Stalking Over Grinds

The Escape:  Later

 I yearn to be in my townhouse with my striped cat, Raskolnikov, entwined securely around my torso, his paws protectively grasping my arm; instead, I drive to the Target off of 611 to hide among the many crowded aisles of suspiciously too jolly and gluttonous Saint Nicks juxtaposed with eerie elf animatronics coming to life with a slight tussle, their green eyes peering at the eager shoppers.  It is early November, and the moon is shaded by Nimbostratus clouds fortelling rain.  I glance at the time–8:49 pm glows from my dust covered dashboard.  I just want to be home in bed but I have already taken the long way towards my town to avoid Tom pursuing me.

I cannot return home because I just naively went to the Street Road Starbucks on a date with a man I met on an online site who said he lived down the road in Southampton.  After a few electronic messages, I didn't expect us to hit it off, but I certainly did not anticipate having to create a maze of stops on the way home to avoid this smug, dangerous stalker. The truth is that I may have hyperbolized my reaction because while Tom, such an innocuous name, spent the entire meet up discussing his obsessive stalking of a ¨friend” over one long drawn out grande dark roast coffee with two shots of espresso, I still did not feel comforted that his manic infatuation targeted another female victim.

  I finally made my excuse to leave three minutes earlier when I saw a young couple walking towards their rusted red Dodge that was parked in proximity to my SUV to feel somewhat accompanied or at least not totally isolated.  They were certainly close enough to hear my potential screams.  It is a weeknight, Thursday, so it isn’t too awkward to suggest an early morning wakeup as my reason to bolt with a cursory, “Nice to meet you.”  Instead, ¨Good luck in this dating labyrinth,” I blurted just as Tom was about to propose a second coffee, his cumbersome  hands stirring the white and green cup with a plastic mermaid topped stick, while looking at the darkened grounds at the bottom.  

The Warning:  Earlier

Less than ten minutes into the conversation I felt a cringe of disgust the fourteenth time Tom’s owl eyes lit up saying his victim’s name, “Catherine.”  It was as if he thought he could conjure her through repetition and a murderous clenching of his brown napkins causing his hands to turn bluish red, while mine began to get jittery, caffeine coupling with the vibes he projected.  

“So, why don’t you just ask Catherine out?” I question curiously and a tad sarcastically, “I mean why waste your time dating when you are clearly focused on her?”

“I did in the past, but I don’t think it’s going to work out between us” he replied with intensity.  You and me both, I thought sarcastically, this guy is clueless.

I expected him to stop there.  After all, it was our first meeting.  Most people are a tad cautious about what they reveal.  Regardless, I just wanted to end this now, the creepy vibe turning on my flight mode.  What a dumbass I am.  I could be home with Raskolnikov watching Sons of Anarchy.

“She is only available when she needs or wants something,” he said, talking as if to himself.  “I lent Catherine more than two thousand dollars, painted her apartment on my one lousy week off and even watched her rotten kid for her, only to find out that she was dating two other jackasses,” he continued, but it was not pain that surfaced on his face; rather, a mask of anger and disgust formed in his wrinkled sneer and stabbing gray eyes.  “Besides, she is scared of me,” Tom offered as if it were a bragging right and the bulb of his face lit up.  ¨I only check on her at night to make sure she is safe.  I mean, why does she leave a crack in her blinds?  If I can see in them, then any pervert could too.  What if. . .¨ 

A major battalion of red flags continued to wave in my head.  I needed to get out of this situation quickly.  Feigning interest to procrastinate and avoid offering any personal information with which he could find me, I tried to respond with nonchalance interrupting him, “She probably just overreacted,” I offered, my words not revealing my inner truths .  This guy is fucking nuts invaded my mind.  He is the pervert.  My right foot started to bounce nervously and I secured my quivering hands to my loose jeans beneath the wobbly stained coffee table, hoping he wasn’t noticing his nerve inducing effect on me. 

My ears re-focused and I realized he was still jabbering on, “I only brought a blade to her place one f’in time.  Catherine misunderstood jumping to the wrong conclusion.  I just wanted her to have protection, ya know?  But she said I was over the top and had no sense bringing it near Kyle, her kid. She kept yelling and demeaning me.   I expected her to thank me and be grateful, nobody’s ever grateful, so I kinda lost it a little and she accused me of threatening her because the blade was still in my hand, can you imagine?” He pointed the fork he was eating his piece of bundt cake with a little too close to my face forcing me to back up.

Certifiable.  How did I not pick up on this when we messaged each other?  People are so different in short texts.  In person, I am very intuitive.  Technology creates a facade, almost like pulling an electronic shade down on the truth.

A Week Earlier:  The Danger of Online Introductions

Tom:  Hey Tamara.  I saw your profile.  You seem like a down to earth and really caring person.  You have gorgeous blue eyes and a nice smile.  It says that You are a teacher right?  My friend Cathy is an elementary teacher.  

Me:  Hi Tom.  Yes, I teach high school English.  I like to write and I also like psychology.

Tom:  Oh, why high school instead of the little ones?  Catherine says how loving little kids are.

Me:  I like that you can start to really have conversations with teenagers. Often they are more authentic than adults.  I also enjoy teaching analysis of literature and blending it with the psychological needs of the students.

Tom:  In what way are they more authentic walking around with their eyes attached to  cell phones?

Me:  They say what’s on their minds.  There’s no facade to unravel.  From my experience, many adults are hypocritical.  They say one thing and then the truth surfaces.

Tom:  You seem really smart.  That makes sense, I guess.  Everyone can be fake.  

Me:  I appreciate that.  So tell me about yourself.  I don’t want to do all of the talking.

Tom:  Well, what do you want to know?

Me:  Do you have any pets?  I have a cat named Raskolnikov.  He is sitting next to me right now purring.  (In retrospect, Raskol let out a hiss about 2 minutes into the conversation.)

Tom:  Rascal-no-what?

Me:  Raskolnikov.  He’s the anti-hero of Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky.

Tom:  Oh yeah, the Russian book.  I remember one of my roommates reading that in college.  Jack said it was too long and dark.  

Me:  Much Russian literature is.  Where did you go to college?  What did you major in?

Tom:  I went to a small private university.  You probably would not have heard of it.  I thought about becoming a lawyer but it involves too many years.  Life is too short to work that hard.  I work in sales instead.  It’s a tough business but I make it.  

Me:  I bet you meet many people.  Law does require a great deal of commitment to education and study.  I considered it myself.   What do you sell?

Tom:  Yes, I meet a lot of people but I like that sometimes.  It allows me to. . . speaking of, would you want to get together for a coffee and talk in person?  I am somewhat slow at typing.  It gets. . .

Me:  Monotonous.

Tom:  Yeah, what you said.  You are good at filling in words.

Me:  I don’t know.  We don’t really know each other. . .oh okay.  Why not?  

Tom:  Nothing to lose.  It’s just coffee and it will be my treat.  Starbucks?

Me:  You had me at Starbucks.

Tom:  Thursday at 7 on Street Road in Feasterville?

Me:  Okay.  Sounds like a plan.

The conversation ends and I wonder if I am making a mistake.  “He never did tell me if he had pets, or what college he attended or what he sells.  Oh well, what can one coffee hurt? ” I say to Raskolnikov who pushes against my hand for a chin rub, as I naively brush off my doubts. 

Finally:

After many exhausting twists and turns through the aisles of Target with its bright fluorescent lighting, I am confident that the stalker I met over coffee grinds has not followed me, and, as I cautiously head out to my car thinking about Raskolnikov awaiting at home perched  in the upper window, I feel relieved yet guilty that Catherine is not so lucky as to be free.  He is probably staring through her blinds.  A chill causes me to shake and I get up and make sure my door is double locked and my blinds are secure enough to lock out the moonś glare.