The Stalker - Part Two

There is a link to part one here:

Several months later I had moved in with Amanda.  As our car is once again in the shop for something Rick-related, my dad swings by the bookstore to give me a ride home from work.  It's after midnight when he turns into my street and we see, parked in front of the main door of my apartment building, Rick's idling vehicle, shadowy profile inside.  I had my dad pull over, and talked about what to do for several minutes; all the while Rick is just sitting, ominously, in his vehicle.  I was angry that this older man wanted control of Amanda, and had a predilection to menace to me.  The police, though having paid Rick several visits to his home, had their hands tied, and I'd had enough.  I waited a few more minutes before I made my decision.  

Asking Dad to stay put, I got out of the car and started walking towards the apartment from the opposite side of the street, well within Rick's field of view.  I saw him cock his head in my direction as he peered through the darkness.  He clearly did not know it was me, and once I was 90 degrees to his door, I suddenly turned and ran toward him.  I was only steps away from him when he got his car into reverse and peeled away.  I kept running toward him as he backed down the street, holding the steering-wheel in one hand, looking over his shoulder to see where he was going.  I resisted the urge to stomp on the hood of his car, though I was close enough at one point to do it.  Glancing back at me to assess my distance from him, our eyes met as his car shuddered over gravel kicking up dust at the intersection when he threw it into first gear; he screeched away with me still in pursuit.  I ran down the middle of the next street, devoid of traffic, chasing him until I could no longer see his car.

Dad pulled up alongside me and rolled down his window.  "Jesus, are you nuts?", he asked. I'd given the boots to a car once before, as a teenager walking down the street with a girlfriend.  I'd reacted badly to a racial slur hurled in our direction through the window of a station-wagon.  I have never been one to swallow intolerance of any kind, and I simply refused to be intimidated by a stalker.  I thought chasing him down could serve to send him that message.  I wanted him to think I was crazy, too, and that I would do just about anything.

Another eight months passed.  With the assistance of my folks we were able to secure a meeting with a lawyer who reviewed our notes, along with copies of the half-dozen police complaints we had filed against Rick so far.  He listened to a recent phone message left on Amanda's answering machine we'd taken to the gens d'armes, where they determined that it was "threatening" and, in fact, charged Rick with "criminal harassment".  The lawyer agreed with the police, and had us sign documents so that he could go before a judge to ask for a motion restricting Rick's communication with us - a restraining order which, at the time, cost around a thousand dollars.

Fiercely independent, Amanda had been resistant to the notion of telling her parents, who lived in another city, of our problems with Rick.  Yet, within days of requesting the restraining order and the day of the grand opening of the bookstore, I was on the street with Amanda's dad, whom I had gotten to know on a few other occasions.  He stood next to the door of his car, posturing, and asked me rhetorically, "What the hell are we going to do with this guy, anyway?" adding, "You know, I have a hunting rifle and I could bag him at 300 yards... he wouldn't even know what hit him!"

It's important to remember that these were the days before anti-stalking legislation in Canada.  It was like we were living in a war zone, and Amanda's dad was only expressing what every father would feel in the same situation, protective.  There was an overwhelming sensation of powerlessness, though we did eventually procure the restraining order against Rick.  He could not come within 250 meters of our homes and work.  A curious thing, however, happened in the final processing of the order.  We had acknowledged to our lawyer that one of the ways we were being harassed by Rick was by telephone.  The final document from the presiding judge first recognized this, but then was scratched out with a ball-point pen, siting in the same ink that it represented too much of an infringement on Rick's rights.  Weird.

Rick received a copy of the document, and continued to call Amanda's house and our newly opened bookstore at all hours.  We thought we finally had him when a stamp-less letter from him was left on Amanda's doorstep.  We called the police, and they paid him a visit.  They could do not do a thing: he claimed he had had a friend deliver it on his behalf.  Even a restraining order meant nothing to him.

Three months later we found ourselves in a courtroom filled mostly with Amanda's friends and family on one side, and Rick on the other, sitting alone to face the charge of uttering threats.  His lawyer, notably a woman, stood up to address the proceedings, requesting "a dismissal, on the grounds that this was a personal issue between my client and the witness for the Crown", who happened to be Amanda.  The judge agreed and, bafflingly, dismissed the case!  This all happened in a matter of minutes and when Rick walked out of the courtroom, I saw the look of relief on his face.  Speechless, as I remember the ten or so of us were, I held out on the hope that this would be the motivation he needed to get on with his life and leave us alone.

But that was not to be.  The calls continued daily; damage to our car, more inventive and serious.  It seemed for a time that there were longer periods between occurrences.  Then, out of the blue, he parked his car across the street from the store one day.  Thinking this to be a brazen daylight attempt to harass us, I noticed there was a woman in the passenger seat.  They got out of the car, holding hands casually as they crossed the street, looking much like a happy couple heading to the cafe next door.

This simply would not do, and so I asked Amanda if she needed a coffee.  She said, "I could use one", throwing in, "let me join you", and we stepped out and headed for the cafe.  Once in line, we were right behind Rick and his new female friend.  Amanda and I both discussed loudly that we should make it clear to Rick's acquaintance that she would be better off not hanging around with him.  Surprised, Rick caught sight of us when he turned around.  With Amanda and I suddenly on the offensive, we began describing in detail what Rick had been doing to Amanda, her apartment, and my car.  Visibly uncomfortable, they left the line and walked out of the cafe. I could tell that the woman had no idea what was going on; her eyes darted quickly between Rick and these two strangers.  We matched their stride just steps behind them and continued to delve into Rick's history.  Rushing now, they jumped into the car, Rick put the key in the ignition and threw it into reverse almost simultaneously.  As the car backed away my eyes aligned with the shaken woman's.  I said "Leave him", loud enough to be heard over the roar of the engine.

You may be asking yourselves why I did not take the officer's advice to "beat him to within an inch of his life...".  I've asked myself that a number of times over the course of events.  When things were darkest, I'd seriously considered acquiring a handgun for personal protection, but I'm not a violent person, and did not consider this to be the usual thoughts and actions of the average bookseller.  The closest I came to a physical altercation with Rick was a year earlier when I had gone to Amanda's apartment to pick her up for a movie.  

I had parked right at the front door to her building; when we came off the elevator and made our way out the door, we spied movement at the passenger door to my car, not 15 feet away.  Rick was using a screwdriver to scratch the glass.  I burst into a run, he spun around on his toes and started running away.  Taking a short-cut, I jumped through the hedge of a neighbouring yard to cut him off, and when I was about to grab him by the scruff of his jacket, stopped and just let him run off in to the darkness, in the hope that I had sufficiently scared him off.  It didn't.  We were living under siege.

In fact it took six years of continual harassment, and six years of filing police reports before I received a phone call from a very restrained Rick while the store was being renovated according to the principles of feng shui, asking for a "cessation of hostilities" to which I most heartily agreed.  It sounded as though he had turned over a new leaf in his life; scratching my head, I wished him well.  We never heard from him again.  The whole feng shui thing may have paid off!

Epilogue:

Less than a year before the store closed, and about two years after I had broken up amiably with Amanda, a former mutual acquaintance of ours, Maggie, stepped cautiously over the threshold of the shop.  Still in her early twenties when we first got to know her, she had suddenly and mysteriously dropped out of sight.  I hadn't seen her in years and ran next door to buy a couple of lattes to drink at the bookstore counter while we caught up.  She told me she had a story to tell.  

She had been at a lounge with friends at about the same time Rick called me asking for a truce, and met a very nice, intelligent man whom she started dating.  Only when Maggie got to know him better did she realize the people he was referring to in a story he told her were, in fact, Amanda and I.  He mentioned how awful we were to him, wrongly accusing him of heinous deeds.  That we had ruined his life.  It was, of course, Rick.

She believed him, and stopped coming to the store to visit.  They became very close and moved in together.

Two years passed, they drifted apart, their relationship became strained.  She decided it was time to part ways.  When she moved out he started stalking her.  At this point it had been uneasily quiet for Amanda and I.  It was anything but for Maggie.  The phone calls, the showing-up-at-places unannounced.  She started filing reports to police.  He terrified her, and it was more than she could take so she left the city to start a new life elsewhere, several hours away.

One night he came looking for her after he'd managed to track her down over the phone.  He pleaded with her to come back to him, swearing that he'd harm himself if she didn't.  In a drunken stupor he arrived at her residence; it was close to dawn.  An open bottle of wine fell on the road when he got out of his car, emptying its remaining contents.   Her sleepless night ended with an early morning call to police, and Rick sobering up in the drunk tank.

All in all, Maggie spent about two hours in my store that day, describing what had been her life.  She also needed to express her regret to Amanda and I over the decision she made to believe Rick and stop spending time with us, and to talk about what she called her "poor choices".  

Shortly before she left, I asked Maggie how things were for her now.  Happily, she told me that she ended up marrying a police officer.

Five Minutes - Part Two

Part One can be found here.

When I got back home, I ran upstairs and screamed into my pillow until my throat was raw.   When I came to my senses I looked up to see the cat staring at me, inquisitively.  Of course, cats don't have expressions on their faces, but I would've sworn he looked worried... it only served to make me feel worse, and I spent the better part of the morning in bed in despair. 

Later, I drove over to my folk's house to download my frustrations on sympathetic ears.  They'd called to invite me over for cups of tea and plates of cheese and crackers, in an attempt to assuage my shock and depression.  I soon excused myself as I realized my mood was taking a dive.  My entire lifestyle, including work, had evaporated with a few strokes of a pen.

I spent most of the next week in bed with a continuous migraine which I nursed by a home-made concoction of single-malt whiskey from my liquor cabinet with various types of pain medication.  Unable to sleep, I drank, watching sad bastard romantic comedies, hoping that Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan would finally sort things out.  Sometimes my sister would come over to take me out, but I felt disconnected and distant.  

It was like I had fallen off the face of the earth. The store, where people would usually find me, was, in essence, boarded up, and in my haste I had not left a note on the door thanking people for their years of patronage.  Grace stopped in for a visit.  I think she may have been concerned after not hearing from me in some time.  During our conversation over coffee on the back porch, she mentioned that she would soon be on her way to make soup at her aunt's house, and promised to bring some for me on her way back home, if I liked. Having had romantic notions about her, I simply wanted to spend time with her, but as I looked into her eyes I felt  I had nothing to offer her, or to anyone else for that matter.  The very idea filled me with grief and self loathing.  I don't know what she was thinking, I've never been able to ask.  She came back about 3 hours later.  I had set the table for the two of us, but she wasn't staying; instead she invited me out to her "Soup-Kitchen in a Chevy", where she carefully ladled soup into my bowl; and left.  I went back in.  The soup, chicken noodle vegetable by the way, was very good.  

   

Sometime later in the week I overheard my housemate Ross discussing my circumstances with our mutual friend Malcolm on the telephone one evening.  Ross told him I was "doing fine", which surprised me, because I was far from it.  On the other hand, it also pleased me in a way; I was able to fool him with the brave face I put on.  In reality, I had crumbled inside.  I felt like an actor playing my former role in everyone's life… including my own.  

Another ally in this, my friend Dylan, who had worked at the store, was able to fix me up with a position I knew absolutely nothing about nor one that would ever have occurred to me.  I hand-delivered my updated resume to Sol Mechanical, a shop he had started working at to make money so he could go back to school.  After a brief interview with the owner, and against my better judgment, I was hired as an apprentice plumber.

I was thrown into work almost immediately despite still reeling from a sense of loss.  I ended up under the tutelage of Dylan's friend Trey and worked with fellow apprentice Klayton, whose main claims to fame, aside from having arms like tree-trunks and thinking he was some kind of super-hero, were his sexual exploits with women.  He explained to Trey and I one day how he'd managed to get a black eye; about how, in the middle of a threesome with his competitive twin brother and a woman they'd picked up at the bar where Klayton moonlighted as a bouncer, they started arguing over who would get to do what to her and when.  Frustrated with the bickering, she left while they remained, punching and kicking at each other.  

I once asked him baitingly, "What does the giant stylized letter S sticker on the back window of your car stand for?"  With no sense of irony, and with his very pronounced lisp, his response was what I'd been fishing for, "Superman, you fockin' idiot."

One Friday afternoon, after hooking up waterlines to fixtures in a nearly finished home, the three of us got together with another trio of plumbers over beer and pizza at a nearby restaurant. Trey regaled us with a story about the new home and acreage he and his girlfriend had purchased outside the city, about how in the early morning hours they could look out their bedroom window to witness deer licking salt off their driveway, and how the animals would come right up into the garage to do this.  One of the other plumbers, an apprentice in his early twenties asked Trey if he could come on to the property to hunt.  Trey, astonished, replied in a shocked tone a very firm "NO", followed by a reasonable explanation that he believed firearms were not allowed in the county.  "It's okay", the apprentice said, "I've got a bow".

I didn't last very long in that environment, though I appreciated Dylan immensely for getting me the job.  One of my final days happened in the middle of December, while I was alone in the attic of an unfinished, unheated house in sub-zero weather struggling with a bit of 4 inch ABS pipe I was running as a vent from a 4-piece bathroom suite.  There are just some things that you have to do in life with your bare hands, and while muttering to myself about everything that was going wrong in my life - I found I could not feel my fingers.  

I eventually wrestled the pipe into its final resting place, and came to the rather hasty decision to leave that line of work for someone better suited to it. 

Some time later I was thumbing through the classifieds of the local paper in my kitchen, and spied an advertisement for a national delivery company needing owner/operators.  Not knowing what that was about, but believing it to mean something having to do with owning a car (which I did), I ventured down to the head office to hand them my CV.

The next day, quite surprisingly, I received a call back, inviting me to come in for an interview.  Turned out the manager's wife was a reader, and in fact had been a loyal patron of the bookstore.  That was that, and he asked, "How soon can you start?"  

I asked for a few days, thinking I would need some time to tune up the car and get other affairs in order regarding my bankruptcy - including the first of three rather ominously titled "counselling sessions".  In the negotiations with the delivery company, they offered me an hourly wage, a one-tonne panel van, and what would eventually prove to be the most lucrative route they had in the city for delivering office supplies: the downtown core.  Of course, all this was contingent on my agreeing to work towards buying the 4-year old van for $30,000, after my 3 month probationary period. 

I enjoyed the work almost immediately, except for the hours.  Work started at 4:45 a.m. and finished 12 or 13 hours later.  The first 2 or 3 hours were spent putting my stack of delivery forms, sometimes upwards of 120, into a drivable order, then loading the cargo into the van.  Sometimes I had what they called a "swamper", a person who would help me deliver especially large loads.  On more than one occasion, this turned out to be a 16 year-old girl who had dropped out of high school who actually started work at 3 a.m.

When the company found out I was reliable, they offered me the additional task of delivering beer at the end of my shift.  Their regular fellow was about to be let go as he all too often intimidated clients, mainly restaurant managers.  This increased the length of my workday by 4 hours, so now I was getting home between 9 and 9:30 at night, catatonic.  Often Ross would have leftovers from his supper ready for me when I arrived.  At that time of day, I couldn't imagine making a complete meal for myself; I did the dishes in return for the favour.  After days of lifting 3000 lbs of paper and pens followed by a dozen or so 160 lb kegs of beer and flats, running up and down the stairs, I was in the best shape of my life.  I was crossfit, before there was CrossFit!

Then one day, I made an office supplies delivery to one of the biggest breweries in the city.  It was an old turn-of-the-century red brick building I had never been to before, on the edge of downtown.  I backed into the loading dock and hopped out of the van.  Ringing the bell on the double door summoned the cheerful Receiver who was all too happy to show me and my dolly-load of three boxes of photocopy paper and a box of other goodies to the elevator. 

This was an enormous classic Otis traction freight elevator I was unfamiliar with.  It looked to be about 100 years old, and you could've fit a grand piano in it.  The light was bad, with only one swinging bare bulb far from being up to the task it was given.  The Receiver had vanished into an unlit passageway, and once I got myself inside, I looked around for the controls.  I pushed the number 2 and waited... nothing happened.  Quick to realize that I had to close the door manually, I let go of the dolly, looked around and reached up to grab a thick loop of nylon cable.  It was as about as high as I could reach, so I was on my toes when I began pulling it down.  It took all my weight to get it moving, which gave me an idea of just how heavy the door was.  What I did not account for in that moment was the bottom half of the door coming up to meet the top half.  Normally I'm quite aware of where my body is in space - but not that day.  The top half of the door was now coming down with the necessary momentum to close it, as my left hand was picked up by the bottom half, and before I realized what was happening, the doors met with my hand sandwiched between.

I don't remember making a sound, but after working my hand out, I closed the security gate and finally got to the second floor. There I was greeted by a very concerned secretary brandishing a first-aid kit.  Obviously this was a regular occurrence for her.  Thanking her for her concern, I refused her assistance, even as blood percolated through the fabric of my work glove, insisting that if I took it off my fingers may come off with it.  She unloaded the dolly for me.

I never bought the van.  I got into house renovations instead, for a spell.

The Takeover Bid

Bora was a book supplier, trusted employee, and a welcome coffee companion.  He was outgoing and intelligent, pitching interesting intellectual battles with my co-founding business partner, Ethan, and I over political issues of the time.  He was compensated handsomely for the books he provided us.  It was because of the trust we had developed in him that we came to an arrangement whereby Bora, while on duty in the shop, would make a list of books he had in storage, but that we were lacking on the shelves.  He would then bring those books in on his next shift, putting them out on consignment labeled in red pen - essentially filling holes in our inventory.  It was expressed firmly that he could not put one of his books out on the floor if one of ours was there.  For this service he received 50 percent of the selling price of the book.  We programmed the cash register to create a specific category for Bora's books, to make accounting for them simpler.

My first inkling of a wheel falling off the wagon came when a long-time customer dropped by, mentioning he had driven past the store a few nights before, noting that it was 1:15 a.m. and saw that the recently acquired neon OPEN sign was still on, and the door open, with Bora busy putting books on the shelves.  This news came to me as a bit of a surprise, as we were only officially open until midnight.  I decided to have a look around the shelves.

To my surprise, I found many titles in duplicate in the Science-Fiction section, with one belonging to the store, and the other, priced lower in red, belonging to Bora.  I moved on to the Literature and Philosophy sections, where I made similar findings.  In fact, there was not a genre that had been left untouched.  If I asked you which copy of Hans Kung's Does God Exist you would buy if you had 2 identical copies, you'd probably say the one that costs less, if they were in similar condition.  Maddeningly, Bora had priced all of the books he put out to favour his copy.  Bastard!

I spent the rest of the day combing through the collections, removing every red-marked book.  I contacted Ethan, explained our predicament, expecting some insight or wisdom, but found only bafflement and frustration.  Ethan seemed upset with my discovery, but grew angry with me for having taken all Bora's books off the shelves.  "Can't we just continue until January, so that we can get through the Christmas season?" he asked.  "We'll owe him so much money, Bora will own the bookstore by then," I said, reminding him of the perilous condition of our cash flow of late.

The next morning, Ethan was working and I called him from home.  I pointed out to him that it was important for me to confront Bora myself if he came by, and asked Ethan to call me should he arrive.  He called me about an hour later, and when I walked through the door, Ethan gestured to the back room.

I could see from the way Bora looked at me that he wished me dead.  He looked down his long romanesque nose, head held high, trying to maintain his dignity, his black eyes squinting to register his disgust with my presence.   He made slow, methodical movements to check the stacks of his books I had neatly and carefully arranged on the table in the back room for him to remove from the premises.  About 3700 books in all, amounting to about 1/3 of our inventory.  I hadn't missed any - they were all there.  He began the slow retrieval of his books, loading his car to the ceiling.  By mid-afternoon they were all gone, and that was the last we saw of Bora.

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.