Spy Meets Spy

Posted by on Dec 9, 2012 in Blog, Featured | 2 comments

Spy Meets Spy

When I saw the man in the coat, I knew I had to follow him.

Something you should know about me is, I follow people. I’m not a PI or anything like that. I don’t have a reason for it. All I know is, I just do. I’d probably get in trouble if I ever got caught, but I haven’t. Yet.

Anyway, when I saw him, the first thing I thought was, Who the hell wears a fur coat in the middle of summer? A real fur coat, mind you, not some fake synthetic material. Who bothers with real fur these days? And he wasn’t a small man. At least a dozen foxes probably died so he could sweat his ass off in the Nevada summer.

So then I thought, gotta be a Russian spy. Someone connected with the mafia down in Vegas, maybe, looking to stake a claim up here in Reno, which is like Vegas’s skinny little redheaded stepbrother as far as casinos are concerned. ‘Course, he’d have to be crazy to think they could really get a foothold in; not with all the Indian gaming joints over the border in California.

Anyway, he was looking around all suspicious-like, swiveling his head left, then right, then walking half a block before stopping to adjust his ridiculous coat and repeating the whole process. Oh, and he had a big mustache and a stupid hat, too. Once, he stopped and pulled an honest-to-god hanky out of some pocket somewhere and mopped his face with it. I wondered why he didn’t just take off the coat.

That was when I decided to follow him. I had my phone with me and snapped a quick picture from behind for my scrapbook. Don’t ask me what I’m going to do with all these pictures. I haven’t figured it out yet. So I trailed him, staying about twenty feet behind at all times, trying to stay incognito. I was positive he hadn’t seen me. There were a lot of people around, anyway; it was a Saturday afternoon in downtown Reno and there were plenty of tourists milling around. But, he didn’t go into any of the casinos like I’d expected. Passed Circus Circus without a second glance, ignored Harrah’s, just kept on walking, dodging around glassy-eyed gambling junkies and chattering tourists as he went.

Then he crossed the pedestrian bridge over the Truckee River and went into Wingfield Park, which is on an island in the middle of the river.

I stopped. Something was weird. Then I realized: it was like the world had gone silent. I could hear the city noises, across the bridge, but the park was empty, and it should have been full of tourists and picnickers and people having lunch and whatnot.

But the guy in the fur coat was still walking, so I busted a quick jog to catch up. I stayed further behind this time, though. Without anyone around, if he turned, he’d have no trouble noticing me at all.

I was getting this weird feeling that I wasn’t supposed to have noticed him.

But I had. So I kept going. His steps slowed, so I hid as much of myself as I could behind a tree and peered out. There was some kind of shed in the middle of the park, like a gardener’s tool shed, big enough for a lawnmower and some rakes but not much else. I crept closer; found a better tree to hide behind.

The man in the fur coat walked up to the shed and pulled a key ring out of his pocket. There must have been at least thirty keys on this thing; I mean it was huge. But somehow he zeroed in on the right one immediately and fit it into the padlock.

The Shed of the Angry Cube

CC licensed photo by Flickr user Tom T

Listen: it was a plain old toolshed. I will swear that to you up and down. And I don’t know what I expected when that door creaked open, but what I saw wasn’t it.

What I saw was…Something. I don’t know what it was for, but it was a humongous cube. Made of wood—scraps, it looked like. And it looked way too big to fit inside that shed, like the inside of the shed was bigger than the outside, which is impossible. And it was just…balancing there, on its edge, even though that was impossible, too—it was sitting on one corner, but it wasn’t falling or anything.

The man in the fur coat stepped inside the shed. There was a flash of light, and then he was gone. So was the cube.

I went up to the shed. Except for a wheelbarrow and a gas-powered leaf blower, it was empty. Not a scrap of wood to be seen. All I have is the picture to remind me I’m not crazy.

But maybe the strangest part was, I knew right then that I’d see the man in the fur coat again someday. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will. And if I’ve got anything to say about it, I’ll have my camera then, too.


  1. Beware of men in furs, that’s all I gotta tell you. Beware…
    Funny how we both ended this week with a “but maybe next time…” sort of vibe.

  2. That was me cheating…I had no idea where this was going.

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