An Uncovered Gem

On December 26th, 2008, my fiancée Lydia and I drove to Madison, Wisconsin, to spend the day with my mom and fake dad. Fake dad had been doing some winter cleaning and came across an old floppy disc of mine, God knows from where. He said it contained a word document titled "Psycho," that he had opened it and it looked like a story. I nearly shit a brick. I knew exactly what he was talking about, and was exceedingly excited as I had long thought the physical copy of the tale had been as long lost as the mental version in my muddled mind.

In 1996, I was attending college at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, and tending bar at both Benjamin Briggs Pub & Grill (no longer in existence) and the restaurant Pieces of Eight (hilariously no longer in existence; they remodeled, re-invested, and were kicked off their property by the city). Back then, the internet was in its infancy, and email was foreign to most people. Texting didn't exist and public phones were still prevalent, as cell phones were not. The Fox network was still considered a rebellious challenge to the big three networks, and computers used floppy discs to store mobile files (that my mom and fake dad have a system that still accepts floppies tells you how often they update their technology). While modernization has changed the way we look at email and phone use, some things remain the same; not only do I still use the same email address I did back then, but writing out the tale I used a young rising star named Jennifer Aniston as an example of a sex symbol. Twelve years later, I'd probably do the same thing, only now I'd have to add and asterisk to her name and footnote that being involved with John Mayer has given her the same untouchable status as a leper. Some people you want nothing to do with after they make such poor life choices.

(Another amusing note is that this all got started due to what is essentially known today as "Forwarding." Back then, it was amusing to receive a chain email letter. Today, not so much so)

To date, I have had two stalkers in my life, and both instances occurred around somewhere during this period of the nineties. One was an Asian exchange student, someone who had bumped into me while tending bar at a restaurant called Nancy's (thankfully no longer in existence), and the other was a woman from South Dakota. Someday I'll sit down and do my best to recall what happened involving the Asian sensation, but the story "Psycho" was a re-telling of the tale involving the midwestern woman. Back then, in the days before blogging, I would write several long letters a year about my life, then print up and mail them (at a decent expense) to friends around the country who may or may not have been interested in receiving such shit.

I re-post the tale of my second stalker here, written in 1996, with only her name changed. When I first wrote and mailed it out, I used her real name, but I don't think there's any reason to do such a thing today when posting for public consumption to the web.



It started innocently enough. Then again, I suppose it always does, doesn’t it? A friend of mine in Boston, Pete, has a mailing list on his computer. Not a standard mailing list of addresses, but one of those Internet e-mail deals you’ve probably heard so much about. I am on this list, so is she. “She,” is Julia, a thirty-year-old grad. student in South Dakota. This is our story.

Pete's list has a theme to it: humor. If you happen across something amusing, such as a joke or story, you electronically send it in and he zaps to the people on file. One day I decided to offer a story I had written about Pete and I and our contributions to the Sperm Bank of Boston. The story was quite well received; I got many compliments from strangers. Julia was one of the complimenters. Trying to be considerate, I sent “Thank Yous” to anyone who wrote. Julia replied to the thank you, and a dialog was started.

Common interest came by way of "The Tick," a Saturday morning cartoon show. Living in South Dakota, though, prevented her from watching the program as no Fox affiliate existed; South Dakota ranks somewhere behind most Third World countries in this case. I was taping the show on a regular basis and offered to send her a copy. She was ecstatic. I was amused. We began emailing one another daily, and my eyebrow raised itself in curiosity; could this be one of those “Internet Romances” popping up across the country the media was raving about? I sent the tape, and with that she got my physical address.

Two weeks later I received a female condom in the mail. An odd thank you, as our interactions had never been anything more than friendly. Though we got along easily, we never discussed any sort of sexual attraction, and had never even exchanged photos. Regardless, a note was attached to the condom, “Save this, I’m coming to visit.” In my imagination, I figured that should this woman happen to look like Jennifer Aniston, I would be in heaven. No dummy I, I did not believe fortune would smile upon me so and became cautious. I asked Pete if I should be afraid. The single word reply was, “Yes.”

Julia asked for a picture. Playing off Pete's chillingly brief warning, I sent a photo of me skydiving. My head was bowed and the helmet covered my face. It gave no indication of my looks and was half joke, half identity protection. Julie emailed me that she loved the picture and hung it in the middle of the living room she shared with four other roommates. They told her I was “something special,” which alarmed me more than Pete's warning. Not only had I no idea how I was being described to warrant such a compliment, but I hadn't really told anyone about her, because there was nothing to tell. Meanwhile, I was common knowledge to her friends? Creepy.

The condom was followed by a string of erotic messages left in my e-mail account, each more graphic than the previous. They began to detail what she wanted to do to me and how it was going to be “the best night of my life.” Though several weeks had passed since I sent my picture, the favor had not yet been returned, a definite cause for alarm.

The volume with which I responded to her mail decreased by half. Where to this point I had always dropped a decent reply to each message, I now began sending short notes to roughly every third one. A detailed account of actions she was going to perform on my body would receive, “Just got home from work, got your letter, am too tired to write” in response. She used my backing off to double her efforts, sending two or three letters a day. Some would be violently angry, decrying her life and position in it, then do the most bizarre switch into how I would rescue her from her mundane existence. "I hate my job! Everyone I work with is stupid! I need a vacation. Can you perform oral sex for hours on end?” is a direct quote.

I was told my picture was masturbation material and received a second package in my physical mailbox. Nothing sexual this time, thankfully, but instead several small, odd, gifts. According to the accompanying note, she thought of me when she saw each item and decided to buy and send them. One trinket was a bizarre looking plastic mug shaped like a cartoon vampire, another was a Frankenstein refrigerator magnet. As I didn't have a particular affection for old horror movies and had never hinted to her I might, why these reminded her of me I do not know.

I decided I needed to stop being a pussy and just get everything out on the table. Where was she going with all of this, what did she look like, and what did she think we had going on? Her reply was hesitatingly honest, and I felt somewhat ashamed. “I am a little self-conscious because I am surrounded by women who eat red meat all the time and never exercise," she wrote. "It wears off on me and makes me lazy." At the end of the note, she dropped a mini-bomb; "By the way, I'll be visiting friends in Wisconsin in two weeks, and on December 28th we're going to road-trip to Milwaukee to meet you. You better be home, or else..."

The "or else" was probably meant playfully, but my reaction was immediately opposite; I told her was going to be out of town. There was a photography exhibit at the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art I wanted to see--by Andres Serrano--and several friends and I had plans to spend several days visiting the windy city.

She was furious. “ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER BASTARD SHITBAG ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER” was left in my inbox the very next day. “I AM COMING TO MEET YOU WHETHER OR NOT YOU WANT ME TO, SO YOU BETTER FIND TIME FOR ME TO DO SO BEFORE SUNDAY!”

Her "How to Win Friends and Influence People" response sealed the near-contracted deal for me. I told her my schedule was full and that there was nothing I could do about it. I received another thrashing. I also received and oddly timed surprise. On the same day her second email of vitriol and spite found its way into my email inbox, my physical mailbox received an envelope from her, something obviously mailed before I told her I wouldn't be around for her arrival. Gathering up great courage, Julia had finally sent her picture, along with the note, “Just wanted to send something so you’d know who was knocking at your door when I come.”

The picture was simply her face, which was enough. As cruel as it sounds, it is a face that created the phrase, "only a mother could love." I probably gave Homer Simpson's fear bleat upon gazing upon it. As much as I knew I was dealing with an easily wounded ego, I was also concerned with the tone of her emails and entirely sure I didn't want to end up in a room alone with her.

Two weeks passed quickly, with Julia continuing to insist she was going to meet me no matter what. My plans to visit Chicago fell apart, and I couldn't think of a thing to do for the weekend. In the least, I figured I just wouldn't answer my door if at home on Thursday.

As if on cue, at one o’clock that very afternoon, I was home alone, sitting in my room reading when the door buzzer went off. Someone was in the lobby looking to get in. I closed the book and frowned; no one ever buzzed my apartment. The door buzzed again--I got up cautiously--the door buzzed. I decided against answering, and instead walked into the living room and sat down behind a plant next to the window. From this vantage point I could see the front porch; the apartment was on the first floor, and when the person left I would know who it was. If friend, I would knock on the window, bid them back and explain my childish behavior. If foe...

The door buzzed. Two minutes had passed since the first sounding. This person was persistent. I remained seated. Two more minutes passed filled with intermittent buzzing. I was now irritated. When phoning, how many rings do you wait before deciding someone isn’t home? Twenty? Fifty? This was absurd. What was running through this person's mind, “Maybe someone’s home, but in the shower. if I keep ringing, they’ll get out and come to the door?” I have no idea.

After six minutes the front door opened. My mystery woman from South Dakota stepped out, shook her head, and walked away. As cruel as it is to say, her description of being "lazy" told half the story; she was roughly 5'4" and topped 200 pounds easily. I could see where the self-esteem problem came from, but the aggression that went with it is what had me on edge. I went back to my room and resumed reading. Moments later the door buzzer went off and was held for ten seconds. While not a long time in most cases, when listening to a door buzzer it is an eternity. I closed the book and wondered; had she somehow seen me step away from the window? Three short bursts filled the air, followed by silence. I began reading again and eventually went to work undisturbed.

This action repeated itself several times a day over the next few days, all the way until December 31st. On that evening, I went to work as usual, and it being New Years Eve my first call of order was to get as much stock ready as possible. The reservation book was full, and we expected to go through liquor like mad. I was in back of the restaurant grabbing bottles when the word came; “Nate, there’s someone here to see you.” My mind went on red alert. Never before had words spoken so innocently filled me with dread. Had I ever told this woman where I worked? Sometime in the beginning of our correspondence? She often referred to my early mailings, so I suspected she saved them. This was not good.

“Who is it?” I asked.

The hostess didn’t know.

“I’m busy,” I said flatly and went back to stocking.

She shrugged. Five minutes later my partner bartender came back; “Nate, your sister stopped by and dropped off some things for you.” I thumped my head against the wall. I was now officially paranoid.

That night I worked, went out with co-workers, and finally returned home and got to bed around six am. At nine my alarm went off; I was driving to Oshkosh for the day to visit a friend. I got up from my nighttime “nap” and called him, checking to make sure he was awake and such. The door buzzer went off in the middle of our brief conversation. I excused myself from the phone and hung up. Something didn’t feel right.

I took my seat by the window and waited. The door buzzer sounded repeatedly over three minutes, then paused. Moments later, I heard my neighbor’s door open; the lobby security door soon followed suit. Two seconds later the other apartment door closed and a knock came upon mine. This was not a knock used to wake a person on New Years Morning, but a cautious one, almost too quiet to be effective. It was repeated several times over the minute it took me to gently tiptoe across my creaky living room floor to reach the door. Once there, I looked through the peephole.

As sunlight was pouring into the inner lobby behind the figure, all I could see was a dark silhouette. It was very large. I couldn’t be 100% positive, but who else could it be? I stood bent over, watching every move, listening to every knock resound a mere inch from my head. My breathing was light. The figure leaned over. It looked into the peephole from the outside. We were now watching each other separated only by two inches of wood. I had to fight back laughter over the absurdity of the situation.

Then the doorknob turned.

Slowly.

Methodically.

Quietly.


This wasn’t a person casually entering a room. Someone was testing waters here, putting their big toe in to check for warmth. The knob reached its crescent and paused. Gentle pressure was applied; the door creaked in my ear. Someone wanted in. The door moved a millimeter, was halted by the lock, held in place a moment, then relaxed. I returned to the peephole.

The figure stood with slumped shoulders; a defeated pose. Its head looked up and to the side, as if in thought. It retreated into the light. Julia looked out the lobby door, back at the apartment, and left. I got dressed in twenty seconds and left out the back, un-showered and unconcerned by that stinky fact.

At 10:32 pm I returned to my apartment; it had been a good day. At 10:35 the door buzzer fired. Fortunately, I do not light the entire apartment when entering. I had walked in, gone to my room, and flipped only that switch on. This cannot be seen from the front of the building, which meant there was no sign of life in the apartment. I stole to my window seat in the darkness. The buzzer rang again. A minute later, my now nemesis left; her waits were growing dramatically shorter. I sat wondering how many times she had repeated this action throughout the day.

The next morning I woke around eight and lay in bed until eight thirty. I heard the phone ring and my roommate Jack rushed for it in a panic as he always did. Something about a ringing phone made Jack trip over himself to answer it, as if one day he would receive the winning lottery call from a beautiful nymphomaniac waiting to give him great sex with his million dollars. Regardless, Jack answered the phone, and moments later, there was a knock at my bedroom door.

“Hey,” he said, a look of caution on his face. “The phone’s for you. Some woman I don’t recognize. Should I say you aren’t home?” Jack knew the situation. How could he not? My South Dakota stalker had been buzzing our door for five days now.

I thought it over. It was Tuesday. Julia had mentioned she needed to be back in South Dakota this very morning. She left so quickly last night it looked like a last ditch effort.

“Nah,” I replied. I had never sent my number anyway, and I wasn't listed. “I’ll see who it is.”

“You sure? I’ll run interference for you.”

I waved him off, which I'll call an early morning "not thinking yet" mistake.

I grabbed the phone.

“Hello,” I stated.

“Is this Nate?”

I didn’t recognize the voice, and therefore knew exactly who it belonged to. Was I fucking retarded for taking the call? Jesus.

“Yup.”

“Do you know who this is?”

There was giddiness in her tone.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.” I said flatly, suggesting this was not interesting to me.

“Ok, well, I’m coming over now.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I’m right around the corner on a pay phone, so don’t even try to get away. I’ll only stay for a minute, there’s something I want to give you.”

I paused. This would be difficult to get out of. Even if I hung up, she knew I was home. I decided she was NOT getting into my apartment. I’d meet her in the lobby.

“Whatever.”

“Ok, great, see you in a minute.”

She hung up. I shook my head. This would all be over soon.

Why hadn’t I let Jack tell the person I wasn't home?

The apartment door soon emitted a knock; the lobby must have been unlocked.

Great.

I walked into the next room and answered it.

There she stood, Julia in all her glory.

She was smiling. I frowned and gave a squint of irritation in greeting.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING!!” She shouted, raising her hand in alarm. “DON’T SAY ANYTHING!! I don't want to ruin the moment!”


Ruin the moment?

She put forth her hand, in it was a small Tick figurine.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING! Just take it... NO! DON’T SAY ANYTHING! Don’t ruin the moment... just stand there with my gift. My gift to you...”

I held out my hand, confused more than irritated, accepted the action figure, and watched as she clasped her hands together as if showing the joy of a child.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING!"

This seemed to be all she could get out.

“I’m going now... I just wanted to meet you and give you that.”

She waved and moved away from the door.

I stood silently, unable to say anything even had I wanted to.

She left.

I closed the door.

What the hell had just happened?

That’s where it ends. Julia never emailed me again, and I had had enough of the anger and erotic pushing from her to reach out to her in either friendship or otherwise. I asked Pete about her once, and he had little to say, so I let it go. The only thing that remained to be explained was her phone call, which Jack had a theory about. I cannot prove or disprove it, and I can’t say that I disagree with his thoughts. Jack said she called two minutes after he walked in the front door that morning. This is the amount of time it would take a person to get to the pay phone around the corner if standing in front of our building. Was she watching? Standing in the cold or sitting in her car, waiting for someone to enter the apartment? Jack was roughly my height and we both had dark hair, so from a distance…

Either way, the phone was in Jack’s name. She must have looked him up after not finding my lovely moniker in the white pages and grabbing his off the mailbox in the lobby. Not much Sherlock Holmes action needed to figure that one out.

So, as Vonnegut wrote, it goes...