Trish Smith

Stalkers come in all shapes and sizes. Well, mine do at least.

There was the coworker when I was in high school who followed me home to make sure I was all right every night. ("Untamed Heart" anyone?) He also spray-painted my name on the door of the school's locker room and chased after my car a number of times. I think when he brought the unloaded gun to work to "just scare" my boyfriend, I realized just how serious his infatuation was. Restraining orders are fun.

One of my favorites was the one who wrote me love letters for months, but in Spanish, with crayons on construction paper. The sentiments were sweet and there was always a pretty flower or an extended voicemail to show just how deep this love was. My boyfriend at the time didn't think it was too sweet though.

Then there was the classic voyeur. He would sit outside my window, waiting for me to get home to make sure I was alone, and then watch me as I slept. I only learned about all this later when he was arrested in the alley behind my apartment for relieving himself in public and had to explain why he was there. He told the cops he was watching me. Idiot.

Extreme guys like that are easy to write off. The worst kind of stalker though is the guy you actually liked. Someone you were involved with who took a different path in the relationship and couldn't let go. Their actions are more subtle. They make you second-guess yourself; maybe there's something wrong with you and this guy just really likes you.

While having a drink after work one night last summer at the local dive, the bartender offers me a shot. "It's from him," she says, nodding towards a cute, quiet soul a few stools down. "A shot? Sure, how about some Jameson?" "Irish whiskey," the cute guy says, "my kind of girl." We "cheers" to a handful of golden shots and smile into the night.

Disoriented, I wake up, half-clothed, with my phone alarm buzzing in my ears. I grab the other half of my garments and the remains of my purse as I stagger to the door. "I'll call you," a voice from under a pillow mutters. "Okay, bye," I mumble hurrying out the door.

Collecting myself within the cab, I relax for moment, until my phone yelps an excited tone. "New text message." Who's this? "Can't wait to see you again. It's been a pleasure." The number is local but unfamiliar. It must be him. A little odd, but sweet. I must have given him my number.

I start to like this character and enjoy seeing him. He makes me feel good about myself, yet after awhile I realize he doesn't feel good about himself. I become disinterested, weary and unfulfilled. After a few months of dating, I end it.

After work one night, I see him across a bar. "Hi, I can't believe I ran into you again? We seem to like all the same after-work joints. My kind of girl," he says as he gives me a big hug. Yes, he works downtown too. Must be a coincidence. Be nice. This is the third time this week, though, at three different bars--and what's up with the text-message poetry he's sending me?

Our conversations usually started out great, then would turn into therapy sessions. "I hate my life. I don't have any friends. You are the only one that I can call." This guy is not threatening, just pathetic.

At the bar where I met him, the owner asks, "What's up with him and you? It's pretty heavy, huh?" Apparently a few months of hooking up, several subsequent months of "coincidences" and countless unanswered "private" phone calls make for a serious relationship. "Oh, it's serious," I mumble as I quietly listen to an endless account of the garbage he's been dishing out to everyone but me. The door chimes as a new customer enters. Look who it is. "Funny to see you here." Yeah, real funny.

Once you are forced to deal with someone that you'd rather not on a regular basis, it's almost like you become numb. You strive to avoid confrontation and just get through it. The "random" run-ins, thirty phone calls a day and even the tears don't phase you. You just turn off.

As I turn the key to my front door after a long day, I hear tires squeak to halt. "Hi. Just riding my bike around the neighborhood. How was your day?" I open the door and just walk upstairs. The phone starts ringing. Turn it off. The buzzer starts. I disconnect it. Then come the rocks at my bedroom window. I sleep on the couch.

A few months later, my guard is down and I end up back at his place to try to reason with him. When I try to leave, realizing this was a bad idea, something snaps. "If you leave, I will kill myself." That's a new one.

Hours of conversation and a pack of smokes later, something strange happens. I realize I don't care what he says, or how he's feeling or about all the shit he's going through. What about me? This charade has taken up a year of my life. I don't even remember how it all started. He's not going to kill himself. He's playing his last cards all wrong, and I'm calling the bluff.

As I attempt to leave, he grabs my arm tightly. "You can't leave!" "Yes, I can."

People like him need reaction. They may not necessarily be obsessed with you but when you care and react, it's the fuel that feeds their fire. I sometimes feel his presence around and receive a phone call, but try to brush it off. Hopefully he's moved on to some other tolerant soul, or better yet got his life together.

While having some drinks with friends after work, the bartender catches my attention as she sits down an empty shot glass in front of me. "I'll have Jameson." "It's from him." A baby-face stranger smiles at me from across the bar. "My kind of girl," he hollers back. On second thought...

(2005-07-26)

Also by Trish Smith

Step right up
Near the "Fun Time" stage in the Family Village at the Taste of Chicago, a local opportunist wearing a Fisher-Price shirt approaches
(2005-07-05)

Tip of the Week
With all the eighties reminiscence lately, it's no surprise that Chicago's summer-project band, the Power-Ups, have been such a hit the last few year
(2005-06-22)

Fiction Frenzy
Confused conventioneers wander around Rosemont's Ramada Inn in search of a Travolta, a Royale with cheese, or maybe even an adrenaline shot, yet stumble instead upon a whimsical world of tough guys, dames, heroes and horrors
(2005-04-26)

Navy Cheer
Navy Pier is more cheerful than normal today. Much more cheerful than normal
(2005-04-12)

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