. I feel something pop and white-hot pain shoots up my arm all the way to my shoulder. Tom Cruise has me and is showing no intention of letting me go. One arm around my wrist, the other pushing against the small of my back to keep me moving forward, he shakes my arm and the cell phone that I couldn't even feel that I was still holding drops to the ground. A split second after it hits the floor, John Travolta kicks it across the path and it slides behind a coke machine.
Travolta grabs my other arm and with a big, crooked, toothy smile, he says "Let's have ourselves a little chat, Nate." Looking at Tom Cruise, he seems to not understand what a mall is. He looks confused, angry and his nostrils won't stop flaring.
"Hey guys, I was in the middle of something. Can we do dinner later?" I don't scare easily these days. Not after meeting Megan Fox. That's another story.
"No, Nate, I think now is good for everyone." Tom Cruise takes a quick right and shoves me into a Baby Gap. Real discreet.
Actually, it kind of was since there was literally no one in the store. Not even a sales associate.
With the two of them blocking the front, arms crossed and legs spread, they look like the worst idea for a buddy cop match up flick since Bruce Willis and Tracy Morgan (Sorry, Bruce).
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| FANTASTIC IDEA! |
"Please, call me Nate." I can't help myself.
"Ok, but... Wait. Shut up! Let me talk!" Some of Travolta's spit lands on my forehead. I feel my skin itching.
"Calm down, John. Let me do this." Tom Cruise takes a few steps towards me, arms slightly spread, attempting to look human, I guess. "Nate. Buddy. You know why we're here, right?"
"In the Baby Gap?"
"No." Tom Cruise cocks his head and gives me that 'come on, man' look. I think I usually see it right before he punches someone in the gut. I cross my arms and try to tighten my stomach.
"You wanted me to spare a few minutes to talk about our Lord and Savior Xenu?"
"Don't do this, Nate."
"I'm sorry, I meant our Lord and Savior L. Ron Hubbard."
"Dammit, Nate!" Travolta spits again, thankfully missing me by an inch. I say a quick prayer to Xenu for that small blessing.
"You know why we're here, stop bullshitting!" Tom Cruise steps aside and lets Travolta work on his aim.
"I haven't even done anything!" I take a step back, glancing around again for any sign of life. "Yet!"
"Yet! See Tom? He said it! He said 'yet'!" Travolta points viciously at me. His fingers look fat and wet. I shudder.
"I heard him, John. Keep calm." Tom Cruise takes the lead again. "Seriously, now. We can't. Let you. Say anything. About the church."
"Which church?"
"You know. Which church."
"Why are you talking like that? Is that a thi-" A sharp pain is in my cheek and Tom Cruise is wiping his hand on a silk handkerchief. I didn't even see him move. I just got bitch slapped by Tom Cruise. Suicide it is then.
"I'll level with you. The church gets enough bad press as it is. We don't need some guy writing in some obscure blog about how we suck or just want money and use fear tactics to strong arm people into doing what we want."
"Hey, you said it, not me." Tom Cruise twitches his arm and I totally flinched. Suicide for sure now, if I ever get out of here. I try to recover. "But, hey! It's not like they say you molest choir boys, right? Do you guys even have a choir?" Travolta pushes over a rack of baby tee's and throws a completely telegraphed left hook directly at my temple. It wasn't even like slow-mo, I just moved my head a few inches and he whiffs past me, grunting as he stumbles and almost falls. Tom Cruise and I both stare in shock, wondering if that was for real or not.
"Jesus, John. I thought you said you had been training." Tom Cruise shakes his head.
"Don't say the 'J' word and I have been! Last month. Twice."
I take a couple more steps backwards and say, "Look, guys. I'm not saying I'm going to write something, and I'm not saying I'm not. But when I do, who's name is going to be first in the title?"
They glance at each other then back at me and in unison say, "Mine, of course." They look back at each other.
And that was that. They started arguing. Tom Cruise slapped Travolta in the tit, which was weird. Travolta threw a few more sloppy punches that never connected. And me? I threw a smoke pellet and vanished out the back door in all the confusion.
That was over a year ago and the feeling of being watched has never gone away. And I'm too much of a sissy to kill myself.
Happy Mothers Day, Mom.
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