The Stalker - Part One

I had been seeing Amanda for nearly a month, after she and I had met as co-workers about three months earlier working opposite shifts at the same bookstore, where the idea of opening my own shop began.  I found her attractive and engaging and decided to pursue her romantically.  I liked spending time with her, arguing about god-knows-what now, and found it refreshing to talk with someone who, at times, had an opposing viewpoint.  We got along well, and shared the same political standpoints.  Still in university, she was well on her way to a BA in philosophy, and working on the side to pay for tuition.

Out of the blue her ex-boyfriend Rick, whom she'd broken up with two months earlier, was imposing himself back in her picture, trying to get Amanda to come back to him.  He was very insistent and, for a time, I think Amanda did seriously consider it, but found little in common with a man 20 years her senior.  It could have been the reason their relationship only lasted 5 months in the first place.  When I'd first laid eyes on him, I assumed he was in his early twenties, like Amanda.  I was stunned to learn he was actually in his forties.

He seemed to take great exception to my presence in her life, and I heard from Amanda that he would, in conversation with her, go so far as to blame me for the end of their relationship.  Odd things started happening to my car, beginning with the evening I went out to the parking lot at my apartment and found one of my headlights had been smashed, glass all over the ground in front of the car.  I did not immediately attribute this occurrence to anything in particular, dismissing it rather as a random act of vandalism, and installed a new light. 

Several weeks later, and many more attempts from Rick to regain Amanda's affections, finds me working late one night.  I had parked my car in a dark lane not far from work.  When my shift ended, I closed the store and cashed out.  Walking back to my car, the hair stood up on the back of my neck before I noticed the plastic taillight had been broken.  It felt like I was being watched.  Alarmed and frustrated by this new development, the next day I went to a wrecking yard and managed to find another taillight.  Though I now had my suspicions, I could not prove directly that it was Rick who was to blame.  I started noticing further damage to the car;  in one instance the brake line was severed - it appeared someone had pulled on it until it snapped.  It was very worrisome, and I changed my habits, parking further away from work, and leaving the car several blocks away from home on a side street.

Rick continued contacting Amanda by phone, pleading with her to reconsider their relationship.  He also started phoning my apartment, even at 4 a.m. asking to talk to Amanda.   Around this time, Amanda had returned home after being out for the evening to find a rock thrown through her bedroom window.  That was when we decided to go to police to file individual reports, outlining the harassment and vehicle issues.

I was starting to figure out, by piecing together events, locations and times, that Rick and I had a mutual friend, a man named Moe, an ex-pat American living in Canada I had met through work months earlier.  He and I had been going out for brews on Friday afternoons after work for longer than I'd been dating Amanda.  I had been unloading my frustrations on him and our relationship grew to going over intimate details of what was going on in my life, including about Amanda and I and, of course, Rick.  I saw Moe as a comfortable shoulder to lean on, someone I could trust, and he was more than willing to let me bend his sympathetic ear.  I didn't know at the time he was also a good friend of Rick's, and that he had had a fling with Amanda in the past year.  

Moe, I now started to believe, was responsible for relaying stories about me directly to Rick, as Rick always seemed to know where Amanda and I would be.  It would explain the rock through Amanda's bedroom window when she wasn't home, and the damage that was occurring to my car no matter where it was located.  Once I had figured that out, I stopped sharing personal information with Moe.  It's clear to me now that he knew all along the details of what Rick was up to, as I have since heard from others in our wider circle of acquaintances that Rick had been bragging to Moe about the things he was doing to us.  The way I see it, Moe may have felt embittered over the fact that I was able to have a relationship with Amanda, where he had failed, and was secretly enjoying our troubles with Rick.

We filed our sixth police report after I took my car to the gas station to fill up and couldn't get the nozzle in because the tube leading to the tank was packed with sugar. I ended up having to get the tank steam cleaned by a specialty auto repair company.  Luckily, I had not driven the car far enough to damage the engine, and took the sensible step of buying a locking gas-cap.

Rick was now harassing us both by telephone at all hours of the day and night, and it felt like we were constantly being watched.  Not knowing what Rick was capable of, and fearing for our safety, I contacted the police seeking the advice of a constable, who reassured me we were following proper procedure, and told us to mark any calls from Rick on a calendar.  While looking over our complaints he asked in a hushed tone if he could speak, "off the record" and then explained what he thought I should do.  

"What you have to do with this guy, is get him in an alley, and beat him to within an inch of his life...", continuing with "Oh, and he can't know that it's you, so wear something over your head so he can't identify you."

Being mindful of the fact that I was talking on the phone to a policeman, at a police station, I took a moment to compose a response to his suggestion.  I said, " I appreciate the sentiment, but also, I realize it is interesting and ironic that I am being counselled by an officer of the law to assault another human being, albeit 'off the record', and that it would be entirely possible you would be the officer to arrest me after such an assault".  I felt like I was being tested by the constable, and his reply was a passive, "well... yes that's true, I'm just telling you how I feel".

The call was not entirely wasted though and through it and the subsequent over-the-counter conversations with officers at the station, we could tell that Rick had a history with them.  It was time to examine other, legitimate, solutions to the problem.

to be continued...

There is a link to part two here:

Five Minutes - part one

It was a dreadful ride up in the elevator, and my heart sank when I opened the large wooden door to the office.  Making my way over to the counter, I greeted the executive assistant, giving her my name.  After checking the itinerary, she offered me a seat where I was afforded plenty of time to review the polished granite flooring, black leather over-stuffed chairs, and cherry-wood panelling on the walls.  This was where serious business transactions took place and I, truth be told, was out of my element.  My eyes grazed across the titles of the magazine selection on the table beside me: Report On Business, Forbes, Canadian Business, MoneySense.  Perhaps the other side of the lobby had a magazine more suitable for me: Roam on $5/day, or Homesteading Magazine.

Contacting the regional credit counselling service had been a first step on what I'd hoped could be the road to recovery, with an accountant whose keen skills could help dig me out of the hole I now rested at the bottom of.  Not that I was entirely convinced the shop could be pulled out of its nose-dive after the nearly 30 percent lease increase.  They had matched me with the firm whose lobby I now solely occupied.  About ten minutes after my arrival I was directed by the assistant to proceed to the office, and was assured I would not be waiting much longer.  The door closed and I was left sitting in silence.

It had been an exhausting 10 months since the renewal of my lease agreement. Sales were down simply because I could no longer afford to buy books in the same quantity.  The rent increase virtually eliminated my salary, and collection agencies were calling me 2 or 3 times a day.  My ex-girlfriend Amanda, who had also been my business partner was being telephoned overseas in the middle of the night with the same frequency.

Bill, as he introduced himself, came into the office, shook my hand vigorously and apologized for being tardy.  He wore a conservative pin-striped suit and was middle-aged, sporting a pinky ring and a Tom Selleck moustache.  He didn't waste any time getting down to business - he seemed to be rushing through the meeting as though he had a dogfight to attend.  Worriedly, I watched as he tapped a few digits out on his calculator.  He then looked over other documents I had been requested to provide him with - business statements, remunerations and income tax information from the previous year.  More tapping on the calculator.  Looking up over his reading glasses he said, "Yep, you're bankrupt," and then arranged my documents in a file folder. I started to feel sick, things were happening too fast.

The room felt suddenly cold.  What hope I'd mustered of resurrecting the store drained away, like the last bit of water in the sink.  I had convinced myself I would be introduced to a person who could help me set the store straight. Having been in business for 10 years gives one a certain sense of leverage, I thought to myself.  I had heard that you could make a consumer proposal to your creditors, fixing your interest rates at a workable 5%.  Instead, I sat across from a man who offered no other solution than the dissolution of my business.

Bill advised me that I should keep the store open to the end of the month, a mere 3 days away, and to remove any personal effects and files from the premises.  He made a date for a follow-up meeting, a week after this "initial consultation".  Bewildered, I shook his hand as I rose to my feet.  I was being shown the door, and I thanked him for his help, the way you do when you thank a police officer for giving you a speeding ticket.

My mind was blank and filled with mixed emotions as I made my way to the elevator, back down to the ground floor.  I unlocked the door of my VW van and for several minutes sat staring at the dash, feeling like a man without a country.

4 days later, at 3:38 a.m., alone and sitting on a milk-crate at at the back of the store, I broke down.

More days later I was back in that same office, being attended to by Bill, for our second and what would be our final meeting.  In the meantime, he had made some initial inquiries and had started the bankruptcy process on my behalf.  He had dozens of documents for me to sign in triplicate; my hand got sore from signing my name over my new title: "signature of bankrupt".  Bill went on to warn me there may be an inquiry as to how I let my liabilities get so far out of whack from my assets.  He also suggested that  I, "should have come sooner...".

I went home with a black hole in my stomach.  There I was, 35, at an age when I should have been at the top of my game, with nothing.

Post-script:

Through the media we learn that bankruptcy is a fate worse than death for business people.  Banks treat people who have gone bankrupt like criminals and simply refuse to open accounts for a person who is going through or has passed through the process.  I was told by my trustee that I would have no problem obtaining a chequing account, and that it was just a question of asking for one.  Not so, as I actually had several account managers from different banks actually turn their back on me, when I needed an account for a job I had.  Only with my parents intervention did I manage procure one, as it was required for automatic deposit.  I was fortunate, yet many are not afforded the same opportunity.

You'll find a link to part two here.

The Late Shift

Not long after my bookstore was painted and rearranged according to the principles of Feng Shui (the ancient art of Chinese placement), I was working the five to midnight shift.  Through trial and error, we'd found that between ten o'clock and 11:30 pm very few people would stray in to browse the titles or strike up a conversation, especially in the winter.  I would often play whatever music suited me during those hours, and on this particular evening I was playing Holst's Mars symphony.

It was at about the 5 1/2 minute mark in the music at about a quarter after eleven when a man came in to the store.  At the time we had the counter at the very back, and after traversing the length of the building, the man was now standing directly in front of me.  He was black, rather handsome with his cornrows and high-end winter jacket.

He seemed to be taking it all in, absorbed in the moment.  A smile came across his face when I said "Hello... is there anything I can get for you?"  Without a word, he raised his hands up, turning at the same time. He performed a number of turns, laughing that sort of comic-book villain laugh, theatrically in time to the music.  I was righting the stool I had been sitting on, wondering what was coming next.  I had witnessed peculiar behavior from customers before.  It seems to come with the territory in bookstores.  A gentleman had once practiced his kung-fu with his reflection in the doorway, and on another occasion someone pissed through the mail-slot.  I was ready for anything.

He introduced himself as Baron Roth, and proclaimed his love for the store, and in earnest asked if the owners were gay.  "No," I said, "they are not."  He zigzagged around the bookshelves, asking me more questions of "the owners", how long the store had been open, and if he could buy shares.  Returning to the cash register, he looked me squarely in the eye and said, "Can I ask you a personal question?"  "Absolutely," I said, "ask me anything you like."  "Are you gay?"  "No, I'm afraid not, as I am one of the owners."  After a bit of silence he cleared his throat and said "that's unfortunate!"  Then, feeling foolish, with one hand he covered his face in embarrassment, feeling better only when I assured him that I was flattered to have been considered and that he had nothing to feel bad about.

By this time it was almost midnight, and I was getting ready to shut the store down for the evening.  It was then he chose to reveal the true purpose of his being there.  He identified me as the individual he had been sent to look for, and wanted to return with me to "the other side".  Apparently I was one of the "chosen ones" who had gone astray in this dimension.  When I tried to convince him that I was quite happy in this reality, and had no interest in making the return trip, he frowned severely.  Unable to contain his disappointment, he reluctantly acknowledged my request to leave the store, but not before telling me that he would visit two more times, before disappearing forever.

He kept his word, coming back to the store twice, each time trying desperately to persuade me to join him in some inter-dimensional travel.  To this day I wonder if I made a mistake, that maybe I was one of the chosen ones after all.  Ha!

He did not, however, live up to his promise to disappear forever.  It was about three years later, when I drove past him on a busy street on the city's south-side.  Perhaps his quantum powers had been revoked, as he was waiting for the bus!  Dressed once again in his expensive outdoor clothing, but looking as though he had a hang-over.  I couldn't stop to offer him a lift as I was in the wrong lane, but a thought came to me as I went by.  Why does someone who claims to be able to travel through different realities need a transit pass?

Holst's Mars Symphony by the London Symphony Orchestra - directed by Richard Hickox (Innovative Music Ltd.)