Albert Johnson's appearance would have delighted a bank robber. His plain face, medium build, and gray clothes were not memorable in any way--a blank slate that encouraged mental doodling: a mustache here, ah ... a briar pipe there, hmmm, better. A fact which suited Albert just fine.
He, however, had one unusual feature: a tattoo. On his right shoulder, about the size of a child's thumbnail, was an exotic butterfly--emerald eyes on azure wings. It seemed an anomaly, a flamboyant expression of soul. But, then, no one ever saw it--except Albert.
He was forty-six and lived in a plain flat that reflected his desire for anonymity. He had never married, never had a sexual experience of any kind with another person. Sometimes in his dreams, he felt a flicker of lust, stimulated by the recurring image of a storefront mannikin wearing an old, faded red dress.
Albert understood the difference between fantasy and reality; he felt the difference between love and hate. But the real world that mattered to him was narrowly defined: Lady. Albert cared for Lady.
"Are you hungry, Lady?" Albert asked, sprinkling food into the solarium dish. He searched for the little chameleon. She was hiding, blending into the miniature world of brown sand, blue rocks, and green plants.
"Where are you?"
A tongue flicked from the shadow of a rock. Lady moved into focus, heading for the food dish. She ate.
Albert watch enviously. The chameleon's skin tone matched the sand around the food dish. The invisible lady, he thought, an evolutionary marvel. The ultimate camouflage, an escape from a hostile world.
"If I could only be like you, Lady," Albert sighed, shaking the impossible dream from his head. "That's a good girl," he cooed to his pet as she finished eating. Lady disappeared into the green background of plants.
Buzzzz. The alarm.
Albert shuddered, then pushed in the alarm button, hoping the clock had malfunctioned. No, it read 11:00. He set it to remind himself when it was time to leave the flat for work. He was a senior programmer at Technical Systems on the night shift which had less people, less involvement.
Slipping on his gray windbreaker, Albert left the flat. He paused on the steps of his apartment building, smelling and tasting the fog in the night air. It was cool, clean. If he had to leave the flat, Albert preferred the dark cover of night to the exposure of day. And he liked foggy nights best. The night noises always seemed clearer in the mist, only the sources hidden. He smiled to himself and hurried down the steps.
Living in the middle of the Tenderloin, Albert started walking across town on Leavenworth Street, his steps echoing from store fronts, some boarded up, the remainder barred. He passed a pawn shop offering big money for coins, a pin-ball parlour with dancing lights, a sour-smelling noisy bar, and a quiet X-rated book store. Albert had never been in the bookstore.
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