Stalker
I once had my own stalker. When I was in grad school out east, I dated a guy that I worked with at the resort, waiting tables. He was originally from Florida, but would move up and down the coast, working as a server, depending on the season. My friend, Dave, christened him "The Migrant Waiter." He wore really tight black jeans and tennis shoes, but opened doors and paid for dinner and was a good starter kit, as far as boyfriends go. Of course, I practiced good compartmentalization skills and hardly ever exposed my friends to him for any extended period of time for fear of spontaneous combustion.
And he liked to drink. Boy, did he drink. CC and 7 was the drink of choice, which I believed for a long time was the drink of choice for all alcoholics, until I started working at a meat-market bar and discovered that all alcoholics actually drink Captain and Diet and smoke Marlboros. I then proceeded to date all of them, too.
The Migrant Waiter also screwed around. A lot. So much so that they apparently found a number of women's panties between his box spring and mattress after he moved out of resort housing. Since I never saw him cross-dressing, I can only assume that he collected them from his conquests. You know, like how serial killers keep trophys? Not so far off the mark.
Of course, people who screw around on a professional level often assume that everyone else does, too. So, if there was ever a night that I didn't call him, didn't pick up when he called or was generally unavailable, it was an instant crisis of epic proportion. I'd get six or eight voice mails--not just hang-ups, but long messages. Frequently drunk messages. Yelling, cajoling, wheedling. Which served, of course, to endear him to me even more...except not.
One banner evening, after sitting at the bar all night, he stole his roommate's car, drove a half-hour to my house and sat in my driveway with the lights shining on the front door. Of course, I wasn't even there--I was at the bar in town with a bunch of people. My roommate and her boyfriend sat in the living room, waiting for him to take an axe to the front door and yell, "Here's Johnny!" As you can imagine, they were less than pleased.
On the way home, he managed to drive off the road and into the river, then got picked up by the state cops. By the time I got home, I was getting messages from the police post up the road about picking him up. Luckily, he'd managed to roust one of his cronies to come pick him up and I went directly to bed, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. How he got away with all that without going to jail, I will never know.
By that point, I was going out of town on weekends to the shore just to get the hell away from him. My friend's family had a place on Long Island where we would go, drink Mud Slides and sing Come On, Eileen--the greatest pressuring-your-girlfriend-into-sex song ever written, until More Than Words. That's where I met the Semi-Pro Volleyball player and justified every single one of the Migrant Waiter's fears.
Be careful what you wish for, 'cause you just might get it.
And he liked to drink. Boy, did he drink. CC and 7 was the drink of choice, which I believed for a long time was the drink of choice for all alcoholics, until I started working at a meat-market bar and discovered that all alcoholics actually drink Captain and Diet and smoke Marlboros. I then proceeded to date all of them, too.
The Migrant Waiter also screwed around. A lot. So much so that they apparently found a number of women's panties between his box spring and mattress after he moved out of resort housing. Since I never saw him cross-dressing, I can only assume that he collected them from his conquests. You know, like how serial killers keep trophys? Not so far off the mark.
Of course, people who screw around on a professional level often assume that everyone else does, too. So, if there was ever a night that I didn't call him, didn't pick up when he called or was generally unavailable, it was an instant crisis of epic proportion. I'd get six or eight voice mails--not just hang-ups, but long messages. Frequently drunk messages. Yelling, cajoling, wheedling. Which served, of course, to endear him to me even more...except not.
One banner evening, after sitting at the bar all night, he stole his roommate's car, drove a half-hour to my house and sat in my driveway with the lights shining on the front door. Of course, I wasn't even there--I was at the bar in town with a bunch of people. My roommate and her boyfriend sat in the living room, waiting for him to take an axe to the front door and yell, "Here's Johnny!" As you can imagine, they were less than pleased.
On the way home, he managed to drive off the road and into the river, then got picked up by the state cops. By the time I got home, I was getting messages from the police post up the road about picking him up. Luckily, he'd managed to roust one of his cronies to come pick him up and I went directly to bed, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. How he got away with all that without going to jail, I will never know.
By that point, I was going out of town on weekends to the shore just to get the hell away from him. My friend's family had a place on Long Island where we would go, drink Mud Slides and sing Come On, Eileen--the greatest pressuring-your-girlfriend-into-sex song ever written, until More Than Words. That's where I met the Semi-Pro Volleyball player and justified every single one of the Migrant Waiter's fears.
Be careful what you wish for, 'cause you just might get it.
posted by Miss Head at
6:05 AM
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