"Nosy," or, My Brush With A Serial Killer

I'm pretty sure that I ran afoul of a serial killer this morning, and now I'm so terrified right down to my very core, I'm seriously considering taking the day off from work and bivouacking to the nearest bar for as many shots of Jack Daniels as it takes to quiet my shrieking nerves and calm my troubled mind.

Yep...

Okay, honestly, I'm not that scared; I'd just like to spend this particular Monday morning drinking in a bar. Which, granted, could be said for every Monday morning, but nonetheless. So, no, it wasn't technically a "terrifying" experience, the aforementioned run-in; it was really more of an, "Oooh, that's kind of freaky," sort of thing. Whatever. Even though I wasn't in any real danger or anything, the fact still remains that, on my subway ride into the city, I accidentally brushed up against a human being sculpted from the clay of pure evil; it's an experience I won't soon forget and it is unquestionably all my fault.

So, you know how I'm ridiculously self-involved and how everything has to be about me, all the time, even if it's, say, your father dying or a scientist in Oslo discovering a cure for diabetes? Yeah well, this personality quirk of mine (not a "flaw;" a "quirk") has many facets to its shape and, thus, it tends to rear its head in a variety of interesting and off-putting ways. One such symptom, one that's gotten me into trouble in the past and is now the source of my current problem, is that I am just ridiculously nosy.

If you're on the phone, I'll want to know who you're talking to.
If you're reading an email, I'll attempt to read it over your shoulder.
If you leave the room, I'll reflexively ask you where you're going.

Girlfriend will back me up on this; being in a relationship with yours truly is basically a menage a trois between me, you and my ego, and part of that consists of being hounded all the time about what are you doing, what's going on, who was that guy, why are crying, and why exactly aren't you paying attention to me right now?

Sorry ladies... I'm taken.

Anyway, knowing this, it should come as no surprise that when someone on a subway takes out a packet of pictures, fresh from the drug store, and begins flipping through them, it's only natural that I'm going to attempt to have myself a look-see. And it's not that I'm all that interested in some random dude's family photos or whatever; it's more that I just want to know. Regardless of the content, if I didn't try to sneak a peek, it'd itch at me all day for no real reason and I just can't have that. Also, there's a relatively minor chance that the pictures in question might have boobies in them, so, you know... wouldn't want to miss out on that unlikely-yet-tantalizing possibility.

Which brings us to this morning; a guy takes out a packet of pictures on the train and begins to flip through them. I see this and think, "Ah, let's see what's going on here." So, using the usual hustle-n'-bustle of the workday commute to my advantage, I manage to sidle myself up next to the guy and I use my book as a prop, focusing my gaze just over the top of it so it looks like I'm reading, when in fact I'm actually trying to see into his "bizness." After a little adjustment of angles and a few moments of repositioning, I finally work it so I can see each picture perfectly as he flips through them.

They're all pictures of graves.

Some open, some not, a few marked with decrepit tombstones, a couple that appear to be freshly dug, and one or two that look old and untouched for centuries. Every single picture is of a different grave, and they don't appear to be plots in a respectable, well-maintained cemetery that's got paths on which you can drive your car and plenty of helpful staff that will assist you in finding the final resting place of a loved one. No, this was like the graveyard in Thriller. Spooky, full of menace and ripe with the stench of death (How can I get all of this from a photograph? I just can, that's how. Look, who's telling the story here?). A chill runs through me and suddenly, he stops flipping the pictures. My eyes move over to his face and I realize that he's staring right at me!!!

That's when I notice that he's an FBI template for a serial killer if ever there was one. He's middle-aged and a bit paunchy, with a meek mustache and a haircut so square and out-of-date, it's like he's a NASA employee circa 1965. He's wearing a short-sleeved plaid shirt, he's got pens in his front pocket, and, as his eyes meet mine, he's giving me a look that says, "You're messing with a guy who's very familiar with the sound a hacksaw makes against bone."

He quickly puts the pictures away as I avert my eyes. At the next stop, he gets off the train without looking back.

I'm left standing in the subway car, a little weirded out, yes, but more than anything, crippled with curiosity as to the meaning of all those pictures of graves. His handiwork? The places where all that cross him eventually end up? Or was he just a kind of creepy dude who likes to photograph scary old cemeteries?

I guess I'll never know, and you can imagine how much that irritates me.

NOTE: If you think I've learned a valuable lesson about being nosy and/or minding my own beeswax, then you are a very silly person who clearly hasn't a clue as to how deep this brand of mental illness I've got really is. I've learned nothing!!!