Meg's Follower

Meg first noticed the man in the beige trench coat outside the grocery store.

He was standing beside a shopping cart, pretending to read the nutritional information on a can of creamed corn. He had been staring at her for approximately forty-seven seconds.

Meg knew this because she had counted.

She was very good at counting suspicious things. She worked in municipal records, where suspicious things were generally limited to missing parking permits, improperly filed marriage certificates, and the occasional complaint about a neighbor's aggressive garden gnome.

But this man was different.

He was tall, thin, wore enormous sunglasses despite the cloudy weather, and had a mustache that appeared to have been glued on by someone with poor eyesight.

When Meg looked at him, he looked away.

When she moved toward the checkout, he moved toward the checkout.

When she left the store, he left the store.

Meg stopped beside her car.

The man stopped beside a newspaper dispenser.

Meg opened her car door.

The man pretended to tie his shoe.

Meg stared at him.

He stared at the ground.

"Right," Meg muttered. "That's normal."

She got into her car and drove home.

The man followed.

Not particularly well, either. He drove a lime-green hatchback with a bumper sticker that read HONK IF YOU'RE A TURNIP.

Meg watched him in her rearview mirror as she turned onto her street.

He followed.

She turned into her driveway.

He drove past.

Then he circled the block.

Meg sat in her car, gripping the steering wheel.

"Oh, absolutely not."

She got out, marched toward her front gate, and waited.

The lime-green hatchback came around the corner again.

Meg stepped into the road.

The car screeched to a halt.

The man rolled down his window.

"Hello," he said.

Meg crossed her arms.

"Why are you following me?"

The man blinked.

"Following you?"

"Yes, you. The human beige curtain. You've been following me since the grocery store."

He glanced behind him, as though perhaps she was speaking to another suspiciously mustached person.

"Ah."

"Ah?"

"Yes. Well. I can explain."

"Fantastic. Start with why you look like a private detective who lost a bet."

The man swallowed.

"My name is Gerald."

"I don't care if your name is Queen Elizabeth. Why are you following me?"

Gerald took a deep breath.

"Because of your sandwich."

Meg stared at him.

There was a pause.

A very long pause.

"Excuse me?"

"Your sandwich."

"My sandwich."

"Yes."

Meg looked down at the grocery bag in her hand.

Inside was a loaf of bread, a jar of mayonnaise, a cucumber, and a packet of sliced ham.

She looked back at Gerald.

"You're following me because of a sandwich?"

"Not that sandwich."

"Then I would love to know which sandwich."

"The one you ate on Tuesday."

Meg closed her eyes.

She had a headache developing behind her left eye.

"Gerald, I have eaten many sandwiches on many Tuesdays."

"Exactly."

"That is not helping."

Gerald looked around nervously before leaning closer to the window.

"Three days ago, you ate a ham and cheese sandwich outside the public library."

Meg frowned.

"Yes."

"You dropped a crumb."

"People do that."

"Not this crumb."

Meg stared at him.

Gerald removed a small notebook from his coat pocket.

"At precisely 12:43 p.m., you dropped a crumb onto a pigeon."

Meg slowly lowered her grocery bag.

"Okay."

"The pigeon ate it."

"That's generally what pigeons do."

"Then it flew onto the roof of the library, where it was struck by a falling plastic spoon."

Meg said nothing.

"The spoon fell from a passing delivery drone."

"Why was a drone carrying a spoon?"

Gerald looked deeply troubled.

"That is not the important part."

"It feels fairly important."

"The pigeon dropped the spoon into a gutter. The gutter overflowed. The water washed a lottery ticket into the street. A man stepped on it, slipped, and accidentally proposed to his girlfriend."

Meg blinked.

"That's nice, I suppose."

"They got married yesterday."

"Congratulations to them."

"She is my sister."

Meg stared at him.

Gerald nodded solemnly.

"And because of that sandwich, my sister is now engaged to a man named Clive who collects antique toilet seats."

Meg looked toward the sky.

"Of course she is."

Gerald parked his car outside Meg's house.

Meg had invited him inside for one reason only: she wanted to determine whether he was mentally ill, dangerous, or simply the world's most unfortunate idiot.

Possibly all three.

He sat on her sofa with his knees pressed together, clutching his notebook.

Meg stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee.

"Let me get this straight," she said. "You believe a sandwich crumb caused your sister to marry a toilet-seat enthusiast."

"An antique toilet-seat enthusiast."

"That distinction changes everything."

Gerald nodded.

"Clive owns forty-seven."

"Forty-seven toilet seats?"

"Antique ones."

Meg rubbed her forehead.

"And you think I somehow caused this?"

"I know you did."

"Well, I'm sorry my lunch ruined your family."

Gerald brightened.

"So you'll help me?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"I've been following you for three days."

"That is not a persuasive argument."

"I haven't slept."

"That sounds like a personal problem."

Gerald opened his notebook and flipped to a page covered in diagrams.

"I've been studying you."

Meg slowly lowered her coffee.

"That's a terrible thing to say to someone."

"On Wednesday, you sneezed outside the pharmacy."

"I have allergies."

"At the exact moment a man in Ohio dropped a jar of pickles."

Meg stared at him.

"How do you know that?"

Gerald pointed to a diagram.

"Because I have a theory."

Meg sighed.

"Of course you do."

He turned the notebook around.

At the top of the page, written in enormous letters, were the words:

THE MEG EFFECT.

Beneath them was a drawing of a woman surrounded by arrows, pigeons, sandwiches, and what appeared to be a very angry toaster.

"You're a walking coincidence generator," Gerald explained. "Every ordinary thing you do causes something ridiculous to happen somewhere else."

Meg stared at the drawing.

"Why am I wearing a crown?"

"That represents your influence."

"Why is there a toaster?"

"That is still under investigation."

Meg sat down opposite him.

"Gerald, have you considered that you might simply be an idiot?"

He nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes. Several times."

Meg decided to test his theory.

If Gerald believed she caused strange events, then she would make him prove it.

She stood up, walked to the refrigerator, and opened it.

Nothing happened.

She took out a pickle.

Nothing happened.

She ate the pickle.

Nothing happened.

Gerald scribbled furiously.

"Interesting."

"What?"

"You're not activating it."

"Activating what?"

"The effect."

Meg rolled her eyes.

She walked to the window and waved at a passing dog.

Nothing happened.

She sneezed.

Nothing happened.

She dropped a spoon.

Nothing happened.

Gerald looked disappointed.

"Perhaps the sandwich was a rare occurrence."

Meg smiled.

"Excellent. Then you can go home."

Gerald stood.

"Wait."

Meg froze.

He was staring at the kitchen counter.

"What now?"

Gerald pointed at the bread bag.

"That."

Meg looked at the bread.

Then at him.

"What about it?"

"Your bread is upside down."

Meg looked down.

The loaf was, in fact, upside down.

She turned it over.

Gerald gasped.

"Don't!"

Too late.

A tremendous noise came from outside.

It sounded like a truck crashing into a dumpster, followed by a loud metallic clang and what might have been a man shouting, "THE CHEESE HAS ESCAPED!"

Meg and Gerald rushed to the window.

Across the street, a delivery truck had somehow become wedged between two parked cars. Its rear doors were open, and dozens of enormous wheels of cheese were rolling down the pavement.

One rolled into a mailbox.

Another bounced off a garden gnome.

A third struck a parked bicycle and sent it spinning into a hedge.

A man wearing a hairnet ran after them.

"STOP THE BRIE!"

Gerald's mouth fell open.

Meg stared.

Then she looked at the bread.

Then at Gerald.

"Did I do that?"

Gerald nodded slowly.

"Yes."

Meg considered this.

Then she smiled.

"Oh, this is going to be fun."

For the next hour, Meg experimented.

She scratched her nose.

A weather balloon burst over Nebraska.

She tapped the kitchen table.

A man in France accidentally entered a pie-eating competition.

She dropped a biscuit.

A flock of geese invaded a garden center in Scotland.

Gerald recorded every event with the enthusiasm of a scientist who had finally discovered something that would get him invited to conferences.

Meg, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly delighted.

"So I can cause random nonsense anywhere in the world?"

"Apparently."

"Can I control it?"

"That remains uncertain."

Meg grinned.

She picked up a spoon.

Gerald's eyes widened.

"Careful."

Meg tapped the spoon against her glass.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm began blaring.

Then her phone rang.

She answered.

"Hello?"

A woman's voice shouted, "MEG, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

Meg recognized her neighbor, Mrs. Pritchard.

"What?"

"THERE'S A GOAT IN MY BATHROOM!"

Meg looked at Gerald.

Gerald looked at Meg.

A slow smile spread across his face.

"You're getting stronger," he whispered.

Meg hung up.

She was beginning to enjoy this.

Until Gerald suddenly turned pale.

"There's something else."

Meg sighed.

"Naturally."

He flipped to the last page of his notebook.

It contained a photograph of a large, angry-looking man wearing a velvet suit.

"Who is that?"

"Professor Bartholomew Wimple."

"That sounds made up."

"He runs the Department of Unexplained Coincidences."

"That's even more made up."

"He believes your abilities are dangerous. He has been looking for someone like you for years."

Meg stared at the photograph.

"Why?"

"Because he wants to use your powers to win the national lottery."

Meg blinked.

"That's it?"

"Well, and to make the Prime Minister sneeze during televised speeches."

Meg considered that.

"Actually, I respect the ambition."

Gerald grabbed her arm.

"We need to leave."

"Why?"

"He's coming."

As if summoned by the conversation, a black limousine screeched to a halt outside Meg's house.

Three men in matching velvet suits climbed out.

The tallest one carried a briefcase.

The shortest one carried a live chicken.

The third was eating a banana.

Meg stared through the window.

"Is that the Department of Unexplained Coincidences?"

Gerald nodded.

"That's them."

"Why does one have a chicken?"

"He's the chicken specialist."

"Of course he is."

A knock rattled the front door.

"MEG!" shouted a voice. "WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE!"

Meg looked at Gerald.

Then she looked at the refrigerator.

Then at the jar of mayonnaise on the counter.

A wicked smile appeared.

"Gerald?"

"Yes?"

"Do you trust me?"

He swallowed.

"Not particularly."

"Good."

She grabbed the mayonnaise and squeezed a large dollop onto the kitchen floor.

Gerald stared.

"Why?"

Meg slipped slightly, caught herself on the counter, and knocked over the bread.

The bread landed in the mayonnaise.

The mayonnaise jar rolled off the counter and struck the floor.

The refrigerator door swung shut.

Outside, there was a sudden crash.

A flock of pigeons exploded from the roof.

The limousine's alarm began blaring.

The chicken specialist screamed.

The man with the banana dropped it.

And somewhere in the street, a very loud voice shouted:

"WHO PUT A WAFFLE IN THE EXHAUST PIPE?"

Meg looked at Gerald.

"Run."

They ran out the back door.

They reached the park three streets away before stopping.

Gerald bent over, gasping.

Meg leaned against a tree, laughing so hard her stomach hurt.

"That," she said, "was the best afternoon I've had in years."

Gerald straightened.

"You're taking this remarkably well."

"Gerald, I once accidentally joined a competitive cheese-rolling club because I thought it was a wine tasting. This is barely unusual."

He stared at her.

"Why would you join a cheese-rolling club?"

"Free refreshments."

Gerald nodded slowly.

"Fair enough."

They sat on a park bench.

After a few minutes, Meg turned toward him.

"So, Gerald. Why were you really following me?"

He looked down at his notebook.

"I wasn't entirely honest."

Meg raised an eyebrow.

"Shocking."

He took off his sunglasses and revealed two tired, ordinary eyes.

"My sister really did marry Clive. And he really does collect antique toilet seats."

"That's unfortunate."

"But I wasn't following you just because of the sandwich."

Meg waited.

Gerald sighed.

"I was hoping you could undo it."

"Undo what?"

"The marriage."

Meg stared at him.

Then she burst out laughing.

Gerald looked miserable.

"I know it sounds ridiculous."

"It sounds like the plot of a very bad television show."

"He has a toilet seat shaped like a seashell."

Meg stopped laughing.

"That's horrifying."

"He keeps it in the living room."

"Your sister needs help."

"Exactly!"

Meg considered him for a moment.

Then she stood up.

"Fine. Let's see what we can do."

She reached into her grocery bag and pulled out the cucumber.

Gerald frowned.

"What are you doing?"

"Improvising."

She placed the cucumber on the bench.

Then she tapped it twice with her finger.

Nothing happened.

She tapped it again.

Somewhere nearby, a dog barked.

A bicycle bell rang.

A small child dropped an ice cream.

Gerald looked disappointed.

"Perhaps it doesn't work anymore."

Meg shrugged.

"Maybe I need a sandwich."

She took the ham from her bag, placed it on the bread, and added a generous amount of mayonnaise.

Then she held it up.

"To Clive."

She took a bite.

At that exact moment, Gerald's phone rang.

He answered.

His face changed.

"What? No. What do you mean?"

Meg chewed.

Gerald listened.

Then he slowly lowered the phone.

"What happened?" Meg asked.

He stared at her.

"My sister just called."

"And?"

"Clive has decided to sell his toilet-seat collection."

Meg swallowed.

"Wonderful."

"He's using the money to buy her a house."

Meg smiled.

"See? Happy ending."

Gerald shook his head.

"No. You don't understand."

"What now?"

"He wants to open a museum."

Meg closed her eyes.

"Of course he does."

The following morning, Meg returned to the grocery store.

She bought bread, ham, mayonnaise, and a cucumber.

Outside, she found a small envelope tucked beneath her windshield wiper.

Inside was a note.

Dear Meg,

Thank you for helping my sister. She is very happy. Clive has agreed to limit his toilet-seat collection to twenty pieces and has promised not to display them in the bedroom.

I am leaving town for a while. I have decided to study unexplained coincidences professionally.

Also, I would like you to know that I am no longer following you.

Unless, of course, you happen to buy another sandwich.

Regards, Gerald.

Meg smiled and folded the note.

Then she noticed something on the back.

A small drawing of a chicken.

Underneath it were the words:

THE CHICKEN REMEMBERS.

Meg frowned.

"What the hell?"

A loud squawk came from behind her.

She turned.

Standing beside the shopping cart was a chicken wearing a tiny beige trench coat.

It stared at her.

Meg stared back.

The chicken slowly raised one wing and pointed at her sandwich.

Meg sighed.

"You're kidding."

The chicken clucked.

Then it began following her.

Meg looked up at the sky.

"Fine," she muttered. "But I'm not sharing my lunch."

The chicken clucked again.

And somewhere in the world, a man accidentally won a lifetime supply of custard.