Love Creeps (2 page)

Patricia stared at her with an expression Lynn read as exasperation. Lynn had learned from experience that the only way to cope with being stared at by her assistant was to ignore her and charge right ahead. So she muttered, “The problem is that to be a stalker, you have to want someone …”

Patricia had learned from experience that the best way to deal with Lynn's annoyingly sensationalistic comments was to top them.

“Not necessarily,” she said, feigning absentmindedness and absorption in her work, in order to add authenticity and innocence to the sensationalistic comment she was about to make. “The chicken or the egg. Maybe to want someone, you have to stalk him first.”

Hearing no response, Patricia looked up to find her boss staring at her, unblinking. Lynn murmured, “What you just said is completely absurd and lame, yet it has great depth, and you don't even realize it. It reminds me of that old theory about smiling, which says that people can feel happier by smiling first, instead of waiting until they feel happy before they smile.”

Lynn did not lose time. She frequently lost other things, like her keys, her hat, her desire, her wallet, but never time.

She chose a man in a Chelsea bakery, across the street from her gallery, thirty-seven minutes after she had decided to find someone to stalk. She had bought herself a meringue to get energy in her quest for a victim, and then—
boom!
—it happened. He walked in, and she thought,
He'll do
. She had seen him before in the neighborhood. He never smiled. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties and was good-looking in a bland way, dark-haired, tall, and tan. She disapproved of tanning but was willing to disregard it for now. Her only concern was the sweater tied around his shoulders. A gay man was not the prime choice for heterosexual stalking. She held out hope that maybe he was just European.

With relief, she noted a slight French accent when he asked for a
pain au chocolat
and a
croissant
and a
palmier
. Despite his large order, his body was muscular. The pastries were possibly for friends. Or perhaps he was an obsessive gym-goer. When he turned around to leave, she was ruffled to notice that around his neck he wore a locket. She remained standing, uncertain for an instant, but decided to chalk up the locket to his French citizenship as well, then followed him out of the bakery.

She was glad she'd seen him before in the area. It was convenient if he lived nearby. She had no intention of stalking someone who lived far away. Long-distance stalking had to be annoying.

Right then, possessed by the enthusiasm often accompanying the onset of a new hobby, she was willing to follow him far, which was why she was unpleasantly let down when he entered a building less than a block away. She almost muttered “Ow” from the sheer discomfort of being left standing on the sidewalk with her stalking enthusiasm still swollen.

At a loss as to what an average stalker would do next, Lynn took out her cell phone and instructed her assistant to replace her at the building until her prey reappeared. She returned to her art gallery to wait for her assistant to call and tell her the prey was ready for further stalking.

At five-thirty Lynn got the call and resumed the tailing herself.

The man walked a few blocks and entered an apartment building with a doorman.

This new postponement was maddening. She really wanted to get going on her stalking project.

Approaching the tall, gray-haired doorman, Lynn asked, “Does that man live here?”

“Yes.”

“What's his name?”

“I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to divulge that kind of information.”

“Oh. He just looks like someone I know,” she tried. “I wonder if he's that person.”

“I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to divulge his name.”

“Is there anything you are at liberty to divulge?”

“Yes. That if you would like, I could ring up Mr. Dupont and—” He seemed abruptly shaken by his slip.

“And ask him if he'd mind disclosing his first name?” she teased.

“Something like that.” He placed his hand on the house phone, threatening to pick it up.

“No, no. Please don't bother Mr. Dupont for such a trivial matter.”

Not actually caring about his name, but aware that typical stalkers are at least slightly pushy, she added, “Do you mind if I try to guess his first name?”

“I don't have time to play guessing games. I'm busy,” the doorman said.

“You are?”

“Yes, I am. I'm working. You are interrupting my work.”

“I'm interrupting your standing there?”

“That's right. I get paid to stand here and do nothing. You are interrupting what I'm paid to do.”

“Please tell me his name.”

“No. What seems to be the problem?”

She hesitated. “I've lost something, and I think he may be able to help me get it back.”

“What have you lost?”

“That's nosy of you.”

“Just doing my job, miss. What have you lost? Perhaps I can help.”

“I'm sure you can't.”

“Can't hurt to try me.”

She finally said, “I lost my desire.”

“I don't have time for this.”

“I understand. Time is precious, but desire is even more precious.”

“Hardly,” he said. “Desire is a curse. You're lucky to be free of yours.”

“I am? I guess you're not free of yours?” Lynn asked.

“No, I'm not. And I would do anything to be. How, may I ask, did you manage to get rid of yours? If you tell me, I'll tell you Mr. Dupont's first name.”

“I didn't get rid of mine, I told you, I lost it. Accidentally. I don't know how. I'd do anything to get it back. I think he can help me regain it.”

“All the more reason not to help you. You should realize your good fortune, your fortunate loss, but you don't. And I know why. Your loss is a lie. You claim to have lost desire, and yet you desire to know Mr. Dupont's first name. Do you not?”

“Actually, no. I'm asking for medicinal purposes.”

“Shall I inform Mr. Dupont of your alarming presence?”

“No, don't worry, my presence is neither alarming nor worthy of informing him about.”

“Good. Then I really must get back to work, so if you'll excuse me,” he said, averting his eyes slightly and unfocusing them.

“I understand,” Lynn said. “You're paid to do a certain amount of nothing every day, and you might get in trouble if your superiors see you haven't done as much nothing as you were hired to do.”

He remained standing perfectly still. So struck was Lynn by his resemblance to a Duane Hanson sculpture, that she instinctively brought her face closer to his, to marvel at his detailing, at the realistic imperfections of his skin, at the small hairs sticking out of his nostrils. He didn't flinch under her scrutiny, so absorbed in his work was he.

She walked away.

Stalking Mr. Dupont every day required tremendous willpower for many reasons, not the least of which was that Lynn always wore moderately high heels not made for long walks at a tall man's pace.

Unfortunately, the more Lynn forced herself to want Mr. Dupont, the less she did.

I need help
, she thought. So she ordered her assistant to help her stick to her stalking, to be her coach in this matter, and harass her to follow the man.

It didn't take Lynn's stalker, Alan, long to realize that sometimes, while he followed her, Lynn was following another man. Alan hoped it was his imagination, but he soon had to accept that it wasn't. He was confused. This was not the way this type of thing usually unfolded. Granted, he'd never stalked anyone before, but from what he'd seen in movies and in books, a victim of stalking does not engage in stalking another man while she's being stalked. Alan told himself not to worry about it too much, that it might pass.

Instead, he turned his attention to finding a way to become part of her life. After a while he came up with this: he could try to sneak it past her, could try to let his love creep slowly into her life.

She was the kind of woman not bothered by a stalker. In fact, she was so absorbed in other things that she might not notice if he entered her life. Before she realized, they'd be friends. One day she might even absentmindedly accept an invitation to dinner. And another time he might manage to have sex with her while she was doing something else. Before she knew it, maybe he'd move in. And one day, if an attractive man said to her, “I'd love to take you out to dinner. Do you have a boyfriend?” she'd think about it for a second and be forced to reply, slightly stunned, “I guess I do,” wondering when, exactly, it had happened.

It was a perfect plan. He would seep into her life.

Alan started sending Lynn gifts. First he sent her cookies, then movie tickets, then a bonsai tree, then pink and yellow lingerie. He also sent her notes. With the cookies was one that said, “I hope you'll enjoy them. I know you don't need to watch your waistline.” With the lingerie, the note said, “You are visually sleek. Your colors blend so well with each other. You look airbrushed. These colors should complement you nicely.” The note that came with the bonsai tree said, “Please take care of this small life-form, and know that it not only excretes oxygen, which is good for you; it also excretes my love for you, which is even better.”

Alan could not help noticing that Lynn continued stalking the other man. Alan was extremely perturbed by this. He had never heard of such a thing. Was it just a weird coincidence, that the woman he happened to stalk was a stalker herself? Had she only begun stalking recently? He'd only noticed her doing it for a few days, but maybe she'd been doing it all along. To make matters worse, the man she was stalking was taller than Alan, better-looking than Alan, and had more hair.

It didn't take long for Alan's degree of frustration to reach intolerable levels. He decided he had to meet the man Lynn was stalking. He wanted to see him, face-to-face, wanted to know what he was like, hoped to understand what was going on.

Alan joined the gym the man belonged to and immediately found an ideal way to meet him.

In the locker room, he saw the man adding his name and number to the signup sheet for racquetball partners.

Two

One day, Patricia had just left work and was giving a few coins to a red-haired homeless man at the corner. She'd seen him roaming around the neighborhood for two years, and she liked giving him money regularly because he wasn't pushy or intimidating. Other than to say “Thank you,” he had never spoken to her. Until today.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I know you work with that woman at that fancy gallery at the corner. I was just wondering if you might be able to tell me why she follows a man every day while she herself is followed by another man?”

When Patricia had gotten over her surprise that he had addressed her, she asked, “Is it very noticeable?”

“A bit. To me. Why do they do it?”

“Who knows.”

“You know.”

“Not exactly.”

“But enough. You know enough. I would be truly thrilled to know. I'm a different kind of homeless person.”

“Isn't that what they all say?” she answered, hoping she didn't sound mean.

“No. They say, ‘Give me money.' I say, ‘Give me answers.' I beg you to give me an answer. It'll keep me warm tonight.”

“But I don't really know.”

“And I don't really believe you. Have a nice evening.”

Ray watched her walk away, disappointed that she hadn't enlightened him. He really wanted to know why the elegant gallery owner was going around every day following a tan, unsmiling man while she herself was being followed by a man who managed to appear clownish despite wearing black; quite a feat, in Ray's opinion. The three of them often gave him money, one after the other, as they passed him by. He'd seen them before in the neighborhood, but had never paid close attention to them until recently, when they'd begun following each other. He diagnosed them as nuts. Displays of this kind were not easy for him, considering the fact that he used to be a psychologist whose practice had been ruined by his unfortunate ECD, or Excessive Curiosity Disorder. Curiosity about the slightest peculiarities in human behavior. The opposite of those therapists who fell asleep while their patients spoke, Ray was too interested in the soap opera of their stories. The suspense was both thrilling and intolerable for him. He called most of his patients at home many times a day, to ask for updates on their situations. Once, he had a patient whose boyfriend had stormed out after a fight, and she was waiting for him to call. Ray phoned her every hour asking if her boyfriend had made up with her yet. His obsessive behavior destroyed his practice, not to mention the sanity of his patients.

Two weeks after Judy had advised Lynn to take up addiction, Lynn and Patricia were shocked to hear from a mutual acquaintance that Judy had been hit by a truck. She was fine, with nothing but bruises. She had been kept at the hospital overnight for observation after the accident and was now home recovering.

“It must be all the drugs,” Lynn said.

Lynn knew she had to take her stalking more seriously. She began writing notes to Mr. Dupont. They were not as good as the notes her own stalker sent her. He wrote things like, “Your concentration blows me away. It is blinding. I love the way you stare at my gifts. I have many other gifts you haven't seen. One in particular. It yearns for you.” It was disgusting. Why couldn't she come up with something like that in her own stalking? Instead, she wrote things like, “You intrigue me. I hope you don't mind my following you. I hope you are flattered by the attention I give you.” Another one she wrote was, “You look really intelligent and good. I mean ‘good' as in ‘attractive,' of course, for how should I know if you are good or not? For that matter, how should I know if you are intelligent, but you might be. And that's good enough for me.”