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Tired of being alone in my apartment, I went to my neighborhood library to read a newspaper. Weekday, people around but not too many, choice of a lounge chair to myself or sitting alone at a table. I took the table, more room to spread the paper out, making it unlikely that anyone would join me. People staring at computer screens, others reading periodicals, a few familiar faces. But whatever familiarity there was couldn’t be avoided, and it had never led to any form of contact, not a nod or a hello.

One guy there worried me. I’d seen him before, a smiley guy, always showing his teeth, saying hello to people who only nodded back at him, sometimes sitting in a lounge chair beside someone and saying a few words about a current event or the weather or making a comment about what the other person was reading, a kind of solicitation of some response going on, a need to make contact. Or he’d stand at the information desk and talk to the librarians for five or ten minutes, grinning and waving his hands, the librarians apparently reluctant to tell him to be on his way. I never made eye contact with this guy, didn’t want a sense of familiarity growing between us. He was using the computer, which distracted him from other people, but he’d looked me over when I came in. He knew me by sight but had never attempted to speak to me, and I wondered if he’d approach me at some point.

I read the paper for an hour or so, and the thought of him nearby started to get on my nerves. Who knew when he’d get up from the computer and let his eyes scan the room for someone to light on, someone to have a friendly chat with? I stood and took the paper back to the rack. There he was suddenly, asking if I’d finished with it, picking the paper up almost as soon as I put it down, giving me the smile, pointing out an image on the front page and commenting on it. Rather than walk away immediately I let my eyes rest on the image, and that gave him his opening. He told me his name and said he’d seen me in the library many times. He extended his hand. I looked at his empty hand and walked away, not wanting to engage in conversation or answer questions, not wanting any sort of bond to form through the grip of a handshake.

I hoped that would be the end of it, but the next time I saw him at the library he gave me a look. I only glanced at him, hesitant to look him in the eye, but I could tell I’d offended him. I read the paper awhile, but I couldn’t focus, fearing he’d walk up and make a scene I didn’t want to be part of, even if my part was only to sit still without speaking. I folded the paper and, without turning my head to look at him, walked out of the library.

I didn’t want to go back there after seeing him give me the look and I didn’t want to spend hours on end alone in my apartment, so I went to the mall and walked around, avoiding eye contact or getting too near people passing by. I’d walk through department stores if they weren’t too crowded, but unless I kept moving, salespeople would come toward me and ask if I needed help. The mall was boring, and I decided to try another library that wasn’t as close to where I lived. I went there a few times in peace, no one there was at all familiar with me, and I could sit and read a newspaper or a magazine with a minimal level of consciousness of my surroundings. But one day as I was reading the paper, the friendly guy came in. I saw him talking to the librarians at the information desk, smiling at his captive audience, the librarians seeming quite familiar with him. I considered getting up and leaving, but I didn’t want him to see me running from him. And I couldn’t have him chasing me from one library to another, for all I knew he might visit every library within twenty miles, regaling everyone in his path with his friendliness. I held my seat and waited, head down, but eventually he came over to the periodicals area. He saw me and walked right up to my table.

“So this is where you’ve been,” he told me, showing me his teeth.

I glanced up at him, but did not reply. He shook his head and walked away.

Only a week or so later I was sitting in a fast-food restaurant, about to start eating a greasy chicken sandwich, when the friendly guy came through the door and headed for the counter to place his order. I heard him chatting up the personnel, laughing, on a first-name basis with a couple of them. Soon, he walked past me to a nearby table with his loaded tray. He tore into his burger, looking down at it after almost every bite, perhaps trying to think of a few questions he could ask it. He showed no sign of having noticed me, but I couldn’t help asking myself if he had and if it was a coincidence that he was eating in the same place I was. But if it wasn’t a coincidence, what would his point be? That I wouldn’t be able to easily elude him or that he wanted to creep me out because I’d blown him off when he offered me a handshake? Who knew what ideas were jerking him around? He obviously felt a compulsive need to make contact with people, and how did I know how he reacted when his compulsion was denied?

I couldn’t stand to eat much of the chicken sandwich; the chicken was bland and the bread was soggy. I put my sandwich down and went to his table. He seemed surprised to see me and looked over his shoulder at the table where I’d been sitting, just a hint of self-consciousness, I thought, in the way he turned.

“I didn’t see you there,” he said.

“You sure?”

He tried to smile at me, but he sensed trouble. My eyes were fixed on his face.

“Are you afraid I’m stalking you?” He laughed at the thought. “It’s a small world, my friend. Why don’t you have a seat?”

He never gave up. He must have known I wasn’t going to sit there with him. Where did this “my friend” stuff come from? It didn’t make sense. I left him there with his burger dripping down his sleeve.

I sat in my car in the parking lot, muttering to myself, waiting for him before I knew I was waiting for him. Eventually he came out the door and walked to his car. I followed him when he pulled out, staying close enough that he could see me. I saw him checking his mirror, and after a few minutes he pulled into a parking lot and hopped out of his car. I got out too and met him halfway.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his friendliness nowhere in sight.

“I wanted you to know how it feels.”

“Just stay here when I drive away,” he said, pointing at me.

He walked back to his car, and I watched him drive off. I was sure he’d leave me alone after that.

But when he saw me again, at the library near where I lived, he came toward me as soon as he noticed me standing at the newspaper rack.

“I’m sorry things got unpleasant the other day,” he said, showing his smile. “I’m willing to forget all about it.”

He extended his hand, but I didn’t want any pretense of connection or understanding between us. I didn’t even want to be around him. I started to walk away, but he couldn’t live with a clean break.

“What an asshole,” he said behind me.

I went back and stood closer than I wanted to, the word he used pulling me toward him.

“Don’t push it,” I said.

“Or what?”

I left the library, left his question unanswered.

The next time I saw him at the library he didn’t speak to me, and as far as I knew he didn’t look at me either. I welcomed the distance, but I kept imagining that he’d approach me and say something. My head filled with imaginary arguments, stirring me up as if we were actually arguing. I didn’t want confrontations swimming in my head while I was trying to read, so I headed out the door. I walked for a while, reluctant to return to the silence of my apartment but troubled by the thought that wherever I went the friendly guy might show up there.

I tried the other library again and made two or three visits without seeing him. But on my next visit I heard him talking to the librarians, and I turned and saw them nodding as they looked at him and listened. His voice was too loud, the sound of it got on my nerves, and it was hard to read the paper with his voice in my head. He finally ended his speech to no applause and walked into the periodicals area and picked a newspaper off the rack. He sat at the table next to mine, just as if I were not in the room. He could have sat a little farther away, which might have implied that he didn’t care if I was annoyed by his nearness. On the other hand, what did I expect? Should he make it a point to sit on the other side of the room? I went back to reading the paper, trying not to talk to myself.

But I kept yapping away. I wanted the yapping to stop, and it was in my mind that I would get up and talk to him. I didn’t know how I hoped to end the yapping by talking to him, it made no sense to me, but that’s what I did. I sat down opposite him, and he looked at me as if he couldn’t imagine what I would say or do. I looked him in the eye and opened my mouth.

“I was rude. I’m sorry about that,” I said.

I dreaded what would happen next. Would he open up his smile and offer me his handshake? My skin was crawling, and I figured I had less than a second to evacuate. I sat still.

“Fair enough,” he said, not flashing his smile. “You come in here for some peace and quiet, and this person you don’t know wants to find a way into your head. I get that. No problem.”

I stood. The chair rocked behind me and almost flipped over backwards. I extended my hand, wondering where it came from. He shook it.

I went back to my table and read the paper. The yapping had stopped.

Read the next installment of Encounters

© 2010 Glen Pourciau