I'm someone that takes a lot of photos, and I mean a lot.

Most are of things others might just walk past, brushing them off as peculiar— like a sculpture of a crouching body with a giant tongue for a torso, planted on a pier sidewalk in East Boston.

Or a wall decal inside a stall of the women's bathroom in the Yale School of Art, narrating the potential experiences one might have while relieving oneself.

Or this cry for help disguised in the form of a flyer calling for small teacups...

We started at the corner of Prospect and Sachem Street and found our first Doug B sticker within minutes on a parking pole.

As we continued to walk north, the numbers only bloomed.

Some stickers even appeared in tight groups of two, three, four, and even five stickers, right next to one another, almost impossible to miss. (A snug cluster of three, pictured here)

Most of the stickers were legible, but on State Street they were different— peeled at the corners, faded, some torn down the middle. Many were almost gone, just residue left behind. We didn't know if someone had been removing them, or if they were just older than the rest. Either way, State Street felt like the edge of something.

Making our way further south, the numbers continued to multiply: on lampposts, telephone poles, electrical boxes, on the sides of crosswalk buttons, and just when we thought it couldn't get any more populated, we encountered the Court Street bridge. Every railing. One after another, all the way across, on both sides, filled with Doug B stickers.

By the end of the walk, we had counted 250. East Rock, Little Italy, Wooster. In just about three and a half hours, 250 stickers along a single afternoon's path. We found Doug B territory, but still no Doug B.

Even on the forums, Doug had already become something mythical. One user compared him to the Easter Bunny. Another warned, "important: if you are a democrat or liberal, keep it a secret or he will go crazy."

Buried in the same Reddit thread was my first clue, rumoring he frequents Willoughby's, a coffee shop in Branford.

So I called Willoughby's. They knew who he was, but he didn't sell there, and they weren't even sure if he was still active. They suggested I try calling Common Grounds.

Common Grounds claimed they had never heard of him— it was a short conversation. They hung up, and I was back at square one.

Another Facebook post mentioned that his candles were sold at Nuzzo's Farm, a wedding venue. I called, and they knew him, but emphasized they had no affiliation. Another dead end, and by this point, I could feel there was something nobody was telling me, a story or moment about our guy I just wasn't privy to yet.

The last rumor was the most specific: someone on Facebook had posted that Doug hangs around the Branford Stop & Shop around 9 p.m. I called the store, and they transferred me to the manager. She told me he was well known around there, but she just couldn't explain why. "You could try calling the Branford police for more information," she said.

I did not call the Branford police.

At last, towards the bottom of a Facebook forum, I found my most essential clue: Doug's number.