Men in Suits

Norman walked briskly through the terminal, gripping his briefcase with white knuckles. The importance of oneself, Norman thought, was defined by the limitations of one’s vision of themselves. Philosophical quips floating around in his head helped distract him from the men. He was being followed. He was always being followed. To notice, though, is to legitimize, to confirm, to allow them more space than they deserved. Everything is up to choice, if you thought about it; but just the same, nothing is. What is “power”? “Power” is nothing. “Power” is always an illusion, able to be molded to the extent in which the beholder allows it to be used. It’s just a construct, not real, and Norman was still able to be important and powerful without being known. In fact, he speculated that perhaps it was his greatest asset of all.

On the subway, he sat with perfect posture, keeping his face forward and ignoring the man he could clearly see slipping onto the train behind an elderly woman right before the doors closed. If they wanted to blend in, it was strange to wear the same eye-catching black suits. Maybe, though, the art of standing out was closely related to that of blending in. And in the grand scheme of things, humans are just a blip on the timeline. And who cares if life can get a little routine, a little mundane? Simplicity should be considered a blessing. Predictability is a priceless advantage that seems to go unaccounted for whenever desires are considered. Why? Did everyone think as deeply as Norman? No, of course not. Civilization wouldn’t be this unintelligent if that were the case. Stupid, stupid people with their brainless stares, clutching their absolutes, crushed by their manufactured fear. Their unnecessary anxiety creeps in, and suddenly it’s like everyone is the same. There is Norman, then there is Everyone, and then there are those unspeakable men in suits.

The walk home was quick and typical. Norman thought about measurement. He liked things that could not be measured. There was a place he’d been wanting to reach. Not somewhere physical. Not even something he could pin down, exactly, but then, what was that thing his father used to say? “To define is to limit.” Norman aspired to be limitless, and rudimentary definitions couldn’t get in the way of that now. He only wished he had a plan, or instructions, or a map to this place. How did he know it existed, even? What if the place he’d been working toward was not somewhere he could go? How does one shift their entire being toward some completely new, unfamiliar aspiration? Would he ever find something to be transfixed by as intently as he was by this place, this metaphorical land of freedom, an oasis of his own invention? Is satisfaction a sign of simplicity, of a lack of motivation, or is it a marker of true maturity? And this true maturity–is it an achievable thing, or is it just another unreachable goal? He certainly didn’t need another of those.

At home, the leftovers awaited him in the fridge pitifully. He hardly ate, and most of them ended up in the trash. Life was kind of like that. Timing really is everything, isn’t it? Perfectly good food can be thrown out just because he wasn’t hungry. And, in plenty of other homes, food probably unfit to eat is eaten anyway, because there isn’t any other option. Is he like that second example? Is there nothing else for these men to do other than follow him around? No, no, he shouldn’t think that way. To deserve something is simply a matter of opinion, and with the undeniable unpredictability of life, deserving something is irrelevant anyway. Plenty of people deserve things they never get, and others still don’t deserve the things they do get. But dwelling on these things was like life’s attempt to get him to lose his focus on what was important: the men. Or maybe the men weren’t important. Maybe, in thinking he’d outsmarted his own mind, he’d actually compromised himself. What then? There were only so many possibilities, and he couldn’t possibly conduct himself in a manner that kept him safe no matter what. Percentages were comforting, but never truly reliable. If these men would stop chasing after him, he could appreciate the world for what it was: an art gallery for the observant, essentially. A fine collection of the best of whatever people have to offer, and here he is, unable to truly enjoy any of it. What kind of perfect torture is that?

While Norman shaved, he thought about his razor. Such a dangerous thing, truly, but he used it safely, for good things. It was a good metaphor for society, he thought. There is nothing really forcing everyone to lead socially acceptable lives, to conform to cultural standards, to be presentable in public. Sure, some things could land someone in jail if they’re caught, but still the point remains. It seems the only thing holding up the construct that is social norms is the judgmental thoughts of those within them. The system supports the system. The system is self-sufficient and is powered within itself, and therefore is theoretically unbreakable, right? But there has to be a way. Some catalyst that could change everything. And right now, Norman imagined it to look like the man in the suit, staring into the mirror from somewhere behind him in the bathroom. It was only recently that they’d started inviting themselves into his home, but he continued to ignore them. Thus far he’d successfully avoided any eye contact or conversation, so their presence was unimportant anyway. They didn’t exist in the confines of his own world if he didn’t allow them to. The walls of his mind may be a complicated place to be, but at least it was safe, and his. One’s mind, after all, is their only true possession. An infiltration of his prized possession by the men in suits would be utterly unacceptable, and would inevitably lead to his demise–after all, without his mind, he was nothing. Or was it that? Was it his own mind that was leading him to this?

That’s when he felt it for the first time. An unexplainable yet undeniable presence of an unstoppable burning desire to speak to the man. Had he already let them in? He didn’t mean to, but perhaps it was bound to happen…and maybe…if he could just say something to them….

He spun around, but the man was gone. His new goal, now, would be perhaps even more difficult than it was to avoid them. Something in the back of his mind wondered if he’d ever had an original thought, or if he was just a tapestry of everyone he’d ever admired, resembled, or aspired to be. Were the men part of the tapestry too? He could imagine the tapestry, with its light muted shades of green and gray and all the colors he seemed to emulate, splattered with incongruous blots of black ink representing the men and the shadowlike presence they had, trailing behind him as some sort of inseparable entity.

He crossed the room, cautiously approaching the man in a suit sitting on his couch. Upon seeing a figure dart behind him somewhere in his peripheral, he spun, but scanning the room proved useless. And once he returned his gaze to his sofa, the man was gone. Norman couldn’t deny the defeated feeling he felt spreading through his bones like a wintery chill, but he couldn’t ignore the determination fueling him as a fire.

He marched toward the door, grabbing his jacket off of the coat rack without looking. He hardly heard the door slam behind him, like a spell of amnesia had overtaken him until he found himself on Main Street. The men were everywhere, amidst Everyone. It was all of them now: Norman, Everyone, and the men in suits.

The unmistakable midnight color caught his eye, and he couldn’t help himself from breaking out into a sprint, just barely aware of the bystanders whose shoulders he brushed as he passed.

He found himself in front of a shop, spinning around. So many people, people everywhere. Men in suits, everywhere. Inescapable but unreachable. His mind was being pulled apart by these men, these cursed and unstoppable men in suits.

Across the street, he noticed a woman in a red sweater and jeans. So plain, so ordinary-looking, and yet she felt like the first safe person he’d ever seen. He couldn’t explain it, or even understand it, so he looked away, back to the shop, and his reflection.

His back was now turned to the woman, making him unable to watch as she stared at the man. He was staring into the window of a suit shop, gazing at the reflection of what he might look like wearing the suit in the window. Everything was desolate, and she felt a strange fear, like he was the most unsettling person she’d ever seen. She couldn’t explain it, or even understand it, so she looked away, and continued down the vacant streets.