The Not Always Invisible Man

a short story

By August Grayson

He had taken two cigarettes. He usually only took one. Nobody noticed one, but two . . . ? He was a little worried. So when he heard a twig break off in the distance he naturally thought they were coming for him. The bush was deep and dry. All around him was woods, nothing but trees, nothing-nut trees, monkey-no-climb, a short run of turpentine, even a guava berry or two and in this spot far enough from Smith Bay Road so he couldn’t hear the traffic, dense enough to block the glare of the tropical Atlantic just off the north shore of St. Thomas, just here where he went to smoke, he felt invisible. But not today. It was that other cigarette he took. He’d learned his lesson. You can’t be invisible when you felt guilty.

Again that sound this time the dry crush of footsteps through fallen leaves. That it wasn’t coming from the direction of the hotel where he helped out with maintenance most weekends didn’t make sense until he devised a scheme where they were having him surrounded. He threw the half-smoked cigarette to the ground. The second one in his shirt pocket felt like it was burning too, but he kept telling himself that was impossible. He wanted to touch it with his fingers but didn’t want to give himself away. The footsteps were getting closer.