Newsworthy in S.C. today—anti-stalking legislation in process, named “Mary Lynn’s Law” after a woman who was killed by a stalker, who was later arrested wearing some of her clothes.
Ah, stalkers. Anna Kournikova had one, Bjork had a pretty interesting one, Janet Jackson, Sheryl Crow, David Letterman, Mel Gibson—the list goes on and on. Of course, we can’t forget about Rebecca Schaeffer, the actress from the TV show My Sister Sam, who, if she had not been killed by a stalker, we probably would have forgotten about her by now. And who can forget the old Rod Stewart video for the song “Infatuation,” portraying a young man taking pictures of a pretty woman without her knowledge? Good old stalkers. Is there anything else that is so terribly frightening and so mundanely cliché at the same time?
I had my own private stalker one time. It didn’t last very long, and it wasn’t very scary—not nearly as scary as the ones you read about in the news, or the ones that Lifetime movies are based on. But I like to think it counts, if only just a little. I was 23 or 24 at the time, and living with a friend in a small duplex across the driveway from some crazy redneck who liked to call the cops on herself all the time. I was still in school, and that is apparently where I caught my stalker’s eye. One day, out of the blue, I received a phone call. The guy asked for me by name, and proceeded with the ol’ “You don’t know me, but…” But what? Basically, this is the rundown: He had seen me on campus, and after I had walked away, he asked whoever I had been talking to what my name was. Then he looked me up in the student directory, which listed my mother’s phone number. I, of course, was not living there, but he got my phone number from my mother. From my mother! Upon questioned about this, my mother explained that he sounded nice, and that he had told her his name. So that makes him not scary. Ted Bundy sounded nice I’m sure. And how do you know the name he gave you was real? Which it was not, I might add. He said his name was Jim. Which it was not. Oh, how I want to print his real name here. I think it just adds to the effect if you could know his real name, say his real name…okay, I’ll throw you a bone. His first name was Harry. His last name one syllable, and was of Chinese origin. Now, take that name that you have constructed and say it in your best TV announcer voice like this: Harry ______, Private Eye. It could have been a great show.
So he calls me and says that I don’t know him, but he saw me on campus and wants me to be his girlfriend. At first, he tells me his name is Jim, but it doesn’t take long for him to give me his real name. I can’t remember if he already knew where I went to high school or not, but he told me he went to the same one. He knew names—listed all kinds of references and explained how I had to believe that he was harmless if he hung out with those dorks. He tells me his childhood nickname to try and show me how innocuous he is. He tells the sorrowful story of how is ex-girlfriend was forced by her parents to break up with him after he decided to drop out of med school in order to become a teacher—oh, how noble, right? At least meet him for lunch he says. At one point, he begs me to just meet him at school over an orange juice. How scary could meeting over orange juice be?
I must admit, I never felt afraid. More like annoyed. He would call me at like 9:00 in the morning on a Saturday. Keep in mind—I was 23 or 24, and could still sleep in until 10 or 11 on a Saturday. He called all the time. What really freaked me out about the whole thing was that I had no idea who he was. I wouldn’t have known who he was if he had smacked me in the face. All I knew was that he was Chinese (But from Michigan, as he was so eager to point out—no accent or anything). So while I never feared for my safety, I did start to get very suspicious of Asian men. Any guy looked Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, I admit—I’m not the best at determining Asian countries of origin—I just kept thinking, that could be Harry. Then one night I dreamed about him—dreamed that he came up to me in some general store type atmosphere, and that he drove a red car. I drove my mom crazy talking about the “crazy Chinee” that was stalking her—she said that was offensive. (I didn’t mean it to be offensive, I thought it was kind of funny, in a let’s-poke-fun-at-ignorant-people-for-no-reason kind of way) But here was the thing. When I asked him why he thought he wanted me to be his girlfriend, he kept saying that he just thought I “looked like” what he thought would be who he wanted as his girlfriend. But when I asked what about me “looked like” his girlfriend, he couldn’t say. And when I asked him what I looked like, he couldn’t say either. When I asked him what my hair looked like (an easy easy question—if you saw me back then, it would be the first thing you would notice—straight, brown, loooooooooong. Down to my waist.)—he couldn’t even say that I had long hair. It made me susupicious, to say the least.
One day, everything came to a head. Somehow, he found out that I smoked cigarettes. “Oh,” he says. “We’ll have to get you the patch.” Well I had had it. Who was this asshole—a stranger to me—who had decided that I was to be his girlfriend, and while I was at it, I was quitting smoking to boot?! Well, that was it. While still reclined in my bed, I started in on him. “I don’t think I am the girl that you have decided in your head that I am. I smoke, I drink, I cuss, I like to hang out in bars where you can throw your cigarettes on the floor. I really don’t think I am who you think I am.”
(beat)
“Well, do you have any friends I could go out with?” he asks me. I just told him they all either had boyfriends or were lesbians. Easy out, I know, but like I was going to just pass this guy off onto another unwilling person. And the statement wasn’t entirely false. I did have friends who had boyfriends, and I had friends who were lesbians. But, he never called again. Sometimes I regret not meeting him over orange juice. Not that I think he had even a remote chance of convincing me to be his girlfriend, but because I never found out who he was. When I read stories like the ones about “Mary Lynn’s Law,” they make me think of that guy. Like I said, I never felt that I was in any danger. But who knows? He may have wanted to put on my underpants and dance a little jig over my corpse. Probably not, but you never know.
On a side note, my mother felt extremely guilty for giving him my phone number. It seems that she also had thrown away something of my sister’s that had sentimental value within a few days of giving out my number, so she really felt like a bad mother, which she is not.
Ah, stalkers. Anna Kournikova had one, Bjork had a pretty interesting one, Janet Jackson, Sheryl Crow, David Letterman, Mel Gibson—the list goes on and on. Of course, we can’t forget about Rebecca Schaeffer, the actress from the TV show My Sister Sam, who, if she had not been killed by a stalker, we probably would have forgotten about her by now. And who can forget the old Rod Stewart video for the song “Infatuation,” portraying a young man taking pictures of a pretty woman without her knowledge? Good old stalkers. Is there anything else that is so terribly frightening and so mundanely cliché at the same time?
I had my own private stalker one time. It didn’t last very long, and it wasn’t very scary—not nearly as scary as the ones you read about in the news, or the ones that Lifetime movies are based on. But I like to think it counts, if only just a little. I was 23 or 24 at the time, and living with a friend in a small duplex across the driveway from some crazy redneck who liked to call the cops on herself all the time. I was still in school, and that is apparently where I caught my stalker’s eye. One day, out of the blue, I received a phone call. The guy asked for me by name, and proceeded with the ol’ “You don’t know me, but…” But what? Basically, this is the rundown: He had seen me on campus, and after I had walked away, he asked whoever I had been talking to what my name was. Then he looked me up in the student directory, which listed my mother’s phone number. I, of course, was not living there, but he got my phone number from my mother. From my mother! Upon questioned about this, my mother explained that he sounded nice, and that he had told her his name. So that makes him not scary. Ted Bundy sounded nice I’m sure. And how do you know the name he gave you was real? Which it was not, I might add. He said his name was Jim. Which it was not. Oh, how I want to print his real name here. I think it just adds to the effect if you could know his real name, say his real name…okay, I’ll throw you a bone. His first name was Harry. His last name one syllable, and was of Chinese origin. Now, take that name that you have constructed and say it in your best TV announcer voice like this: Harry ______, Private Eye. It could have been a great show.
So he calls me and says that I don’t know him, but he saw me on campus and wants me to be his girlfriend. At first, he tells me his name is Jim, but it doesn’t take long for him to give me his real name. I can’t remember if he already knew where I went to high school or not, but he told me he went to the same one. He knew names—listed all kinds of references and explained how I had to believe that he was harmless if he hung out with those dorks. He tells me his childhood nickname to try and show me how innocuous he is. He tells the sorrowful story of how is ex-girlfriend was forced by her parents to break up with him after he decided to drop out of med school in order to become a teacher—oh, how noble, right? At least meet him for lunch he says. At one point, he begs me to just meet him at school over an orange juice. How scary could meeting over orange juice be?
I must admit, I never felt afraid. More like annoyed. He would call me at like 9:00 in the morning on a Saturday. Keep in mind—I was 23 or 24, and could still sleep in until 10 or 11 on a Saturday. He called all the time. What really freaked me out about the whole thing was that I had no idea who he was. I wouldn’t have known who he was if he had smacked me in the face. All I knew was that he was Chinese (But from Michigan, as he was so eager to point out—no accent or anything). So while I never feared for my safety, I did start to get very suspicious of Asian men. Any guy looked Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, I admit—I’m not the best at determining Asian countries of origin—I just kept thinking, that could be Harry. Then one night I dreamed about him—dreamed that he came up to me in some general store type atmosphere, and that he drove a red car. I drove my mom crazy talking about the “crazy Chinee” that was stalking her—she said that was offensive. (I didn’t mean it to be offensive, I thought it was kind of funny, in a let’s-poke-fun-at-ignorant-people-for-no-reason kind of way) But here was the thing. When I asked him why he thought he wanted me to be his girlfriend, he kept saying that he just thought I “looked like” what he thought would be who he wanted as his girlfriend. But when I asked what about me “looked like” his girlfriend, he couldn’t say. And when I asked him what I looked like, he couldn’t say either. When I asked him what my hair looked like (an easy easy question—if you saw me back then, it would be the first thing you would notice—straight, brown, loooooooooong. Down to my waist.)—he couldn’t even say that I had long hair. It made me susupicious, to say the least.
One day, everything came to a head. Somehow, he found out that I smoked cigarettes. “Oh,” he says. “We’ll have to get you the patch.” Well I had had it. Who was this asshole—a stranger to me—who had decided that I was to be his girlfriend, and while I was at it, I was quitting smoking to boot?! Well, that was it. While still reclined in my bed, I started in on him. “I don’t think I am the girl that you have decided in your head that I am. I smoke, I drink, I cuss, I like to hang out in bars where you can throw your cigarettes on the floor. I really don’t think I am who you think I am.”
(beat)
“Well, do you have any friends I could go out with?” he asks me. I just told him they all either had boyfriends or were lesbians. Easy out, I know, but like I was going to just pass this guy off onto another unwilling person. And the statement wasn’t entirely false. I did have friends who had boyfriends, and I had friends who were lesbians. But, he never called again. Sometimes I regret not meeting him over orange juice. Not that I think he had even a remote chance of convincing me to be his girlfriend, but because I never found out who he was. When I read stories like the ones about “Mary Lynn’s Law,” they make me think of that guy. Like I said, I never felt that I was in any danger. But who knows? He may have wanted to put on my underpants and dance a little jig over my corpse. Probably not, but you never know.
On a side note, my mother felt extremely guilty for giving him my phone number. It seems that she also had thrown away something of my sister’s that had sentimental value within a few days of giving out my number, so she really felt like a bad mother, which she is not.
posted by emily @ 7:19 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home