Don't Tell Anyone

The rhythmic thudding of the subway wheels going over the tracks 60 feet above my head thunders in my brain as I sip my latte and watch all of the different people, all going so fast, all having somewhere to be, wondering if they really know where they’re going. The New-Yorker life is not for everyone. Loud, fast, and anything but personal. The honking of an angry horn yanks me out of my daydream. I look down at my watch. Nine o’ clock. I gasp. Wait, nine o’ clock… what’s significant about nine o’- oh wait! My tour is at nine o’ clock! “Aya!” I cry out, as I make a break for the J train. I shuffle around people as I race up the stairs to the platform, and am ready to tear my card through the slot, when I realize that there is someone at all three. I pick the middle one, in front of me is a gentleman with a windbreaker and a baseball cap who can’t seem to get through. He tries the card three times to no avail. I tap on his shoulder. “Can I offer some assistance, sir?” He says nothing. Just nods. I look at his card and realize that he’s doing it backwards. It shouldn’t really matter, but these things can be finnicky. I politely move his hand from his card, and then take it out of the slot and turn it around. I slide it through again. The black sign glows with the green letters of approval and the man moves through the turnstile. I slide my card quickly through, and make a break for the train, barely making it by a few seconds.

.              .              .

               I arrive at the MoMA at 9:15, knowing that I’m in serious trouble. I hurry inside and clock in at the desk before rushing to my shared office, but the receptionist, Gladys, stops me. Her curly red hair is stiff as a plank of wood and is almost overwhelming with her red lips, but with her taste in fashion, she somehow makes it work. “You’re late,” she says.

“I know, I’m sorry, I got a little carried away with my morning coffee.” I say, defeated.

“It’s not me you need to say sorry to.” She looks at me, raising an eyebrow. She lowers her voice and leans forward. “Greg went ahead and stepped in. We couldn’t afford to be late today because most of the names on the list were investors,” she whispers. I groan. “But, if you ask me, Ms. Almasi, he should have been the tour guide for this tour from the get-go if the stakes were as high as he seemed to make them.” She raises her eyebrows.

“Ah, gotcha. Thank you, Mrs. Bernstein.” I say before I walk back to my office.

“You’re welcome dear.” And with that she turns back to her computer and continues trying to hold together the mess of a museum that Dr. Gregory Hoffman pretends to run.

I was not going to let Dr. Hoffman make a fool out of me this time. He had put my name on the roster for a nine o’ clock tour when I usually don’t come in until 10:00, knowing full well that at least eleven of the people registered for the tour were high-stakes investors. He had purposefully set me up. He had created a situation that he would hold over me for the rest of my years working here. Although, if he had his way, I wouldn’t be here at all. Not today, Doctor, I think to myself before walking back to Gladys’ desk and checking the roster. “When was Mr. Hoffman’s tour supposed to be?” I ask, searching.

“Ten o’ clock, dear.” She says, not looking at me, but knowing full well what was going on.

“And what were Mr. Hoffman’s duties today?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Gladys smiles. “He was going to call the flower shop and ask that the new arrangements be brought in this Thursday instead of Friday.”

“But can’t you do that?” I interrupt.

“Yes, ma’am I can.” She says, picking up the phone.

“Wait, what else did he have scheduled for today?”

“He also had a janitorial staff meeting scheduled for nine thirty.” I wait for her to say something more, but then I understand.

“That’s it?!” I exclaim.

She looks over at me. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I can let the janitorial staff know that the meeting is back on.” She looks over at me again.

“Please do.” I say, smiling. Mrs. Bernstein completely understands the situation here, and it is for that reason that I love this woman. A few months ago, Dr. Hoffman made a pass at me, and I rejected him. Ever since then, he’s tried his best to make my life miserable, because he wants me to resign. Whether it’s pride or guilt, which I seriously doubt, he doesn’t want to fire me. But he wants me gone. However, I don’t want to go.

               Gladys made the call to the flower shop and I met with the janitorial staff. I then had some time to do the things that Dr. Hoffman is too important to do, like wiping down the lobby tables, organizing the brochures. I even had time to water the plants and freshen up the flower arrangements. After I’m done I check my watch, and realize that I only have five minutes before my ten o’ clock tour. Walking back to my office, Gladys smiles at me and says, “The flowers look nice.” And then goes back to work, all but running the company, and possibly the world.

.          .          .

           I watch as the lobby continues to fill with all sorts of people. Young, old, rich, poor, but all here for one specific reason, to learn about art. Who am I kidding? Some of them are here because their moms made them come. Some are here for college classes. Some are here because they’re hoping to look romantic. In fact, there’s probably only two people out of this entire group, who are actually here to learn about art, willingly. But, I think to myself, they’re getting what they paid for, and with a little luck, perhaps more than they expect! And with that, I clasp my hands together, put on a big smile, and begin the tour.

“Good morning, ladies and gentleman! How are you doing on this lovely day? Actually, don’t answer that, it’s 10 o’ clock on a Tuesday and it’s 29 degrees outside, but that doesn’t mean we can’t suffer in style!” I scan the crowd, gauging their response to my humor. A few smirks and a couple of eye rolls, as expected, but then something catches my attention. There’s a gentleman in the back, wearing a windbreaker and a blue baseball cap. I’m not quite sure why he stands out, but then I suddenly realize that it’s the man from the subway. I don’t freak out, but instead explain it to myself: We were simply headed in a similar direction, coming from around the same area, and he just so happens to be on the same tour as me, the one that I happen to be leading, last minute. I shake my head. It’s just a coincidence. But when his eyes catch mine, I look away, and continue to do my job.

.          .          .

               As I am taking questions at the end of the tour, I notice that the man in the blue cap is nowhere to be found. I check the time and see that it’s 1 o’ clock, thirty minutes before my lunch with Madi. The crowd finally clears out, so I head back to my office to meet up with her. When I get there, however, Madi isn’t there. I look at my phone and see that I have a missed call and a text that reads, “Sorry, last minute staff meeting. Won’t be at lunch. Bring me something? XOXO”

I walk across the street with my laptop instead of my friend and through the double doors to my favorite little Persian eatery that always, without fail, smells like lemons. I’ve been coming here ever since I started working for the MoMA, because it’s the only place I’ve found in New York that reminds me of my grandmother and her magical kitchen. I take my usual seat, the booth with the best view of the museum.

I’m about halfway through my lunch and my slideshow when I feel the hairs on the back of my neck raise. I suddenly get a very eerie feeling. I look up, and all around, but I don’t see anything that would be a cause for alarm. But then I see him. Out the window and across the street, I see the gentleman with the blue cap and the coat from before, leaning very casually against a street lamp. He’s looking down at the ground, but then a car drives by, blocking him from my sight for a moment. When I see him again, he’s looking directly at me. I shudder. Another car drives by, but when it passes, he’s gone.

I have the urge to call the police, but something in my gut tells me that I’m overreacting. I take a few deep breaths, close my laptop, and finish my lunch. The food makes me feel a little bit better, but I still feel uneasy.                .

           I walk through the doors of the museum with Madi’s lunch and am headed towards my office when Gladys calls out, “How was lunch?”

“Fine! A bit lonely without Madi, but it was—” I hesitate for a moment, considering telling her about the strange man, but again, something tells me not to.

“It was what, honey?” She looks up at me.

“Oh, nothing.” I say with a smile.

“Okay,” she says, like a blessed woman completely ignoring the unfounded awkwardness that this conversation has acquired. I turn to walk away, but Gladys stops me again. “A man stopped by, Ms. Almasi.” I give her a blank look, and Gladys continues. “He wanted to give you this.” She pulls out an envelope with my name on it in flowing script.

“Do you mind if I set this here?” I ask as I walk around the desk, and set Madi’s lunch down.

“Sure.” I all but shred open the envelope. It’s a simple anniversary card with two teddy bears on the front, I smile, because it reminds me of my mom. The inside of the card reads, Happy Anniversary, Ashaki Almasi! A chill runs down my spine, as I see in the same excellent penmanship as my name, Don’t tell anyone. Fifth level, West Window. 7 o’ clock.

I take a deep breath and smile. “He’s just wishing me a happy anniversary!”

“Aww! How sweet! Today’s a good day for both of us isn’t it? My anniversary also happens to be today!” Gladys smiles dreamily.

“Yes, it is!” I lie through my teeth, turning away and thinking about how I definitely, do not, have a husband. I feel a hand on my shoulder. I jump and spin around.

It’s Gladys. “You forgot your leftovers dear!” She says, startled.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, Gladys. I didn’t get much sleep last night!” I say, smiling, trying to recover.

She gently hands me the food as she says, “Okay, dear.” I head towards my office.

           After giving Madi her lunch, we visit as I continue to file papers.

.          .          .

I work for another couple of hours, filing, doing paperwork. I finish a stack and take it to Gladys.

“All done!” I say, smiling. I hear footsteps and turn to see a young fellow approach Gladys’ desk with a heavy box.

“Here you go! Boss says he wants it done by tonight.” She tries to protest, but he’s already turned and gone.

“Well, there goes my evening!” She grimaces. Seeing the opportunity for a manageable excuse to work late I chime in.

“I’ll take it.” I say.

“Really? But it’s your anniversary, sweet pea. I couldn’t do that to you!” I didn’t think about that.

“No, no, it’s okay, he’s working late and w-we didn’t have plans tonight anyway.” I stammer, but she is all too happy to really notice my fumbling and gives me the box.

“Thank you so much, dear!” She beams and I cart the load down the hallway towards my office.

.          .          .

           Hours later, up to my elbows in red tape, I begin to ponder the day’s mysterious events. I saw the man once this morning and then at the museum. That’s not creepy. That’s normal. Two people going to the same place. What’s not normal was the whole scene at lunch… and then a thought occurs to me… just because two people are heading to the same place, does not mean that their journey has to start at the same place. Just because he was heading to the MoMA, does not mean that he needed to be on the same train as me. The only reason he would be on the same train, is because he lives, or just happened to be near where I was this morning. But why were we in the same line at the same time? And then suddenly I remember something… well… multiple somethings. I’ve seen him before. Last week, at the post office, he bumped into me on my way in. And two weeks ago, at my apartment, he was walking a dog. At my apartment. Suddenly, countless times that I have seen the man in the blue hat, out of the corner of my eye or off in the distance, come flooding back to me. The incident at the train station was planned. Who is he?  

.          .          .

           I’m startled as my train of thought is interrupted. “Hey, earth to Ash!” Maddi says, waving in my face.

           “Oh hey! What’s up?” I say, straightening up.

           “I’m headed out. Have a nice night!” I wave, and then check my watch. It’s only five thirty, but I’m only about halfway through the paperwork anyway. I watch the clock and continue leafing through hundreds of documents. Time crawls, but eventually six-fifty rolls around. I pack up my stuff, turn off the light, and head off to my mysterious meeting.

It’s a long trip up the stairs and I ponder the wisdom of this decision, but realize that I’m too intrigued. Finally, I reach the fifth floor, and head over to the east window. And lo and behold, there is a very familiar face there to meet me. It’s Dr. Gregory Hoffman. I am suddenly filled with rage as I realize what’s happened. The pervert couldn’t let it go and set up this whole meeting just to make another pass at me. I briskly walk to him and yell, “So it was you with the blue hat and the black windbreaker! Do you understand how creepy and perverted that is! Ugh!” And I storm off.

.          .          .

           As I haven’t eaten dinner, I’m starving, so I grab a bite to eat on the way home, and run the days events over and over in my head on the train. Getting home at half past 7:00, I put the key in the door and go to turn the lock but realize that my door’s already open. I’ve been robbed, I think as I creep inside. I go to turn on the light but realize that there’s one already on. I step on something. I reach down and pick it up, something pricks my finger. Looking closer, I see that it’s a rose. I hear a footstep in shadows ahead, and suddenly realize that I’m not alone. Standing in front of me is the man in the black windbreaker with the blue hat. A chilling voice emanates from beneath the hat. “You missed our meeting, Ashaki.”

The Bouquet Killer Strikes Again

His latest victim a MoMA Tour Guide