Stalked

One summer night the Blonde, the Bartender and I decided to go out in the East Village.

This is before the Loved One, before the Actor, before the Mormon. Post-Arkansas. Post Present Ex (for those keeping track).

This is when I lived on Scholes Street, on the south side of Williamsburg. The Scholes Street apartment was serviceable. You walked in to the kitchen. The appliances were new, nothing else was. The bathroom was to your right. If you looked up to the right there was a wall and a window in that wall. Why? To let light in from the bedroom, of course. That bedroom, mine, was a pretty nice size. It fit my queen-sized mattress and a chest of drawers and a book shelf. I had painted one wall a very deep, Ralph Lauren navy blue. The two windows to the outside overlooked the parking lot of the projects across the street. Two streets beyond that was the apartment of Arkansas, which I could not clearly see. But tried. Many times.

My roommates bedroom was right next door to mine and the same size. Her bedroom also had a window in the inside wall to let light in to the coffin-sized living room. In this room we had a faded, high-back, scalloped yellow chair that had sat in my grandmother's bedroom for years and a small love seat that was direct from the 70s and covered in yarn flowers. Over the couch hung my autographed poster of "How To Marry A Millionaire." That, indeed, should have been the goal. For we were living in the projects.

Our next door neighbors on our floor almost always kept the door open and sitting out front, guarding the place, was an extremely large female pitbull. She was well-behaved but menacing looking, constantly panting, with a spiked leather collar. Perhaps it was her calmness that scared me more than anything. Her ears would perk up as you entered the building and she would just stare at you as you climbed the stairs. She would make no move to get out of your way as you stepped over her to reach the front door of our apartment. Across the stairwell from her, also cast off from this apartment, were a stack of Domino's pizza boxes of various shapes and sizes. I marveled at how one family could consume so much Dominos. But if you saw them, you would believe it. On weekend mornings the door would be open, music would be playing and the enticing smells of some far away Latin country would come drifting out of the kitchen. The residents might nod a polite hello but in two years of living there, we never spoke.

Our superintendent was a short, dyed-redhead, pencil-thin moustachioed Latin spitfire by the name of Mario. We, of course, called him 'Super Mario." On weekends he would be spotted late at night (or early in the morning) decked to the nines, in a sleek suit avec pocket hanky and fedora. He was going or coming from dancing. Where? we wondered but never asked.

The neighborhood was dirty, smelly, loud and scary at night. I hated it. Especially when I stumbled home drunk from the Metropolitan at 3 in the morning. Nothing sobers you up faster than a walk past two projects with a bunch of teens smashing bottles at the time of the night. But did I stop? No.

So one night the Blonde, the Bartender and I decided to hang out in the East Village. The Blonde requested The Hole because there would be lesbians there. The Hole took the place of the Cock when the Cock closed. But they moved the neon Cock sign to the Hole so now it was the Cock in the Hole? Or something. Never having been to the Cock, I was keen to visit its relocation. It was...uhm...dirty. It smelled like piss and alcohol. The walls were covered with graffiti. There was one working bathroom. The drinks were served in plastic cups that littered the floor for the rest of the night. The music was loud.

We drank. A lot. At least, I did. And we danced. The floor was so crowded it was less like dancing and more like jumping up and down in place, shaking your head from side-to-side, and carefully lifting your cup of booze to your lips without someone knocking it over. The necessity of plastic cups became very clear. Safer for everyone. Somehow, across the crowded room and flashing lights, my eyes made contact with a tall, handsome, dark haired stranger. Now, I was fairly drunk and I can't imagine how my eyes were able to focus on anything. More than likely, my blurry vision probably focused on him as a spot while I tried to bring the alcohol to my lips. Whatever the case, before I knew it, the stranger had crossed the room, introduced himself (as if I could hear him) and we were locked in a passionate kiss my hands exploring places they wouldn't have had I been sober. Or sane. I was suffering from an acute lack of sanity at this point in my life (among others).

The Blonde and the Bartender must have been aware of my state because before I knew it there they were gently prodding me to go home. It was late and they were tired. I motioned them away and said I'd be with them shortly. In the meantime I was able to gather that my newfound friend was an artist, Israeli and HOT. I gave him my business card (which had my name, email and phone number but the address of the Texas theatre company) and -- against my drunken judgement -- I allowed myself to be taken home.

Well, when I got off the subway I already had two messages from the Painter saying he wanted to see me again. I smiled at his chutzpah and saved the messages. I went home and collapsed into a deep, drunken, restless sleep. The next morning I awoke to another message. Wow. Ok. I don't usually play by conventional dating rules. I think if you're interested you should make it known. Don't have to wait a day to call, etc. But this was something else. I was also a little disconcerted because in the messages he kept calling me "Stevie" instead of "JV" and the card obviously said "JV." But, he's foreign, I'll forgive it. I called the Painter back and, surprisingly, got his voicemail. Obviously he wasn't THAT keen to talk to me. He called back not two minutes later. I let it go to voicemail. I was hungover.

Later that night I met the Blonde at Metropolitan for a couple of drinks but wanted to make it an early night. As I made the long walk down Union Street to Schole, I stared longingly up Arkansas's block and the phone rang. It was the Painter. Hey, how are you.

"Stevie. I've been thinking about you all day. You're so hot. Where are you?"

Actually I'm on my home.

"In the Brooklyn?"

Yes. Early night.

"I am with friends in the East Village. I want to see you. Come out with us."

Aw. That's nice. I'd like to see you too. But I'm going to bed.

"No. It's too early. I want to see you. I will come there."

You're with your friends.

"I don't care. I will come in a cab. It will take 10 minutes. I just want to kiss you again."

Well, that's sweet.

And I thought about it. For a second.

But not tonight. Let's get together later this week.

"Pleeeease, Steeeevie. I neeeed to see you."

Uhm. Well...

Need? He needs to see me. Weird.

Let's talk tomorrow. You have fun with your friends.

"Ok. But we'll go out this week?"

Yes. Fine. This week. Great.

And I hung up the phone and thought , Well. I'll never call him again.

The next morning, Monday, I had three missed calls from the Painter in my sleep and two messages. Ok, this is a little crazy. I went to the gym (because in those days I could still work out hung over) and hopped on the subway to Times Square. When I got off the train that little voicemail light was blinking insistently. Who else would call me that early on a Monday? I listed to the message: "Steeeevie. It's me. Why do you not answer your phone or call me. I need to see you. Pleeeeease. Have lunch with me, coffee, anything. I just need to see you."

Fine. Lunch. Throw the dog a bone. I called him back while waiting in line at Starbucks for my iced coffee. Told him to meet me there at 12:30 for lunch.

"It will not come soon enough."

Yes, it will.

When I went down at lunch to meet him I was desperately trying to remember what he looked like. I certainly remembered other aspects of his physical person but my vision, as I mentioned earlier, was a little blurry when we were face-to-face. When I saw the tall, gangly body walking toward me I wasn't unhappy. When I saw the broken, craggy, crooked, smiling face leering down at me my heart plummeted. This was going to be work. He bent down and tried to pull me into him but I sidestepped and held out my hand. Hi.

"Steeeevie. I missed you."

Uh huh. Well. There's a pizza place around the corner. Let's go grab a slice. I'm going to keep my phone on me, sorry, because things are really busy at work and my boss might need me.

He tried to put his arm around my shoulder on the way over. I pulled away. He talked, I'm sure about something. I asked about his work, not uninterested in his life as a painter. When he asked me questions I skillfully turned them around. He didn't order food. And he stared at me the entire time, a look between in his eyes somewhere between lust and obsession. I'm familiar with that look. I see it all the time. Just usually not turned on me.

I put away two slices of pizza faster than a contestant on the Biggest Loser and pretended like me phone was vibrating. I then proceeded to have a hurried and stressful pretend conversation with my boss and told the Painter that I was needed back at the office ASAP. He was very understanding and asked if I wanted him to walk me back and I said, No. I have to run.

And run I did; four blocks across Times Square and into the safe arms of 1450 Broadway. Of course by the time I got back I had a message from the Painter. I didn't listen. Over the course of the next week or so, he continued to call. I would delete his messages without even listening to them. These persisted for over a week until I finally convinced my Texas friend, the Artistic Director, to call the Painter, posing as my wife. And threaten the painter to stop calling and harassing me as I was married. She did. But she forgot to block her called ID so the Psycho, I mean, the Painter started calling Texas. And more calls to me.

"Stevie," his tone was decidedly different. "Who is this woman who calls saying to be your wife? I do not understand. You must call me, Stevie. It is important. I need you."

Uhm. I'm not calling.

Then a few weeks later, I get a call from the Artistic Director. A painting has shown up for me. What is she to do? Throw it away. Burn it. I don't care. Just get rid of it. Although I kind of wanted to see it. But the Painter had stopped calling. And I would never visit the Hole again.