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:

Mom and Dad

I can't make the claim to have single-handedly found the location for the store, negotiated the lease, constructed the fixtures for the grand opening two weeks later.  There were a few key players, namely my soon-to-be business partner, my girlfriend at the time, and most importantly, my folks.

To be certain, my girlfriend and partner collected materials, including books, lamps and chairs, but the majority of the purchasing for the grand opening came from the diligence and hard work of my Mom and Dad slogging through garage sales.  Ever toiling in the background, while I continued to hold down my job at a store that would some day be our competition, they accumulated books.  For 3 to 4 days a week they would map out a route of garage sales listed in the newspaper, careful not to backtrack and end up at the same sale twice.  They made shopping for books as efficient as possible in both time management and fuel consumption.

They also secured my first loan.  A relatively modest sum of money yet, for me, at the time, a king's ransom. This would end up being my primary investment in the enterprise, with my business partner matching the contribution.  It was only 3 weeks later when we realized we didn't have enough funds to cover operational costs, most of which required cash.  Back to the bank, to raise the ceiling on my loan.

It took more than a year to amass 4000 books, enough to get us off the ground, eventually organizing them into categories on the floor of my parents' basement - the foundation of the eventual sections in the store.  As more and more books were collected, they became more knowledgeable and selective, and by incorporating trips to estate sales, thrift shops and fundraisers, were able to get their hands on some real gems.  I would accompany them on these forays whenever possible, and we would end up in discussions over which books should be purchased, and what materials should be included in a bookshop.

Dad's painting, store name blurred

Mom has been a lifelong reader, and, throughout my childhood I can't recall a time where she did not have a book on the go.  I guess that has always left an impression on me, feeding my insatiable curiosity.  She was a stay-at-home Mom to 4 children, and it is worth mentioning, a font of knowledge, and a culinary inspiration.  My Dad had worked for a large national corporation before taking early retirement in the late 1980's.  I think his heart may be in his art though.  He works in acrylics and oils, and one year presented me with a painting of the store, having whimsically added a character peering through the window.  It turned out to be the uncanny resemblance to a young man who became a regular in the shop.

Though neither of them had small business experience themselves, they really took the time, helping me methodically and logically plan the necessary chain of events to get the doors open.  It felt like they cared, and they really did.  Later, they became my sounding board when issues arose regarding my business partnership and lease negotiations.

Five years into operations, following an audit of our electrical system, we discovered we had been paying for the power use of 3 other businesses in the building, including a video game developer, an environmental organization, as well as a large, well-lit outdoor billboard attached to the building.  Dad helped me draft a letter to the landowner for compensation, and we got most of our money back.

They were always there, part of the store from it's inception to it's demise.  When attending musical and poetry events, they would almost always bring food, drinks and other treats to assure I had "bums in seats".  I don't think I'll ever get over the notion that I let them down somehow.

The Psychology Section

There was a woman who lived only steps away from the store in a Victorian home that had all the hallmarks of an orderly existence.  She was a mother of three very successful daughters, about whose achievements she would boast constantly.  Nearly 5 feet tall and around 60 years old, with an English accent, she resembled a character from Shakespeare.  She was a piano teacher who taught from home and, as most of her students were late afternoon drop-ins, her mornings were free to spend as she wished, and she would come to visit.

One morning, a little after 10, I looked up from my newspaper and cafe au lait to see the door closing.  I stood up to have a look, but couldn't see anybody.  A scuffling noise from in front of the recent acquisitions shelf told me that someone was in the store.  Up popped her head shouting in the queen's vernacular, "Right... SHIT!  What are you doing?"

"Good morning, Liz," I said.  "How are you?"  Refusing to answer, she instead decided to focus on the over-sized steps she was taking to walk to the counter.  Reeking of some type of alcohol, or combination of distilled beverages, she now stood before me with something cupped in her hands.

"Close your eyes!", she said, with her usual slow, baritone, regal authority.  I did as I was told, as I was always up for a new experience, and waited. "Hold out your hand..." she demanded.  "Why," I said, starting to get more than a little suspicious.  "Have you been a good boy?" she asked.  "Why?" I said, now thinking seriously of retracting my arm.  She said, "Don't get smart!"

So there I was, holding out my palm, and in it she deposited some kind of food.  I opened my eyes to reveal that it was Black Forest Cake, and she was using her hand as a spatula to scrape the icing from her hand, on to my fingers.

As quickly as she arrived she left me, standing there with cake in my hand.  I ate it.

During similar visits, I would open my hand to find a raw egg.  On good days, the egg would be boiled and, if I was lucky, it would even be shelled!  Sometimes I received a can of unopened tuna.

Liz also possessed the uncanny ability to terrify customers with congenial drunken outbursts.  She could be a little more than intimidating, especially to recently arrived foreign students.  She would come up behind a customer, cock her head around their shoulder, and loudly whisper one of her favourite inquiries: "And who are you busy being?"  This unfailingly led to moments of astonishment, followed by confusion, as the victim tried desperately to determine the relationship Liz had with the store.  Almost always, I found it necessary to step in to deliver the person from potential embarrassment, and hopefully, rescue a sale.