I, coyote

It was getting dark. He was prowling east down the south side of O’Farrell, coming toward me as I was heading home. It was nearing dusk, and when I saw him a light bulb went on above my head, as if I had suddenly received a brilliant idea from out of nowhere, and in fact I did.

Like Wile E. Coyote, I thought this time I’ll get him. And like the Roadrunner, he foiled my plans without even seeming to try- as if it was nothing more than nature and the natural course of things which undid my elaborate, smart scheme. Mocking me, really, as he has for years now with his horrible, singular form of torture.

I’ve wanted to capture his face for so long now it seems Melvillian at this point- a ridiculous quest that will never end and yet suddenly I realized how I could in fact actually accomplish it. It was so simple, and I held the answer right there in my hand. All I had to do was just use the reverse capture feature on my phone, as if I was taking a photo of myself- but it wouldn’t be a self-portrait- it would be a picture of his face!

 I quickly turned around, as if I wanted to take a photo of where I had just been, and toggled to take a picture over my shoulder as he approached me from behind.

I saw him coming. I steadied myself. I set my feet above my hips, just like in pilates class. The moment I had been trying to seize for years was about to happen. I think I grew slightly erect when he entered the frame.

I didn’t fumble. I held steady- I didn’t shoot too soon, but timed it just right when I hit that glowing red button. I heard the satisfying little snap as it shot. I had caught the fucker. Finally.

And then…

The little bastard thwarted me again. For the hundredth motherfucking time. He’s so evil it makes me tremble.

How can he be that smart?

How can he be this damn good?

Peek-a-boo with the Little Chinese Man

I've been thinking about him lately- it's been quite some time since I've seen him. In fact I had made a mental note to see exactly how long it's been.

Was he still around? Did somebody finally kill him? Had he been imprisoned for some unspeakable crime?

As I walk home from work every day I pass the myriad locations where I've spotted him over the past seven or eight years, maybe more now. I can't keep track. Scenes of my own disintegration that I replay in my mind as I wait for the light to change at this corner or that corner, looking for him (and the others) from the corner of my eye.

And like it has happened so many times before, as if he and I are locked in some endless variation of hide-and-seek, I turned the last corner, reaching my block, and saw him standing on the corner fifty feet away, waiting for the light and a sign from God to do who knows what heinous atrocity.

Crossing the street, moving toward him, I caught his eye. He looked at me with suspicion and faint recognition. Then I saw the click of recognition in his face. He took a step away, then back, quickly looking in the other direction.

The light changed in his favor, and he stepped into the street.

He was wearing his puffy brown jacket and the same beige trousers hemmed four inches too high that he's worn for years like a second skin.

He looked at me over his shoulder as he crossed the street.

"Hi!" I called out, and gave him a little wave, doing my best impersonation of a cheerful, happy person.

"Oh!" he said, and looked confused.

I turned to see if there was any oncoming traffic. When I looked back he was turning away from me.

I turned and made my way toward my building and then stopped and looked back. He was still moving, zig-zagging in the street, looking back over his shoulder, and quickly turned his head away when he saw I had stopped.

We went back and forth like this perhaps a dozen times- I'd turn around to see him quickly looking away, then look away myself, wondering what to do next. He seemed equally confused.

Five months and five days since our last encounter, the Little Chinese Man and I were now playing peek-a-boo, performing a strange dance in the street while dozens of other people moved between us, blocking our view of one another. Keeping us apart.

Finally I thought to reach into my pocket for my phone so I could take his picture. Maybe this would be the day I finally captured his terrifying face. I switched the camera on and turned in his direction.

But he was gone, and though from where I stood I could clearly see two blocks down the street, he was nowhere to be seen. 

Yo-Yo Ma, San Francisco Symphony begin the Centennial Seaon (SFS 100 post #1)

Chad Newsome and I were walking toward my apartment for a brief stop before getting dinner prior to the performance when the Little Chinese Man came running toward us.

"Hi Tom!" I called out cheerfully. LCM stopped, like a well-trained dog, and spun around on one foot to look at his greeter, arms extended in reverse akimbo, reminding me of a bat frozen in mid-flight.

"Oh hi!" he said, taking a second to recognize his double. "I have to run along now!"

"Okay, take care," I said.

Chad turned to me, an incredulous look on his face, "Was that...?"

"Yep," I replied.

"Wow. He really does exist. I had no idea," Chad muttered, as much to himself, as to me.

Fifteen minutes later we were seated in a booth at Urban Tavern, where two weeks before I and a certain notorious female "ambushed" him as he claims. Taking him to dinner and to see Yo-Yo Ma was my penance, for really, it pains me to do Chad a false turn. The hostesses at Urban tavern are really some of the best-dressed I see in this town. Tonight the younger one was manning the station wearing a brilliant white Ralph Lauren dress which she claimed was new but had a serious retro 60's flair to it. I assumed it was another Mad Men inspired fashion statement, this one better than most I see about town. We both ordered the fish and chips proceeded to discuss what has happened in the aftermath of the ambush, as we haven't spoken since. There was much to catch up on.

After dinner we walked down to Davies, to attend the first "real" concert of the San Francisco Symphony's centennial season, since the festivities of last week don't really count, most of all because I didn't attend them due to circumstances of a nefarious nature perpetrated on me by the same notorious female mentioned above and my subsequent departure to Alabama the next day.

Arriving early, we hung fire and surveyed the crowd. We were both taken by a certain metallic-hued dress and its perfect fit upon its bearer, both of us approving with a glance at each other before confirming it with words. Other than that, we noted the crowd seemed quirky tonight, an unusual mix of the regulars and those drawn out by the appearance of the world's most popular classical musician. Chad espied an unfortunate couple, the woman wearing a striped dress he assigned as a woman of ill-repute, but I just thought it an unfortunate match which obviously originated from a personal ad on Craig's List that would go no further than this performance.

It's a nice touch that the SFS begins and ends this milestone season with works by Beethoven which celebrate the triumph of the human spirit. Tonight's concert began with the Leonore Overture No. 3, which is a common item in the concert hall, but since I listen to Fidelio regularly it was a bit of a shock to be reminded how long it's been since I've heard this and how little it bears in common with the overture used in the opera.

The piece was given a rich, luxuriant treatment by MTT and the orchestra, taken at a pace that brought out the majesty within it. Heads turned in the orchestra section when the solo horn radiated from the balcony, its effect perfectly placed. There was an exceptionally strong flute solo by Tim Day, and a minute before the conclusion, principal cellist Michael Grebanier broke out in a grin, which was taken up by associate principal Peter Wyrick. It's almost a guaranteed night of musical excellence when these two are onstage together. But all the heavy hitters were onstage tonight except Nadya Tichman, and at various moments they all shone. Musically, the orchestra is sounding better than ever.

Yo-Yo Ma came out to a sustained welcome from the audience and warmly greeted members of the orchestra before settling in to perform the Hindemith Cello Concerto. This was the first time I've heard the piece and it's also my first time seeing Ma perform in person. I was intrigued by how aware he was of what was happening around him and how he anticipated what was taking place among the other players, but in a manner that had no artifice in it all, as if he was truly part of the larger ensemble even though he and everyone else onstage knew the show was sold out because of his presence. His presence is akin to that of a guest at a party that everyone adores and without whom it just wouldn't be the same. When the performance ended I was struck by how genuinely enthused and pleased the entire orchestra seemed to have him there. I've never seen a guest artist so warmly applauded the orchestra, so many grins onstage, Even Barantschik was actually applauding with his hands, which I've never seen him do before. Ma had warm hugs for Grebanier.

As for the performance? Ma handled his solo parts as one would expect, though I detected a couple of possible flubs that didn't sound quite right to my ear. Nevertheless, he displayed a dazzling amount of skill as he worked his way down the neck of his instrument, resulting in some frenzied solo passages which frankly reminded me of late 70's Eddie Van Halen in terms of dexterity and execution. The work itself seemed to border on novelty to me, with its frequent lapses into tremendous crescendos and volumes at the expense of any subtlety. There's nothing in it that immediately struck my mind as "ah, that's unique"- Shostakovitch did all these things better to my mind, with an emotion not detectable in Hindemith's work, though I may have a different opinion after repeated listenings

There was some audience attrition at intermission, and when the orchestra returned to play Brahms' Symphony No. 1 there were more than a few vacant seats. The row in front of us was nearly empty, and a young couple scampered over  and took the seats in front of us to get a better view. As the young woman rested her head on her date's shoulder I was reminded of how these evenings at the Symphony mean different things to different people, and how my own reaction to them has changed over the years. I used to think it a romantic evening out myself, long ago. Now I just go for the music. There are hundreds of people in the audience occupying a mental state in between, and probably many others occupying a state I'm unaware of- including people who may be interested in buying this ridiculous souvenir of the Centennial Season, the MTT kitchen apron ($32.95+ tax):

Pity to those who departed, because they missed an absolutely thrilling performance of the Brahms which I thought was the evening's highlight. Now I have to admit I'm not a tremendous fan of Brahms- why would one listen to Brahms when there's plenty of Beethoven or Wagner to put on the stereo? On top of that, the Romantic period has never struck me as being MTT's strongest suit, unless it's Russian. Tonight did away with all of that thinking, and MTT delivered a stunningly gorgeous performance. I've never heard the strings in this orchestra sound richer than they did in the first movement. In the second Barantschik played the solo parts with exquisite feeling, peeling off note after note of beautiful, lush sounds. The horns shone in the 3rd, led by Robert Ward. In the overly long 4th movement Robin McKee was fabulous and Carey Bell, Bill Bennett, Stephen Paulson all added significantly to the whole. The brass section was in exceptional form as well, all of this leading me to appreciate Brahms in a way I never have before. Consider me a convert- at least when played like this.

There was no clapping between movements during the entire concert (for a change) and although the guy two seats down from seemed like he was going to lose a lung in a coughing fit during the Hindemith, overall it was the quietest, most attentive audience I've witnessed in Davies in years- all the more exceptional for it being completely packed.

It was a memorable start to what promises to be an exceptional year. The rest of the performances are sold out, but you may get lucky and score a return by calling the box at the last minute. It would be worth the effort.

Chatting up the Little Chinese Man

I hadn't seen him in three months, three weeks and three days, but as I pulled up to the curb in front of my building, there was the Little Chinese Man. All the more terrifying was the sight of Luna following ten feet behind him. Who is Luna, you ask? She's my stalker who moved into my building almost two years ago, where I remain trapped by the real estate market and limited options.

Luna was holding a kitten in her hands, her face in an obvious state of delight. You can't tell she's crazy by looking at her, but she is indeed. I felt sorry for the kitten. I know what happened to the last pet she had and it's not a cuddly tale.

As I took in the spectacle of these twin terrors in front of my home I felt as if I were being consumed by an invisible wave of paranoia, fear and schizophrenia. Though the sky was a gorgeous cerulean, blackness engulfed my being. Well, something like that.

"Hi Tom," I said with a chipper tone in my voice, hoping that Luna would keep moving, quickly going up to her apartment where the kitten was certain to meet an unfortunate end one day, and that if I chatted up the Little Chinese Man I would be buying myself some time to make sure she wasn't around when I entered the building.

The Little Chinese Man looked at me quizzically, his horrible countenance  twisted into a plain state of non-recognition coupled with desire- he looked like he had just tasted something awful and wanted a second bite.

"Do I know you?" he asked.

"Yes, we met three months, three weeks and three days ago in front of your hotel," I replied, doing the math quickly in my head.

A vague look of recognition flashed in his eyes and then they sparked.

"Yes, I remember now. Yes, I do remember. Tell me your name again."

"John."

"Yes, that's right," and then he licked his lips, cocking his head to one side.

"Well, it's nice to see you again. Enjoy the afternoon," I said, my mind beginning to splinter under the accumulated weight of years now passing and their constant encounters with doppelgangers and lunatics.

He sized me up. I'm at least three inches taller than he, but I could see his mind working at how he could take me down. I was thinking about taking his picture- I have a new phone with a decent camera. We were at a stand-off.

"Yes, thank you. See you again soon I hope," he said with a lilt. I watched him as he walked down the street, and after he'd gone twenty paces he looked over his shoulder. I waved at him, my hand perfectly executing the slightly-cupped, gently rotating hand motion one does when riding in a convertible during a parade .

I entered the vestibule of the building, warily scanned the lobby keeping an eye out for Luna, and made my way home. Safe again.

The Little Chinese Man has a name...

...and the name is "Tom."

Seriously.

I introduced myself to him at the corner of Mason and Post this afternoon. There were no photographs involved. What am I going to do now?

On a collision course

We approached one another- he on the west side of Leavenworth, I on the east. In my hat and sunglasses I'm not sure he recognized me. My plan was to ask his name as we passed each other in the crosswalk. Suddenly he turned right, down Leavenworth. Toward O'Farrell. In the direction of where I live. I stopped, removed the crappy camera phone from my pocket and got off one shot.

As I came upon him at the corner, he suddenly skipped across the street, toward Union Square.

Foiled, I went on my way. Toward home, safe once more.

Twofer

As I was walking home tonight past the Hilton I saw the Sleazy Green-Eyed Con Man ahead of me doing his thing. As I approached him he extended his hand, attempting to lure me into his ridiculous scheme. I gave him the fish eye and kept walking. He touched my arm, but he doesn't remember me. Must be because encounters like our last must be an every occurrence for that low-life.

After crossing Taylor I saw the Little Chinese Man coming my way holding a large pink plastic bag. Obviously it contained the head of his most recent victim, but I wasn't horrified by this. He appeared disturbed by something as his gait was unbalanced and he kept looking behind him in a weird willy-nilly way- first over one shoulder, then the other, while walking in semi-circles down the street. He didn't even notice me and the sight of him behaving this way deeply troubled me. I stopped dead in my tracks and just watched him. I didn't even take out my crappy phone and try to take his picture nor did I text the Reverend Brown his location.

Seriously, I was about to stop him, ask him his name, and if I could be of assistance. But he looked so worried, as if someone were really following him and he wanted to get away, that I thought imposing myself on him this way would send him into paroxysms of irreversible terror.

And then I had the most unnerving thought I've ever had in my life: the realization that not only am I no longer afraid of the Little Chinese Man, but that I care deeply about what happens to him.

While I'm in the hospital, can someone please stop by and feed my cat?

The "Double": I've seen my future and he's the Little Chinese Man

He's back, alright. It's now like he never left at all and I'm more terrified than ever after the messages I received today. The Femme Fatale and I were on the bus and I looked out the window and there he was, coming down Powell toward Geary at a mean clip.

I exclaimed, "Look- it's the Little Chinese Man!"
"Where?"
"Right there!"

Having fully descended into madness, I bounded from the bus onto the street, the Femme Fatale running behind me. He was moving quickly. "Hand me my crappy phone," I asked of her, which she had in her bag.

I got one off as he stood proudly surveying the street. He never even knew I was there. He's been shopping it looks like- another new jacket.

Yes, I realize I've crossed the line. Come undone. But what can one do with one's Double?

The Double, according to Sophie De Mijolla-Mellor,

 ... refers to a representation of the ego that can assume various forms (shadow, reflection, portrait, double, twin) ... as a narcissistic extension and guarantee of immortality, but which, with the withdrawal of narcissism, becomes a foreshadowing of death, a source of criticism and persecution.... It was Otto Rank who in his essay "On the Double" (1914) was the first to develop this idea in psychoanalysis. 

Today Anne Enigma boldly stated " the only thing scary about that guy is that he is wear a jacket trimmed in fun fur, circa 1991 Contempo Casuals."


But wait! The theme of the double is taken up by Freud and integrated in his concept of the uncanny.

"The 'uncanny' is that form of terror that leads back to something long known to us, once very familiar" but has become terrifying because it corresponds to something repressed that has returned. "The double," Freud wrote, "has become an image of terror, just as, after the collapse of their religion, the gods turned into demons."

Also today, a professor from UC Berkeley wrote to me elaborating on the Freudian aspect of my madness:

This invention of doubling as a preservation against extinction has its counterpart in the language of dreams, which is found [to represent] castration by a doubling or multiplication of a genital symbol. Such ideas, however, have sprung from the soil of unbounded self-love, from the primary narcissism which dominates the mind of the child and of primitive man. But when this stage has been surmounted, the ‘double’ reverses its aspect. From having been an assurance of immortality, it becomes the uncanny harbinger of death.

He closed with:  "Now, John, liberated by understanding, you can advance into a glorious future."

What future?

Is this my future?:

The Little Chinese Man, my "Double," standing on the corner of Geary and Stockton this afternoon.

The return of the Little Chinese Man, an encounter with the Sleazy Green-Eyed Con Man, and Marcher's descent into madness

I've been thinking about him a lot lately. Almost four months without a peep or a mince. Was he finally behind bars? I could see him there- he deserves to be there of course- locked in a go-go cage lined in faux-fur, wearing a rhinestone-studded thong and matching toe socks, eyes all done up in glitter, while Heklina smacks him with a whip as he shakes his little butt to "Alejandro."

Perhaps he's been ill? Some trick at the Gangway put a roofie in his his daiquiri? Maybe, worst of all, was he dead? Another of his victims turned the table on him and the LCM was now lying somewhere under an underpass of the 280 with his underpants around his ankles? If that were true I would finally be free from ten years of unrelenting terror, but then who would I write about? The transvestite who applies his lipstick to his nose and struts around talking to herself isn't quite as terrifying in the same way.

And then tonight, out of nowhere, there he was right beside me at the corner of O'Farrell and Powell. I was just looking for a place to eat that wasn't jammed with tourists, and there he was. I didn't even have to see his face, I could tell it was The Little Chinese Man just by looking at the back of his head.

Terrified, I reached into my pocket for my crappy phone. Here he is, all decked out for a new year of terror in his fetching new jacket:

I quickly walked in the opposite direction. After almost four months I found myself flummoxed, unmoored and strangely excited. Dinner and drink calmed my spirits.

Walking back home an hour later I came across the Sleazy, Green-Eyed Con Man who hustles tourists and whom I find particularly disagreeable. As the family he was trying to scam walked away from him he approached me as I stood at the corner.

Sleazy Con Man (getting right in my face): "Some people just don't want to hear the message of hope. How are you on this fine night, sir?"
Me: "I've lived in this neighborhood for almost 10 years. I know who you are. Go away."
Sleazy Con Man: "Is that so? Who am I?"
Me: "You're a fake who's out here trying to get money for some fake-ass charity with a clipboard in your hand. Who the fuck raises money for charity with a clipboard on a corner in 2011? Go away."
Sleazy Con Man: "You don't know that's true."
Me: "Okay let's try it this way. You go away, or I'll follow you and tell your marks you're a fake. Your choice."
Sleazy Con Man: "Can I have a cigarette?"
Me: "No"
Sleazy Con Man: "You can't even give me a cigarette?"
Me: "No. I don't like you."
Sleazy Con Man: "Fuck you. You shouldn't have told me that."

And at that moment the Little Chinese Man walked out from behind the Sleazy Con Man into the crosswalk at Geary and Taylor, just like that. I glowered at the Sleazy Con Man and stepped off the curb after LCM without another word, automatically reaching into my pocket for my crappy phone.

I hurried across the street, trying to catch up and I was almost in range and then LCM stopped dead in his tracks to admire a display of Snuggies in the window of Walgreen's.

"Damn it!" I said to myself. Nothing is going right this evening. Thinking as quickly as I can, I get off one shot but I can't bring myself to stop and also admire the Snuggies. I keep walking, west up Geary, thinking he's going to come up behind me. I intentionally don't cross the street at Jones, but wait, thinking he'll skip up beside my lou.

The light turns green. I must cross. I cross Jones and when I am safely on the other side I turn around. LCM is nowhere to be seen. He must be inside Walgreen's buying a Snuggie. I wait. It is time for the hunter to get captured by the game. I lurk behind a tree in front of the Adante Hotel, lying in wait. Yes, I am now stalking the Little Chinese Man. He's going to be mine and I am finally. going. to. take. a picture. of. his. horrifying. face!

This particular section of Geary has an incline as you head west affording me a good view of the block I just traversed. I wait. I lurk. I pull the brim of my hat down to hide my eyes. I light another cigarette. Damn. How long can it take to buy a Snuggie? It's been 10 minutes now. Foiled again! The LCM has bested me one more time. I am beginning to feel like a certain cartoon coyote.

Saddened and dejected, I trudge up the sidewalk, looking back at the LCM-less street behind me every few steps. "It's okay," I tell myself, "at least you know he's still here."

The Little Chinese Man's pants and package

Today, 5:32 Geary and Jones, headed east...



The Little Chinese Man, who was in no hurry last week when the Femme Fatale and I followed him, was moving pretty quickly and almost caught me by surprise when I espied him directly across the street waiting for the light to turn. I pulled out the phone, switched on the camera and turned around only to find he had vanished. Then suddenly he appeared from behind that white brick wall you see in the photo, coming toward me with a very deliberate, if mincing, gait.

I'm such a coward when I'm alone. I should have just held the camera up and snapped his frightening visage, but instead I tried be surreptitious and shoot him on the sly. Well, all I got was his fly, which thankfully was zipped. I'm sure the white plastic bag contains the severed head of one of his victims.

My hands are still shaking as I write this.

Following the Little Chinese Man with the Femme Fatale in tow

It had to happen. He hasn't been seen in a month and a day and I was actually wondering when he would return. For some reason, I had a weird feeling as I went to meet the Femme Fatale at Union Square so I took my phone out of my pocket and turned on the camera. I knew today would feature a sighting of the Little Chinese Man.

It took him long enough to make his ghastly entrance. We were less than a minute to safety. We were right across the street from where I live, and there he was- walking toward my building. Not in the same direction he was walking the last time, mind you. No, this time he was headed west.

Something was off, though. Yes, he had on a new sweater, but that wasn't it. Then it hit me. The LCM usually walks very fast- as if there is something in his pants that will come loose and fall to the ground if he simply walks fast enough. Today he was moving slowly. Not even ambling, really- more like meandering.

The Femme Fatale marvelled that he does indeed really exist and she was seeing him in the flesh. I looked at her and there was only one thing to do since I was safely in the company of another and really, what terror, what havoc, what torture could he wreak on both of us? We decided to follow him.

He walked, weaved actually, down O'Farrell, casually glancing at the other side of the street as he strolled. I have to admit I thought he was looking for me.

At Hyde he made a left. We followed him, coming up right behind him at Ellis. He didn't turn around at all, but I knew that he knew we were there. He crossed and made his way to Eddy. And stopped. Now we were stuck. There he was, stopped, and we're at Hyde and Eddy- a crappy corner if there ever was one and the FF was starting to attract attention. The light turned and the LCM crossed, heading west again toward Larkin. We waited, then crossed behind him.

At that moment the FF asked aloud if he was a male prostitute cruising for johns. The idea had never crossed my mind before but it made sense because clearly LCM had nowhere particular in mind for a destination. Oh dear, this wasn't a good thought. If this were true, what am I doing running into the same little street cruiser over and over again? I decided against it- for my own sanity this couldn't be the simple explanation behind the LCM. I can't imagine anyone actually paying money to have sex with LCM. Then again, there is that scary, skinny redhead and she's been selling it on the street for more than 10 years now and she still seems to be in business even if her appearances are more infrequent lately. Then there's the one-legged hooker who hangs out at Hyde and O'Farrell. Okay, I guess it is possible, but I never see male hookers in this part of town and I always thought the amputee had a pretty good gimmick with those crutches.

We got to Larkin and slowed down. I expected him to cross back toward Geary, making a little loop, where we could follow him while making our way back to our original destination. I watched for him in the distance. And he disappeared. Just like that. Frightening, isn't it? I'm sure glad the FF was there to experience the horror with me. She'll never be the same.

Will the Little Chinese Man be at Tendernight?

The first ever TenderNight event takes place tonight at 8:00 at Edinburgh Castle. If you don't know where the Edinburgh Castle is you should probably stay home. But if you do venture out, you'll see some of your neighbors, meet some new people and hear a bunch of bloggers from the 'Loin tell stories from their blogs and such. I've heard prizes will be awarded and a special drink has been created just for tonight.

I have been asked to participate in the story-telling, which I modestly declined, but if someone prods me after a round or two of bourbon, I have a feeling I may end up giving a detailed account of the whole story about The Little Chinese Man.

Maybe he'll even be there...

The Little Chinese Man Hits Back

Friday the 13th.  Yes it certainly is, and it's also Alfred Hitchcock's birthday today (he would have been 111 years old) and I fully expected the Little Chinese Man to appear again today and completely freak me out for the fourth time this week. Trying to out-maneuver him, out-think him, I returned to the scene of yesterday's terror attack at the same time, same place, because a) I'm an obsessive b) I'm a masochist and c) I needed to get a can of cat food and didn't want to walk all the way to Whole Foods or my usual pet supply store and the little place on Post near Taylor is the only one in the neighborhood which carries low-magnesium count wet food for my pussy. I also suspected he would be retracing his steps in an attempt to avoid me or to find me. I suspect it's the latter, but many people seem to think I'm the one following him. What the fuck is wrong with you people anyway? Can't you see I'm the one being terrorized here? I'm the one who lives his life scanning the street a block ahead, confiding in friends, mapping his appearances. He's obsessed with me!

Which of course made it all the more interesting when I came across this post from Craigslist which someone has anonymously emailed to me:

WHO IS THIS WHITE GUY AND WHY IS HE FOLLOWING ME? (tenderloin)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 2010-08-13, 6:08PM PDT
Reply To This Post

I swear to God I see him everywhere- this has been going on for years now. He creeps me out and lately he's been taking my picture every time he sees me. So this time I took his picture- he's always walking around in the same old leather jacket, smoking a cigarette and holding his phone in the other hand. pERV! I wonder what nefarious, nasty things he does with my picture. Help me! Please- if you know this man's identity please let me know so I can tell my mother.
Tenderly yours,
A Little Chinese Man....

http://sfbay.craigslist.org/sfc/rnr/1897675284.html%20(rants%20&%20raves)

Next thing you know, the little motherfucker is going to start writing a blog about me.

It's on LCM! Your cerulean blue little tight short pants and waist-length contrasting jacket are going to be hanging in my closet as trophies! I'm going to add you to my list of conquests (if I can ever find it). And most of all, I'm going to strip you of your tushy-hugging bikini briefs and put them on my cat, place a yarmulke on his head, take his photo and use it for my holiday card this year!

Three out of four: The Little Chinese Man's reign of terror continues

For the third time in four days I encountered The Little Chinese Man on my way home from work today. Now I know what you're thinking- everyday he leaves work at a certain time and walks home or where ever he's going, and you, John Marcher, do the same thing and it's inevitable your paths cross and since you obviously are attracted to him you notice him alone among the thousands of people you pass on the street every day.

No, that's incorrect. Today, at precisely 5:28 PM I saw him from across the street on the northwest corner of Taylor and Post. Yesterday, I saw him at almost the exact same time at the corner of Hyde and O'Farrell. On Monday, at around 6:30 PM I saw him again at Hyde and O'Farrell. If you look on a map you can only reach the conclusion which has been all too obvious to me for years now: The Little Chinese Man is a terrorist who can appear anywhere and at anytime. He is not of this Earth.

There is no photo of him today. I was so shocked I couldn't find the right button on my phone and I never got a shot off as he disappeared into a crowd of tourist on the crowded sidewalk. I think he's on to me though, as he looked over his shoulder directly at me once he was across the street. It was like being spotted by the Alien Mother who disappears into the dark void once she's spotted her prey, waiting to attack from an unseen space. I am afraid- and out of bourbon.

The Little Chinese Man walks by my home, spreading his terror!

I wasn't even coming home from work today when The Little Chinese Man intruded into my life for the second time this week and it's only Wednesday. Returning from a doctor's visit in Pacific Heights, I exited the California 1 and made my way down Polk St., taking pictures of the vacant businesses which were intended to be the subject of this post (I'm too traumatized at the moment to even think about that). Almost home, I waited for the light at Hyde and O'Farrell- the site of our encounter on Monday.

Before you think I interrupted his daily early evening routine, know this-today he approached from the South, whereas on Monday he was heading toward me from the West. This is an important point, as it proves many things, not least of which is the fact that the LCM is really just fucking with me at this point because I am never, ever at the North-East corner of Hyde and O'Farrell at 5:20. Ever. Why was he there? Simply to torment me, of course. Because he's an agent of Satan.

I saw him approaching as I stood across the street. I reached into my jacket for my phone, thinking he was going to walk right by me and if I could act quickly enough I would get the long sought-after full-frontal portrait of this horrible, stalking monster, but then he suddenly veered to his right. Yes, right toward where I live. I broke out in a cold sweat and my doctor's admonishments to take better care of myself flooded my mind like Katrina, bringing with it spectres of death and decay. Dread overtook me, but I persevered, knowing no one would believe the horror if I didn't document it.

In front of my building, something drew his attention, or he decided to mock me by offering up his profile, which I failed to capture, though I was moving as fast as my horribly decrepit state would permit (hence the visit to the doctor). I expected him to turn around and scream at me, like Donald Sutherland in the remake of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers"- a film that takes place in this very City. Think about that for a moment and weigh the implications. You should be afraid. For me at least. Please?

There he goes- past my humble abode, casting his filthy, evil shadow over my doorstep, leaving who-knows-what kind of evil lurking for me at every ingress and egress of my home. It's terrifying. It's horrific. What can be done?

 Help me.

Please.

She's gone... He's back.

Not once during her entire 12 day visit to San Francisco did Madame Merle get to see The Little Chinese Man in the flesh, though she was indeed accosted by many unsavory people in various locales around the City. Where was he? Lurking nearby it seems, because a mere three hours after her plane departed to NYC there he was, across the street from me, on his way down the block toward my apartment. I was too deep in my own thoughts about how much I enjoyed having Madame Merle here to notice him coming toward me until it was too late to capture his frightening image. I was about to go on the wagon last night but after this startling visitation, the only thing that could calm my nerves was a double bourbon and some cheetos.

Once again, here he is in all his glory, shot from behind as he crosses O'Farrell at Hyde at 5:55 on 08/09/10, heading east in his nice tight pants with the bikini brief lines well-visible and newish looking neat liitle khaki jacket. How terrifying is this?

He's Alive!

Somehow I knew on a night where I was going to see a movie called Shadow that it would be inevitable to see him on the street tonight, lurking somewhere. As I made my way cautiously home, scanning every face in the crowd, it seemed my mind was playing tricks on me. He was nowhere to be seen.

Then I saw it. Him. My shadow. The Little Chinese Man was now coming toward me on a block we have haven't encountered one another before- Geary at Shannon- an alley full of despair and detritus. I gasped, but I had my camera at the ready. Would I be able to shoot my shot this time?

Thankfully, he was already stuffing his maw with some strange object, a thing once alive, that he had now crammed into a bag like a victim of Buffalo Bill, to devour as he minced his way through the Tenderloin. My neighborhood, my streets. I share them with him like a prison cell. Here he is, faithful readers, it's The Little Chinese Man:

My second shot was premature and my load hit the ground, landing on filthy cement. I regained my composure, and as the world grew hot with dread around me, I was able to capture his image as he passed me by, stuffing his face with who-knows-what. But I dared not make a sudden move.

The sporty sweater and pink hoodie were obviously the spoils of his previous kill, and the pants were looser than usual- perhaps from the earlier struggle, but here he is- and closer to me than he's ever been. And yet I live.


I'm telling you, it's been a month of horrors!

Into the Light Blue Yonder with The Little Chinese Man

Somehow I felt him coming. Having just returned from Chicago where the heat ensnared me, the city enraptured me and a certain brunette with an indeterminate accent interrogated me I knew I was due for my luck to run out.

My shit-served-straight-up day started as soon as I took the first call and listened as two people who were supposed to know something feigned corporate indignation in a raspberry-hued tone, trying to cover up they didn't know shit. From there it was an easy slide down the chute into the hopelessness and despair that stains so much of the existence of my 8-5. As I left the building I knew he'd be out there. It didn't matter what route I took- he would find me.

I decided to make farfalle and meat stew for dinner, so I went up Post Street with the intention of cutting over at Jones to go the Halal butcher on Geary. At Post and Stockton I espied Axel Feldheim, my friend and another man I tend to run into unexpectedly but frequently in this tiny town. Axel and I chatted on the corner- he was on his way to the Mechanics Library for a lecture on how people like us were Fifth Columnists. As we spoke, suddenly, ten feet away, he minced toward me- the Little Chinese Man was right there.

I gasped. I probably squealed. "It's the Little Chinese Man!" Axel looked at me like I had just dropped my pants in the street.

"I need to take his picture."

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. My hands trembled as I found the camera setting. Using Axel as a human shield, I stepped out into the middle of the sidewalk to bring him down. Then, in a moment of a premature excitement I haven't experienced since Lana Mardian, I misfired completely.

I hit the wrong button. My photo opp of the little Chinese Man failed. Damn, I said to myself.

Alarmed, Axel said "What are you doing?"

"Didn't you know? Didn't you read about him?"

"No, I need to catch up," he said.

"He's following me. I see him everywhere!"

"Who?"

Pointing to the tight, light-blue dungarees now behind me, with the short beige jacket on top- "Him! The Little Chinese Man!"

LCM had now stopped at the corner, amidst a throng of shoppers. Briefly he turned to offer me his profile, but again I missed the pay-off. I snapped the picture only to get his backside. The light turned green, he minced out into the crosswalk, gone- the outline of his tight briefs against his Little Chinese Man buns seared into my brain like two girls, one cup. Irreversible.

I felt emasculated. Axel took leave of me. He'll probably never talk to me again. I made my way up Post, took a left on Jones, scanning the street from left to right all the way, thinking he'd be back- knowing he's taunting me.

I entered the butcher shop and ordered my fresh meat. A pound of it. Then I crossed the street to get my peppers, which were battered, bruised and soft so I settled for tomatoes. It's been that kind of day. As I made my way home I kept an eye peeled for him, feeling as if I was suddenly a character in an Orson Wells movie. He eluded me this time. But I'll get him. I'm good at the hunt and the hunt is on.

He's dead center in the picture.

In Pursuit of the Little Chinese Man

It began about 6 or 7 years ago. My friends and I would meet at Hurgadah on Hyde for coffees and breakfast on Saturday morning back in that brief time when we all lived within walking distance of one another. We'd be sitting there, enjoying ourselves, and then suddenly he would walk by. He seemed to zero in on me- my friends affirmed this- it wasn't my imagination. He has such a distinct appearance one really can't mistake him for anyone else. Picture the love child of Alan Cumming and the Area 53 Alien, born somewhere in a Chinese hinterland. I call him The Little Chinese Man.

The Little Chinese Man has been following me around San Francisco for years now and his appearances are growing more frequent. Now this is a small town, where you will see everyone, and I do mean everyone, you've ever met, drank with, slept with and antagonized again. It may take years, but it will happen. This is something different. This is a haunting. This is a hunt. I see him on my street sometimes. My job recently relocated to an entirely different part of downtown and I rarely take the same route home on a regular basis and yet there he is. Coming toward me. He's like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

Except of course he's not. He's so slim and pale it's startling. His pants, always too short, and very tight around his junk, are always clean and pressed. He often wears a little jacket that never goes beyond the waist. He minces. His face has an expression that seems to be a perpetual pucker but it betrays nothing beyond a vague, sinister hunger. I see him everywhere. Including on the street where I live. I guess I have seen him at least 60 times now. Only once was he standing still, talking into a cell phone with obvious angst at the Galleria outside the Ralph Lauren store.

When I spot him, and I am a safe distance away, I usually send a text to my friend the Reverend Brown, identifying the location, who can only laugh at this urban hunt. The thread now has 51 entries...It has been suggested that I go up to him and introduce myself. Maybe that would break the cycle. I don't think I can do it.

Today I saw him at Market and Montgomery- a corner new to our long and ever-increasing list of chance (?) encounters and I knew I needed to take his picture. I started to follow him but he quickly vanished as if he had eyes in the back of his head and sensed my pursuit. Then from a great distance I saw him and snapped this photograph. Real evidence of what? My spectre? A doppelganger? Who is he and what does he want with me?

I'm on a mission now. I will get a photograph of the Little Chinese Man and I will share it and someone will tell me about him. Who he is and if he has a trust fund.



He's not the figure in blue- that's some woman who got in front of him. No, he's just beyond her- that slight, barely perceptible, quickly fading from view mincing man who can't weigh more than 100 lbs. He may just be the scariest man alive.

Stay tuned.