Or maybe I'm hiding an important historical document in the satchel slung over the chair across from me that contains a map to a cache of hidden treasure kept in the little known catacombs underneath the State Capitol building just up the street from where I sit (though of course, my breakneck journey will take me to all kinds of strange locations and will introduce me to an incredibly old but extremely wise man who once worked for the CIA). Or maybe I'm on the run from a deadly assassin who's trying to recover a duffle bag full of drug money I stumbled across in the desert.
And then it dawns on me. This is why we love suspense stories and movies so much: it makes us feel special, different, set-off from everyone else. For us hunted ones, jobs no longer matter, we don't worry about missing our bus (or about our stolen bikes), we don't ever have to stop to use the bathroom, and it's acceptable if we go a day or two without showering. We look around the room at the coffee shop where we sit--to catch a breather and get off the street (and away from those meddling cops), maybe to change our clothes--and know that we have a secret that no one else knows about, except for our goofy friend (who provides comedic relief and keeps us grounded through what otherwise could be an overwhelming experience) and the attractive ex-government worker who somehow feels drawn to our brokenness, our shaky and broken personal history. Everyone else is reading the paper or bickering on their cellphones or worried about their exam in Psychology, but not us. We're on the run.
Being on the run embroiled in some plot that will resolve itself in a tidy two hour and fifteen minute film, has all the charms of life that make it worth living: you can dress up in costume, you forget about saving money for tomorrow because, frankly, if the bad guys have their way, there won't be a tomorrow. You get to eat every meal in a dinner and say very cool things like, "I will take this secret to the grave" and "I don't care what happens, Mary. I promised my mother I would do this for her, and I will." You get to stay in a new motel room every night.
In suspense thrillers, no one has ever stubbed her toe. No one has ever picked up dry-cleaning unless the blazer she was picking up had a clue left in its pocket. No one has ever gotten her period. And sometimes, that's what we want from life: the simplicity of a singular task, however dangerous; the permission to let ourselves throw out social conventions and feel emotions like fear and love and excitement in their most raw forms. Sometimes that's all we want, though we know it's impossible. And eventually, the book has to end. We know that.
