Portrait of a Stalker: The College Years
I greatly enjoyed recounting my tale of teenage stalking, so much so, that I'm going to let you in on a another episode. I mean with a title like "The Scaredy-cat Stalker" you're probably expecting some goods, right? Out of all the stories I could've chosen to tell you this time 'round, this may be the most disturbing. For some reason I became fixated on writing this particular one--maybe because it's my most recent no-holds-barred escapade. Honestly, I should be ashamed of myself since this was barely two years ago (this was originally written in '96). But what can you do? Some people are just crying out to be stalked! As I see it irrational crushes are like public domain. In my logic, one year after the stalking has ceased the story is for any and all to hear. Like I said, this may be a little unsettling--you may have explained away my last segment since I was young and dumb, but this time I was a full 21 and there was no excuse.
Let's hark back to the fall of 1993. It was the beginning of my senior year in college. On the first day I took it upon myself to survey the scene. It was the usual mix of hippies, poets, visionaries, and aging housewives looking for a new lease on life--just as I'd feared. I spied this runt of a guy--he wasn't super cute--kind of slouchy, plain, and dirty blonde, but he stood out. Obviously he hadn't clicked with anyone yet because he seemed a little nervous and appeared to be waiting for someone (I can spot a loner a mile away). He was unaffected by his surroundings and I figured he was meeting his girlfriend...or wife? (He came off a little older than the average student). There really wasn't anything more to it. He had struck me as the best of the bunch and I made a mental note to keep my eye out for him as he appeared to be a potential target. But after that initial moment I never gave him another thought.
Flash forward to the fourth quarter, spring of 1994. I'm on the verge of graduating and am working a couple hours a week as a teaching assistant for a first year printmaking class. Each quarter a new batch of freshman would take the class and the little guy I'd honed in on months earlier happened to be in the last bunch. I never got too involved with my teaching. Usually I'd just answer questions and do demos, but for some reason I started finding myself eager to get to class on time. instead of the dread I normally felt when 2:15, Friday rolled around, I began to be filled with a strange giddiness. It sort of became my mini-project to figure this mystery guy out.
The students rarely had an impact on me and I never got to know any of them well, but I decided to change this trend. I gathered that this guy's name was John (so simple and traditional--I loved that) and I overheard he was from a small town in Michigan (so was the guy I was living with at the time. I found this coincidence endearing). From then on I paid special attention to him, always eager to lend a helping hand or give positive feedback regarding his artwork. My ears were always open for any bits of info I could pick up. I heard he had a girlfriend who worked at Django Records and that they were buying a house together (How serious! My original hunch proved true). Hmm...he had a steady girlfriend and I had a long-term boyfriend--perfect for an innocent fixation. I saw even then that nothing would come of it, but I was swept up, nonetheless.
This is when I started to go into my information gathering phase. That's the way it usually goes at first, not speaking to them, figuring out their patterns, turning observation into a hobby. one of my friends at the time, Kristin, worked for the school and got me his schedule. I found out his birthday (4/2/70) a bad sign, Aries and Leos are too much fire to be more than friends. One of the perks of a tiny school is that people are ridiculously trusting. We had a series of mail folders in the hall with our names on them that just about any ol' freak could go through if they so desired (not at this point, but later, I put an adorable smiley face sticker next to his name. I didn't stick it on--just slipped it under the clear plastic. My logic was that if he removed it,
he didn't like me and vice versa). 
There was also a box at the front desk with an alphabetical series of 3x5 cards that listed student's names, addresses, phone numbers, and emergency contacts. Anyone could rifle through them and of course I took a peek or two.
I knew when his classes got out and would position myself accordingly. Luckily for me, underclassmen had strict schedules and seniors just worked on their theses whenever they pleased. I was able to show up between his classes and at lunchtime. I accidentally discovered that he took his lunches alone on the third floor terrace (that sounds more exotic than it really was. It was just this porch thing with some tables and benches that overlooked a Safeway) when one day Kristin forced me to go up there with her. That was my first tiny breakthrough and it almost made me puke.
We positioned ourselves on these benches next to John and I let her do all the talking (since she worked in the office everyone knew her). He was eating this gross looking sandwich that was oozing mustard and snacking on a tiny bag of Fritos (simple yet cute). They talked about school and some upcoming "performance" that he was involved with (scary). I was so utterly freaked out that I just kind of sat there smiling and chain smoking (real attractive--guys just love grinning idiots puffing on stogies). This wasn't any big deal, but it gave me a lead-in. After this I was able to say hi in the hall (like I couldn't before) and when we'd "accidentally" bump into each other we'd exchange a few pleasantries.
Once I saw John waiting for the bus and I kept circling the block, debating whether or not I should offer him a ride. I decided that if he caught my eye I'd stop, but after three times 'round I gave up. I realized how nutty I was getting. Then a couple days later I peeped out the third floor window and saw him sitting outside by himself as usual. I quietly snuck out there and pretended to read. Really I was staring intently at his back and giving him heavy-duty Leo vibes (I won't go into this, but I swear it works and has worked). He was either unperceptive or ignoring me because he didn't even flinch. When he started to get up I instantly became very engrossed in my book and pretended I hadn't seen him. it's hard to say if he was on to me at this point, but he had to think it mildly strange that I always managed to be wherever he was.
And if he didn't suspect me yet, he sure as hell did when I blurted out like an oaf, "I saw you waiting for the bus the other day, but I didn't stop because I didn't want you thinking I was a freak." Hello! I might as well have told him that I'd been chasing his punk ass around for the past month. He didn't act like it fazed him, he just said something to the effect of "I don't mind rides from people I know." I can't say if he was dumb or playing it cool. Sadly, I tend to say dumb because I've made similar blunders since and the guys never quite catch it either.
The time frame on this whole thing was shorter than it may seem. That's the strange nature of obsessions, they strike without warning and--boom--next thing you know you're hopelessly caught up in it. I can't recall exact dates, but I know that the class John was in started right before spring break and that at this point it was April. A month had barely passed. This is when I had a stroke-of-genius idea hit me. I won't get into the boring/gory/art-theory details, but my thesis was made up of this classroom/bedroom affair. I had this large portion of linoleum that I was screen printing fictional diary entries on (always obsessed with confessions) and had realized that I didn't want them all to be written by me and in my handwriting. My bright idea was to optionally assign a diary entry per person to the printmaking class. Of course I had an ulterior motive--getting John to expose some poignant part of himself (yeah, nice try). I brought in a bunch of blank pages torn out of diaries and explained that I wanted them to write as if they were teens (always obsessed with "babies"). Only a handful seemed eager to participate, but that was alright because there was only one that I looked forward to getting back.
A week passed and I still had no response from that damn John. I refreshed his memory and he claimed to have forgotten and that he'd lost his entry. I told him that I'd just give him another (but I didn't. I hate being pushy). The very next day I unexpectedly found his page in my mail folder. Clearly it had been written first in pencil and then gone over with a felt tip pen--this showed consideration and forethought. I admired this and was pleased. I know it wasn't even something worth getting worked up over. But he had made up some bit about a girl named Betsy and it was so hard to not substitute her name with Krista. Yes, I was being silly.
My big breakthrough came when the teacher of this class, Emily, went out of town and left me in charge of the class (Lord knows what she was thinking). Everyone saw it as an excuse to skip out after I took roll. It didn't bother me because this left only five hard-core students, including, John, the ever hard worker. Imagine the bliss of being practically alone with the object of your desire for three hours on a beautiful April day--I didn't think I was going to be able to stand it. I'm not even sure how it all started, but it quickly turned into one of those dream situations where you click with someone and end up feeling like you've been friends forever. I think the ball started rolling when my friend Dassi brought in this Fingerhut catalog. I've always had a spot in my heart for trashy catalogs and the name never ceased to amuse me. 
Everyone (all seven of us) started getting worked up over it and John kept coming over to look at pictures. Next thing I knew the conversation had dissolved into funny/dirty talk speculating on the nature of fingerhuts (God, I love tasteless innuendo). John, the reserved, quiet guy transformed into John, the crazy, giggly guy. I was in love. I discovered this grotesque little toilet brush holder, "Johnny Clown" and was thrilled to no end. My first attempt at solo teaching had turned into a raucous afternoon, replete with the stupid kind of banter that I'm a sucker for. I considered it a success. Sadly, all good things come to an end and 5:00 rolled around all too soon. After everyone left, Dassi confided, "He totally likes you." I thought, "Well, why wouldn't he like me?" But she replied, "No he likes you!" I blew it off, but secretly I was thinking the same thing.
Don't get me wrong, it wasn't as if after that point birds were singing and everything was hunky-dory. Things were pretty much the same, I'd still accost him between classes and the like. I knew I was in serious crush mode when I started waking up at 6:00 AM with ease (and my stomach in knots). I became insanely eager to spend all my waking moments at school. I'd get there first thing in the morning and stay 'til the wee hours. One of the positive side effects of this whole obsession was that I was getting a heck of a lot done on my thesis. (Normally I procrastinate and dilly-dally. Maybe John was a blessing in disguise.) My whole schedule revolved around him. Kristin would pick me up at 7:15 and we'd get coffee and drive by his house in an effort to get a peek at him leaving for school. We never actually saw him, and I considered waiting for his bus at a different stop (even though I lived nearer to two other routes). The timing proved to be a little too tricky, even for an experienced stalker like myself.
Deep down I knew what I was doing was evil. I was doing everything in my power to get John away fro his sweetheart (who he had never mentioned to me once) and meanwhile I was treating my boyfriend like yesterday's news. I wasn't behaving nicely and I really didn't care. I would always try and say things to get him to admit that he had a girlfriend. Maybe if he had just been up-front with me I would've mellowed out (nah, I doubt it). I enlisted Kristin to try and get the truth out of him, it was to the point that she feared he thought she was the one with the big fat crush on him. Anyway, she asked him how he was and he immediately started going on about how stressed he was because his girlfriend was buying a house (I knew it!) and they were moving that summer. As a test I asked him the same question later that day. He did say he was stressed, but didn't elaborate. I feigned concern, "Oh, you must be really bogged-down with finals." He just said, "No, not really." I tried again with, "Do you have any big plans this summer?" He had the gall to say "no(!)" and that he just needed to find a job. Then he proceeded to tell me how his parents pay for his tuition, rent, and groceries, and added that the only job he'd ever had was picking cherries. I almost shit myself. Part of me was sickened by all that business about his parents paying for everything (what a spoiled, privileged, little bastard) but the remark about cherry picking totally slayed me. I mean only I would be attracted to a grown man (24 at the time) whose only skill was harvesting off trees. Maybe this meant nothing, but it was clear to me that he had changed his story for my benefit and had once again conveniently omitted any mention of his girlfriend (who by the way, I'd been researching and keeping tabs on).
I knew her name was Sol (Sul Baek I learned later) and that she worked at a record store. For as long as I could remember only two females worked at Djangos: one scrawny and strawberry blonde, the other Asian with glasses. I swear they had to have been like 50 years old. They'd been working there through my Dale episodes (see S.C.S. #2) and that seemed like an eternity ago. I had the feeling she was the Asian one, who knows why. I mentioned my predicament to a friend from Vancouver and he knew exactly who I meant. He as able to add that she graduated from his high school the year before he started. He and I are the same age so that only made her 4-5 years older than me (and a year or two older than John. I hear that older women are hot stuff). I had everyone on the lookout. Emily (the teacher, in case you forgot) talked to this guy who worked at the local art store and somehow got on the subject of how he used to date the scarecrow-looking chick from Djangos (last I heard he was dating an old friend of my sister [this girl's currently *1998* a nanny for Patricia Arquette and Nicolas Cage]. He's in his 30's she's was a teen. What a baby-lover). But Sol was mentioned and Emily unearthed that she was "funny and an obnoxious smart-ass." Great, all I needed to hear was that John was all serious about someone with a similar personality to mine. It would've been easier to deal with if I thought she was completely different. at least I could console myself with the notion that I just wasn't his type.
I realize how nuts this all sounds, but it was too late to turn back at this pint. I still had some good sense in the back of my mind and I knew it wasn't going to work out. I just wanted some sort of concrete disapproval. if he wasn't going to talk about his girlfriend or make overt attempts to get me off his back then in my befuddled logic this meant he wanted me to keep chasing him. My little smiley face sticker still remained on his mail folder and I interpreted this as encouragement.
I still don't know if at this point he knew how much trouble he was in, but I had to act fast because there was only a month of school left. I was determined to make a lasting impression--and boy did I ever. just as some background, the school I attended was not terribly elective about who they admitted (they took me, duh) and it was near impossible to not graduate with an A. Graduation required a written thesis and the creation of a body off work that was graded by a committee of your choice. The pervading logic was to pick pushover teachers so you could get away without doing shit. Being the idiot that I am, I decided on this hard-ass stickler of a committee. See, I still adhered to that notion pounded into you in grade school that cheaters never prosper and that you learn by challenging yourself. Well, needless to say everyone passed their orals without a hitch except me. I'd spent months on this huge installation, painting and gluing linoleum, building a freestanding chalk-board from scratch (and subtly harassing a scrappy lad). Meanwhile, everyone was churning out these half-assed paintings about feelings (yes, I'm bitter). It was decided that what my thesis was lacking was a video element and that I had until Tuesday to shoot it and integrate it with the rest of my piece (this was Friday). It wasn't like I'd ever claimed to be a filmmaker or anything, so it goes without saying that I was panic-stricken and a tiny bit upset.
Now, what does a gal in a predicament like this do? That's right, she goes across the street and buys a huge jug of cheap wine. It was beautiful. I honestly don't think there's a lovelier sight than a girl crying and gulping vino out of a styrofoam cup at 11:00 AM. Normally this wouldn't have been a problem, it was perfectly acceptable behavior to pass out on the floor of your studio. But as luck would have it, it was Friday and I had to teach that damn class at 2:15!
The afternoon is a tad hazy, but I do remember that I was wearing this cute summer dress and that by the end of the day it was covered in printing ink. I barged into class talking a mile a minute. I'd like to think that one was aware of my mental state, but I'm afraid that it was all too obvious that minutes ago I'd been lying on the floor. I latched onto poor John Holdeman and became overzealous with my assisting. I was all, "Here! Let me help you with that!" and "No! It goes like this!" Completely pushy and loud (um, actually this sounds just like me when I'm sober). Someone found this bottle of water that had been sitting on the counter for months and I started insisting that John drink it. The whole class got involved and I was offering prizes to anyone who would drink it. They turned on me and John was egging me on. I was just being terrible and asking what my "reward" would be, in a not so subtle and innocent manner.
I mentioned earlier that there was this performance in the works. It was to take place that evening, Saturday, and Sunday. The whole concept of performance art just sounded horrible and I wasn't into it at all, except for the fact that he was involved. I thought it strange because he totally wasn't the typical "art type." He was so mild-mannered and unassuming, I just couldn't imagine him getting all naked on stage and doing whatever it is that crazy performance artists do. Anyhoo, I started going on about how I was going embarrassing him at his performance that night by sitting in the front row and being his one-woman cheering section. In a scary un-John-like way he quipped, "The only person who would be embarrassed by that would be you." Ouch, it finally hit me that I'd gone overboard, but I only half cared because I was having fun tormenting him.
At this point, Emily took me out in the hall, "God, you're really flirting with him." I was completely taken aback because I thought I was just goofing around (I don't even know how to flirt). For the first time I became scared of what he must think if she was picking up on it that easily. Surprisingly, Emily explained that she wasn't pointing this out in an effort to make me shut up. Quite the contrary, she thought the whole thing was amusing because from her vantage point it was obvious that he was getting off on my antics. He clearly enjoyed the attention and was equally guilty of flirty behavior. She just wanted to let me know that it just wasn't me. Whew, so I was acting like a lovelorn retard, but the growing consensus was that he was more than a little into me. Maybe I wasn't completely delusional this time.
After that nightmare I conked-out for a while. I woke and primed myself for the eagerly anticipated 11:00 performance of "Fear vs. Desire" (what a title). I was so scared because I knew it was going to suck. I hate it when someone you like does something creative, whether it be writing, visual art, singing, whatever. It just seems like nine times out of ten what they come up with is horrible and then no matter how great you thought they were your image is now shattered. Argh. The pressure. So, Kristin and I were milling around the lobby when I spotted her. Yes, it was Sol, and I was extraordinarily displeased. Sometimes I get in these moods where I angrily lose control and want to lash out at people (Hank beware) and this was one of those times. It's terribly small-minded and petty to tear apart a stranger just because you have a personal vendetta against them, but I've never claimed to be fair or rational. She wasn't super ugly or anything, but she was just so typical of every guy's girlfriend: smallish (squat), plain (forgettable), and sporting jeans, tee-shirt, and low-top Doc's--yawn. And you just knew that she was so proud of her retard boyfriend, the budding artiste. Frankly, it made me sick.
The performance was slightly less horrifying than I expected. All I really remember was that there were four students in coveralls doing these separate little bits. Thankfully, John's was the lowest-key. Um, it was this almost tolerable spoken-word thing using flashlights. It's o.k. if you want to laugh, I did. But he was so sweet and earnest that he nearly succeeded. The only memorable line was something about "meatloaf with plenty of ketchup on it." Huh?! Poetry about food? It made me smile though.
I didn't think that I'd quite wreaked enough havoc yet so I caused a mini-scene as we were leaving. That good-for-nothing, Sol, was waiting for him afterwards. I pretended to talk with a group of people, but was actually spying to see how well they interacted. Ooh, they were totally lovey. I mean they weren't engaged in P.D.A.'s (public displays of affection, duh) or anything (I wouldn't have stood for this), but you could just tell they were very into each other. After they left I followed a safe distance behind them. First they were walking side-by-side. Then I know he sensed I was behind them (I've been told that my voice carries) because they started holding hands all cute-like and swinging them. I completely lost it and started yelling, "Oh my God, they're holding hands!" more than a few times. They turned left up the street and I started running the opposite direction and didn't stop yammering until I reached Kristin's truck. I was simultaneously worked-up and dumbstruck. So much so that I couldn't go home. We had to go over to Dassi's so I could relay my unfortunate day and mellow out a little.
I swear, if he wasn't aware of my mania at this point then he was the most clueless guy on the face of the earth. It was just one relentless episode after another. The very next day I was at the public library with Dassi and my sister, Melissa. We were all hanging out at a table looking at books when I heard loudly and clearly from my sister, "Hey! There's your boyfriend!" Reflexively, my head jerked up to face you-know-who waltzing into the room (I like to pretend that he followed me there). The fucked-up thing was that Melissa had never even seen John in her entire life, she just thought he looked like my "dorky, mamma's boy type" and figured it would be a hoot to publicly humiliate me. I guess that's what sisters are for.
But despite all this nonsense, I can't stress enough that all my wacky behavior did nothing to make him shy away. He kept doing little things that I couldn't help but interpret as encouragement. During a class-time that I spent working in my studio instead of teaching, he kept walking past my partly opened door. A couple times he just glanced in, but upon a few walk-by's he looked in and grinned like a fiend. My heart couldn't help but melt.
The end had begun to draw near and nothing concrete had happened still. Concrete? I seriously don't think I even knew what I wanted. That's how it always is with stalking. What starts out as a fixation mutates so rapidly that you never have time to think or to evaluate what you were trying to achieve in the first place. All I knew was that there was this nice guy and that I was going to make him like me no matter what. I know that there are probably better ways of going about this, but I couldn't tell you what they are. This is the point when I realized I was a scaredy-cat stalker. It hit me when friends would speculate about what I wanted to do with John. I didn't think that I wanted to "do" anything, as crazy as this may seem. They were incredulous, "What do you mean? You're saying you don't want to make-out with him or fuck him. What do you want to do, just sit on a bench and talk?!" Well...I'd never even thought too hard about it. Yes, maybe I did just want to sit with him on a bench. The more I thought about it the more I realized that I just anted to be with him. No not "be with him" in the euphemistic sense. I just wanted to hang-out, go places, talk--I don't know--eat tiny fucking bags of Fritos together. You know, I think there's a word for people who do these things: friends. But that wasn't right enough or good enough either. I wanted to be something more. I still haven't figured out the nature of scaredy-catness. As I've said before, I'm not sure that after putting all this effort into "getting" someone that I would know what to do once I'd succeeded. It worries me, but I'm starting to think that I subconsciously (or God forbid, consciously) hone in on those who are unattainable.
The last week of school snuck up on me and I still had a few tricks left up my sleeve. I created a questionnaire (always obsessed with quizzes) that consisted of the single question, "You think that I'm:" with about twenty choices, some favorable and some not. A space was also provided at the bottom for comments and/or suggestions. [questionnaire to come] I dropped this into his mail folder on Wednesday, May 11, 1994 (two days before the end of school) along with a disgusting confessional note, and indicated that his response was to be returned to my folder. Nope, I just couldn't leave well enough alone. And though my solution may seem a little stupid, I just figured that if it back-fired it wasn't like I was going to be seeing him again anyway. Hey, I've always said that making a bad impression is better than not making one at all. Pussyfooting is taxing on the nerves.
I was sort of glad to have laid it all out, but the waiting was grueling. I kept verging on cardiac arrest and I think my stomach lining all but dissolved. Sleeping and concentrating became impossible. When I was at school all I could do was hide in my studio out of fear of bumping into him. I spent all Thursday fretting and by the end of the day my mail folder was still empty. The little bastard was prolonging my anxiety. Did he have any idea how much I was suffering?! I had hoped on an answer before I had to go to his last class because seniors had finished classes the week prior. I'd just been hovering around an extra week because...duh, you know why. But since I thrive on torment I was set on showing my face, note or no note.
Friday the 13th arrived (how appropriate), graduation day, last chance with the object of my obsession, the day of reckoning. I had to lay low until 2:15, maybe I should've just gone home. I popped my head out the door and the coast looked clear, but as I stepped out I heard, "Hi Krista!" from behind. Ooh, it was that disobedient John Holdeman walking past with a shit-eating grin on his face. I was so embarrassed, but a little hopeful. No, he still hadn't returned his quiz, but normally he didn't say hi first (and with such gusto).
I thought it best to wait until the entire class filed in, found seats, and started critiquing their artwork, so as to avoid any painful before class milling around. My best bet was to saunter in late, sit firmly on a stool as far away from John as possible, and avoid passing out at all costs. I had to sit there dead silent for over an hour trying to devise a last chance plan of action. Instead of offering my usual wonderful opinions and suggestions, I remained in a glassy-eyed stupor, trying not to catch John's glances. Peeking got the better of me eventually, and I was struck by the fact that he wasn't wearing his usual clothes. Instead of his uniform old Levi's, short-sleeved button up shirt, and dirty brown not-quite-hiking-boots, he had on these dark green Banana Republic pants I'd never seen before and little black boots. Big deal, I know, but it was a minutely different look and it had to signify something. He had to have done it on purpose. Who knows, maybe he just thought he'd break all the rules on the last day. Man, he was just that wild.
Unbelievably, I made it to break-time and everyone took off for their 15 minutes of freedom. I was nervously chomping on some Hershey kisses and trying very hard to concentrate on a student's book that Emily was showing me. This is when I realized that at some point John had come back in and was thumbing through a project on the table next to us. Sweet Jesus! I almost peed myself. I swear it was like one of those TV moments where the girl is about to throw the towel in, but then miraculously the hero appears out of nowhere to admit what a fool he's been and professes his undying love. Or something like that. I was dumbstruck. This was easily one of the most excruciating moments I've ever experienced. Clearly he wanted to say something to me, but like the freak I am, I just kept methodically flipping through the book and pretending I didn't notice him. Uh, real coy. Somehow we ended up shoulder to shoulder, looking at this stupid book together and making empty comments on the pictures. I don't think he wanted to talk fashion (it was a 50's beauty book) lord knows I didn't (though normally, I just might). I kept waiting for him to speak up and he must've been doing the same. It was terrible. If this really was that TV moment, this would be the point when one of us would throw the book to the ground as the flames of passion ignited. A fiery embrace would ensue. But seeing as how this was my life, nothing of the sort happened. That's right, nothing, zero, zilch. This was a true scaredy-cat test and I'd failed miserably. We lamely stood there until the class started to meander back in and we both resumed our distant seats (sigh).
I knew that I'd blown my last chance. I wanted to go home. I really wanted to burst into tears, but I've made it a rule to never ever under any circumstances to cry in public. That dirty John Holdeman wasn't going to cause an exception to my rule. Instead of ending at 5:00, the class kept dragging on. I desperately needed to go home and get ready for graduation at 7:00, but I wanted John to leave first. If I got up I was admitting defeat. Finally he started getting ready to leave. Should I say something or should I look down and ignore him? Expressionless, he breezed past me and simply said, "bye." Weakly, I repeated the same word back. A couple minutes passed and then I jumped up in a half-hearted attempt to catch up with him. I knew it was futile. It was too late and he was gone for good. Yep, that was it, the end, no resolve or happy ending. No nothing.
Well, to a sane person that would be the end. But there was no way in hell I was going to let it drop that easily. People can't just go around dissing me and thinking there won't be any repercussions. No way. How could I let it go when I never got any answers? O.k., most would say that I indeed had my answer. By saying nothing he had weaseled his way out of telling me (like a man) that he had no interest. Sorry, but that wasn't good enough. That is when I entered the post-stalking depression phase and lost all sense of decency. This story has already become too huge so instead of bogging you down with the entire sordid aftermath, I offer up some highlights:
*I threw a drunken fit in the museum after graduation, yelled and hit plants, scared family members I rarely see, and reportedly yelled at my boyfriend repeatedly, "You're not my boyfriend!"
*broke up with him Saturday the 14th (didn't move out 'til July 4th though).
*fell into a stupor due to having no place to move to, no job, and no more school to fill my days. I laid in bed a lot. (Unfortunately, it was the bed I was till sharing with my ex. Creepy.)
*became irrationally fixated on "getting" John. I repeatedly called Sul's (the real spelling) work in order to find out the times she worked so I could catch John at home alone. This was completely kooky, and not for the obvious reasons. I have a deathly fear of talking on the phone to people that I'm not good friends with. Really. So I knew I was losing it when I boldly called John's house and spoke with a roommate, Thomas, and did a convincing impression as an old friend of John's. I discovered he was working as a landscaper (not a far cry from cherry picking) and that he and Sul had been very busy working on the new house. I acted very happy for the couple and instructed Thomas to tell John to call me. I did this a couple of times. My messages were never returned.
*discovered that my friend Kristin, who'd been so helpful in my stalking escapades, had had a crush on me (no one ever gets crushes on me) the whole time. I felt like the biggest retard and practically reacted to her the same way John had reacted to me. No, actually I was still super nice and friendly, but unrequited crushes are very unfortunate for all involved.
*got John's new address and phone number. It turned out that he lived on the same street as my sister, 20 blocks up. Not too uncanny, but this was a pretty undesirable neighborhood and I'd never known anyone else to live there who wasn't a crusty punk. 1998--now everybody who's young and cool and coupled-up buys houses in this Portland neighborhood. Even my ex (who ain't young) bought a house in N.E. It's only a matter of time before a Starbucks goes in. John was such the trendsetter.
*found out from a security guard at school that John had been regularly bringing Sul with him on weekends and checked back sign-in sheets for proof.
*while working at the movie theater connected to the school, I saw the two of them approaching the door and ran upstairs to hide. (I was hoping they didn't recognize me with my new short blonde 'do.) While exiting the projection booth I ran head-long into them and brusquely said hi.
*by April '95 I was well over the whole thing, but right before I went to England I sent him a scary, anonymous chain-letter to keep him on his toes. One year later!
*while fiddling with my keys in a Fred Meyer parking lot, July '95, I see a cute guy in my peripheral vision. I glance behind me to see that damn John Holdeman and some guy (Thomas?) laughing their fool heads off. Anything could've struck them as funny, but I just know it was me (maybe because I was wearing a sweater in 80 degree weather). He was wearing tennis shoes and had closely cropped hair. A new sportier look, and still a honey. Damn, just from the corner of my eye my attention was peaked. Bastards.
That was my last sighting about nine months ago (this is April '96 in case you care to know) and don't worry, I'm completely and wholly done with it. It truly was my last stalking attempt on a grand scale and I vowed it was going to be my last. Well...I haven't done anything that extreme since, but I have dabbled a bit here and there (with equally disastrous results). I don't think I know how to stop. I guess I don't really want to stop because I sure haven't been trying very hard to quit. Luckily for the sissies and misfits of the world, I've been temporarily waylaid by one Mr. Henry Thomas. Don't breathe a sigh of relief yet though, I'm afraid it's only a matter of time before I strike again.
Endnote: My curiosity got the better of me and I decided to find out of that smiley sticker was still on his mail folder two years later. Of course I couldn't step foot in that awful school. But conveniently, one of my co-workers also works as a guard a the school/art museum and he did some sleuthing for me. And yes, believe it or not, my sweet lil' sticker is still gracing his folder! I don't know what this means (uh, nothing) but it made me feel warm and cozy.
Wait. There's more: Will it never end?! I thought I was done with this chapter of my life (and this story). On May 9, 1996 I was emotionally scarred. For obvious reasons I'd steered clear of Django Records for long while, but at this point in time I figured I was safe. Jessica and I were in an upstairs section far from the counter when I felt that old familiar spark hit the corner of my eye. I became convinced that the distant male's back at the cash register belonged to John Holdeman. Jessica thought I was nuts, but I know these things. I made her go spy on him (they don't know each other even though we all went to school together) and she reported back a peculiar exchange between this guy and Sul, who's uglier than sin (yeah, I kept it clean earlier, but she's not a pretty sight. If you think I'm mean, Jessica said, "I'd sure hate to be 'cleaning her carpet' and look up to see that big pumpkin face"). The guy asked Sul what she was doing that night and she answered that she was going out, to which he retorted, "you can't go out, you're in a permanent relationship." Jessica naively assumed this meant they were just friends. From that, I was positive it was John, employing his lame brand of humor (which I would've found endearing a couple years ago). Ha ha, I get the irony. You two are in a permanent relationship...with each other! What a card. Ooh, and what guy uses the term "permanently" so easily and happily. They really are in love (I hate them).
And more: That same co-worker who checked on the smiley face sticker for me has a malicious streak. He thought it would be a hoot to stick my zine in John's mail folder. Yes, well that was very nice. I never heard anything directly from him, but I did discover that Sul sure has friends around town and they sure weren't happy with me. For a while there was a handful of people in Portland who had never even met me, calling me names and saying they'd kill me if they saw me. Ah, but that's all in the past. I'm a leaner, meaner stalker now with a tougher skin.
phone home