shadow lurker
stalk`er n. (stôk er)
2. One who pursues stealthfully or observes (a person) persistently, especially out of obsession or derangement.
I was kinda disappointed to find out that my stalker was an overweight,
older bald guy. I’m not sure what I expected, but in retrospect, I guess
there aren’t many gorgeous twenty-something, bikini-clad redheads out there
following guys like me around. I guess stalkers are kinda like family –
you just kinda get stuck with one.
During college, I was working up to 40 hours a week as a waiter and I was on
the newspaper staff, on the archery team, and in the band for the basketball
team at the University of Texas. Between all the running around, and
general delirium from chronic lack of sleep, I guess I just didn’t notice
him. I was chewing through another busy semester, completely unaware that a
grown man knew my whereabouts at all times. It was shocking at first, of
course. By the time I started receiving the “admiration letters,” as he
called them, he already had my whole schedule down. He left notes for me in
my gym locker, at my apartment, at the school newspaper offices, and in one
of my classes. It was a sobering thought that this guy was better organized
at finding where I was going than I was.
It’s amazing how much a stalker can find out about you through digging
through your garbage. For example, my stalker probably saw wrappers from
Jack in the Box tacos on one weekend, followed by guilt-inspired containers
of Slim Fast the following week. I’m sure it seemed odd to find receipts
for Legos from Toys R’ Us and a Grad school-level Genetics textbook on the
same day. If he really admired me, he would have popped out of the shadows
at the grocery store to point out that I was buying cereal but was currently
low on milk, and saved me another trip.
My stalker never made any threatening gestures, like leaving death threats
or slashing the tires on my car. Instead, he was your gentle, respectful
stalker-type. His letters started “Dear Jeffery (How he knew the correct
spelling of my name is beyond me — my stepmom even spelled it wrong on my
Social Security card), I hope you don’t mind that I am writing you. I just
wanted to tell you how great I think you are.” As much of a clear violation
this was, and how eerie it was to have to look over your shoulder all the
time, I was lucky that he never became dangerous. That might be the
definition of the blind optimist: you find a creepy guy going through your
gym locker and leaving letters for you, but you stop to reflect on how
flattering it is.
I found myself referring to my stalker with distinction, like I was talking
about a butler. “My stalker left me a note today in my Botany book. What
did yours leave you? Oh yeah, I forgot, you don’t have one.”
One day I was walking to class and I had that being-followed feeling. I
stopped around a corner, and in the reflection of windows on the building
across the street I saw this guy break out of a walking stride to run to
catch up. I caught him at the corner and he jumped back, surprised. He was
red-faced and out of breath from his short sprint. He started to run but I
grabbed his shirt and pulled him back and said “Hey buddy, let’s have a
little chat.”
He started to explain that he’s been going through some personal stuff and
didn’t mean me any harm. I cut him off, reached in my bag and pulled out
one of his “admiration letters,” and showed it to him.
“Do you see right here where you misspelled ‘Forlorn’? Why on Earth would
that be spelled like the number four? Also, you’ve got its and it’s
confused all through this whole darn thing. And it isn’t even consistent.
Look, you have it both ways. I know you’re dying to stick that apostrophe
in there when you’re talking about the possessive, but those are the rules,
man. I see you’ve taken all the time to handwrite it on this flowery paper,
but I’d really rather that you use spellcheck. Do you have a pen? Here,
I’ll give you my email address.”
“Oh. I, uh. I have it already.”
“Of course you do. I appreciate all this attention, but you’re going to
have to bring your grammar and spelling up a notch. Otherwise, I’m halfway
through this thing, and no offense to you, but I’m like ‘Geez man, is my
stalker in high school or something?’ After I get hung up on a couple
misspellings, I’m all turned off and I’ve lost interest. Here, I made some
edits on the other letters.”
“No thanks, I.. I gotta go.”
And I never saw him again.
-