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I had dumped the Stalker in the summer of 2001, between graduating high school and starting at UT. The Stalker had, as previously described, begun stalking me immediately following the break up. I had hoped he'd leave me well enough alone, but true to controlling, abusive form, he continued to bother me with phone calls, emails, and instant messages, all of which I ignored. Then we started at UT. My first day of RTF 305, better known to film students as RTF boot camp, was ruined when I saw a familiar gray fuzzy hat a few rows ahead and to my left. I well remembered that hat from the fateful day I first saw him ten feet away from me in a hack circle. When class ended, I stood up and made for the door as quickly as possible, hoping to escape before he saw me, but I was too late. "Lauren." I kept moving. "Lauren." I cringed, turned, and pretended to look surprised. "What time is your discussion section?" 'FUCK!' I thought, but I reasoned that he couldn't possibly do anything in there without risking a bunch of RTF guys ganging up on him. (It is worth pointing out here that the RTF department consists mostly of guys, most of whom are quick to ostracize idiots who don't belong in the department and will ruin their projects.) "Five to six," I answered extremely suspiciously. I strongly suspected he wanted to continue the conversation, but I got the hell out of the auditorium before he could say anything else. The Stalker did not make an appearance at the next class meeting, though I did look for him fearfully. I wondered if he was just not wearing his hat as a means of camouflage. It was possible; I've very often escaped notice simply by removing one of my trademark hats. A couple of days later, I received an email from a mutual friend—the very friend who had driven us home from the fateful birthday party that caused me to dump the Stalker, in fact—informing me that the Stalker had told her he had changed class times so as not to bother me. My ass; it was just another guilt trip, made all the more transparent by the fact that he didn't tell me himself. I was proven right when, a couple of weeks into the semester, the Stalker figured out what bus I rode. Unfortunately, he lived not too far away from me, so we rode the same city bus down to the UT campus and back. He picked up that I rode the same bus on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings; and he would get on and sit a couple of seats away or right across the aisle. Luckily, he did not attempt to sit next to me, possibly because he remembered that I always carry a knife. He would get off the bus at the same stop I did and follow me as long as he could. I tried getting off a stop or two early or late, but it didn't seem to matter. I wondered whether I could do anything about the stalking. I remembered that when my great aunt was being stalked, the police couldn't do anything about it. Despite all the harassment, unless some harm or threat was presented, she couldn't do anything and had to stay with my dad and me for a few weeks until her stalker gave up. (This incident occurred it the late 1980s, before stalking was criminalized.) Would that my own stalker were so willing to give up. I hadn't had any emails or phone calls from the Stalker lately, and regrettably, him merely riding the same bus as I was entirely likely to be dismissed as completely innocent since he was, after all, a student. Boy was I ever sorry I'd helped him get admitted to UT. Around the same time period, I became reacquainted with the Stalker's old friend, High School Pothead (HSP). I had always nursed a small crush on him. I got back in touch with him and, for a couple of weeks, flirted scandalously until learning that he had a girlfriend. Oh well. Of course, HSP mentioned to the Stalker that he was talking to me (thanks). The Stalker got off the bus with me as usual one morning, when, unfortunately, my friend wasn't with me for moral support. The Stalker watched me as I waited uncomfortably for the light to change at Dean Keeton and the Drag, avoiding eye contact. The light finally changed, and I crossed quickly, heading for CMB (the RTF building). Halfway across the street, the Stalker abruptly said, "Are you mad at [HSP]?" I gave him a "WTF?" look, shook my head, and disappeared into the RTF building. I'm somewhat surprised he didn't follow me in there. It's unlikely he genuinely thought I was heading to class since no RTF freshman actually has class in the RTF building. More likely he knew it would be too obvious and I'd start screaming bloody murder. I very nearly did just that one afternoon when I was talking to HSP. HSP informed me that the Stalker had hacked into my email account and had been sending out emails as me, and that he said he was "going to key the hell out of my car." I widened my eyes at this and told HSP, "I'd better get home. I have some things to do . . . like calling the police." HSP laughed and nodded, and we parted ways. I did not actually call the police, though I was prudent enough to change the password to each of the two or three email accounts I possessed. I suspected that HSP would tell the Stalker I was onto him and thusly fear would motivate him not to touch my car. I was right; nothing happened. I continued to talk to HSP for a bit. My huge embarrassing crush on him abruptly ended when I met the Republican in early November and started going out with him. The Stalker didn't know this, though, and continued riding my bus. Luckily, a couple of weeks into November, I befriended another RTF major, who also rode my bus. We struck up a conversation waiting for the bus one rainy afternoon, and then we got stranded on the bus for nearly four hours because of a flash flood. Thank God the Stalker wasn't there; he never was in the afternoons. My fellow RTF major and I remained friends and began talking to each other every morning on the bus ride to campus. I told him about the Stalker, and my classmate would accompany me off the bus and across the street until the Stalker had gone away. (Thank you.) Ah, the benefits of a male dominated major. In January, I finally found a job. I had searched without success the whole previous semester: The economy was not doing well, and I had only a high school diploma and about eleven hours of college credit, thusly I found myself employed at Taco Bell. It was terrible, and I was not destined to last long, but it was a job with flexible hours, plus it was five minutes away from my house. Naturally, one Friday night, the Stalker came into the Taco Bell. I was on front register alone and couldn't hide. I was forced to take his order, which I did as coldly as possible. Luckily, Friday nights were always fairly busy because of the high school students in the area, and I was able to move quickly past him to attend to them. Obviously, the Stalker figured out my work schedule pretty quickly and would stop by whenever I was working, that being three or four times a week. I would always take his order as quickly as possible and move on, brushing off any attempt at conversation. He sometimes came in with two or three people I didn't know, though I saw that they all dressed more or less like Hot Topic models. The Stalker was like that; insisting like any fifteen-year-old that being goth was the best thing on earth and anyone who dressed differently was a loser. That attitude was precisely why I dressed however I damn well pleased; he was no less pretentious than the preppy kids we used to hate (and he apparently still did) who shopped at Abercrombie and Fitch. The Stalker, meanwhile, had got himself a black trench coat which he now wore all the time. Idiot. He also had, true to his passive aggressive guilt trip the day I dumped him, started smoking again. I was so relieved not to be with him anymore. Yet, in a sense, I was still seeing him thanks to his stalking. In May, I quit Taco Bell when the manager refused to give me a day off I'd requested due to a final exam. I got the hell out and went to work at the Wendy's where the Republican (whom I was still dating) worked. The Stalker didn't know I'd left Taco Bell, I didn't tell anyone who might tell him, and thusly I escaped. Of course, the Stalker still tried to contact me. He would instant message me saying he needed to talk to me, and then I would block him, he'd get a new screen name, I'd block that one, and the cycle would start all over again. One night as I was talking to the Republican, the Stalker tried instant messaging me. I told the Republican, and he made me give him the Stalker's screen name (or one of them, anyway). The Republican then messaged the Stalker, and the following (paraphrased) conversation took place.
Needless to say, when the Republican copied and pasted this chat to me, I instantly recognized the Stalker's writing style, right down to the familiar misspellings. Obviously the Stalker was too chicken shit to admit it was really him, so he hid behind a fake girl. Even without the identical writing style, the "girlfriend" would have been suspicious since how would she have known what he wanted to tell me? The Stalker probably envisioned the Republican as a huge burly frat guy type, when in fact he was an average height, slim, appallingly pretentious guy. But that's the beauty of message boards; you can be anyone you want. I appreciated the Republican flexing his e-muscles and getting rid of the Stalker for me. I do rather bear the Republican hard feelings for other things, but for getting rid of the Stalker, I will always be grateful. The Republican apparently talked a bit more to the Stalker. He would not tell me what he did, but I never heard from the Stalker again. For the longest time, I thought, 'Oh God, he killed him and dumped his body in the creek down by the ROTC building.' Quite frankly, that would have been a relief, but some years later, I learned what had actually happened to him. I poked around on Facebook and MySpace and eventually found his MySpace, on which he listed himself as engaged, which surprised me. I remembered him wanting to marry me for the sake of being married, and I suspected such a situation might currently be the case. I clicked the link to his fiancée's page and pieced together how they had met. She was from Minnesota and graduated high school the same year we did, and she described herself as having about a year of college from a community college in Minnesota. According to a blog entry from 2008, she moved to Texas from Minnesota at least five years previously, indicating that her leaving that state and the Stalker leaving UT roughly coincided with each other, though that may have been coincidental. To put things in perspective, in 2003, I was starting my junior year at UT. I was working full time while going to film school. Apart from a few random crushes, I didn't waste much time on guys. My focus was on getting an education to further my career, and once I had that going, then I could think about settling down. Serious thoughts of meeting a guy and settling down were furthest from my mind. So, suffice it to say that I found reading her old blog entries a bit disturbing. They married in the spring of 2009, despite her homesickness and her family's dislike of him. I shall post her relevant blog entries here verbatim.
Reading between the lines, the Stalker clearly never changed his behavior and remained controlling and abusive. His fiancée told him she wanted to be with her family, but he wouldn't leave Texas. I ventured a guess that sooner or later she'd cave in and move back home, probably right after she realized he was controlling and abusive. I was right, of course. The two married in the March of 2010 and were divorced a year later. I saw a couple of pictures of their wedding. The Stalker did not age well: Always self-conscious about his weight, he had actually gained weight rather than worked out, plus he had regrettable facial hair. His bride was also overweight. I took a certain sadistic glee in viewing those photos. Later, after the inevitable divorce, the Stalker began working out and getting in shape. I saw some photos of him and noted that he still looked as creepy as ever. As they say, it's in the eyes. Either I didn't notice it when I first met him, or it became evident over time, but he definitely had the eyes of a complete creep. Incidentally, some time after breaking up with the Stalker, I was cleaning my room and found all the notes he'd written me in a shoe box. I reread them briefly, reliving all the rage I'd felt. I decided I didn't want to keep those memories around, so I took the stack of notes to the nearest trash can, which happened to be in my bathroom. The Stalker's handwritten guilt trips wound up spending all of eternity in an empty box of tampons. |