Fictional, Augustin Burroughs-style story here…
It’s really one of the most riveting feelings you can have. When I was much younger my delusions ranged from New York Islanders right winger to becoming an actual, modern day, real-life Indiana Jones. When you grow old, and you begin to accept that life correlates with reality much stronger than it does with short term dreams, you start to bring about vastly different fantasies.
My favorite method of fake stalking is with women I don’t know. First off, the fact that she has no idea who I am already puts me in a much safer place. The last thing I want is for my target to think I’m an actual stalker. I’ll walk west towards High Street, the main road in Columbus, and scope out the situation on the opposite sidewalk. The goal here is to find a woman who is attractive, heading in the same direction I am, and ideally looks to be about two to three years younger than me.
It’s not a prerequisite for my candidates, but more often than not the young woman will end up being a blond. This is not a conscious decision to weed out the brunettes, but I like to think that most real stalkers go after women who are different from the norm, therefore making them a unique future girlfriend and then subsequently becoming stalk-worthy. I probably ought to be fake stalking women that resemble foreign Goddesses, but if I ever were to get caught, I fear that the target would not end up a foreign Goddess at all. Instead, she’ll be a thugged-out psychopath from the projects who’s rage is only topped by that of her brother’s. I’d certainly love to read that headline: Local loser gunned down outside the ghetto – motive unknown. Sadly, I’m sure my assassin would be made out to be the bad guy.
Blonds are beautiful, and in a way they’ve become the contemporary American equivalent of an ethnic woman. Much of being an American is finding a strange, undefinable mix where life is unique in ways only we can identify, while simultaneously fitting into every imaginable stereotype — creating the illusion of normalcy. Dating, or more importantly, screwing a blond woman is the perfect way to satisfy both cravings. She’s not like your typical woman yet there are millions of them. We’ve put them on a pedestal just low enough for a retard to reach.
In addition, I like to pick someone who’s wearing sunglasses. You have to understand that this really is just a fantasy. In order for the fantasy to be fulfilled I need the session to be successful. If the girl were to spot me pretending to stalk them than the rush will completely evaporate. It’d sort of be like sporting a flaccid penis during a wet dream with Jessica Simpson. It’s never fun to fail during your fantasy. Not to mention getting caught fake stalking would quite possibly make me the saddest human being to ever do anything, ever. If the woman is wearing sunglasses then I won’t be able to see her eyes, and if I can’t see her eyes then even if I do get caught I’ll never know it. I’ll usually rock a pair of glare-free, CVS quality shades in my own right just to fit the stalker persona. The rest of my wardrobe is irrelevant. Once I put on those glasses I immediately transform into the most mischievous, malicious stalker in central Ohio. Not only does the world get darker, but a black trench coat magically wraps itself around my Dr. Pepper logo t-shirt and nylon shorts.
Finally, the most essential piece of the project is my I-Pod. What’s the use of stalking a woman without the proper theme music? A few favorites of mine for the fake stalking are Radiohead’s All I Need, Howie Day’s Ghost, and a song entitled Happiness: We’re In This Together from the up-and-coming post-rock band This Will Destroy You. Each song brings about it’s own interpretation of the stalker that particular afternoon. All I Need is when I’m the uncontrollably creepy stalker. Ghost is for the guy who’s actually, really in love, and Happiness: We’re In This Together is for some poor bastard who’s been deformed by a horrific accident and has lost the woman of his dreams. Sort of a rip-off of Cameron Crow’s Vanilla Sky, but hey, I never said the fantasies are 100% authentic.
Fake stalking became one of my favorite things to do during the day. I skipped a lot of classes, I wasn’t working, and I was getting just enough money from my parents to pay my bills with roughly $1.75 to spare. It was initially all I could afford, but I eventually found myself passing up going to the movies with friends just for a leisurely afternoon of fake stalking any woman I could. We’re always looking for a way to feel better about ourselves. In my experience I’ve found that women tend to passive-aggressively demoralize their fellow lady with snide comments that mask their own insecurities. Men will flat out ridicule each other with no regard. Fake stalking became a safe alternative to the bullshit that comes with being in your low twenties. I tried to avoid drama in my own life and resorted to creating inconsequential scenarios in a fake one.
One of the hardest things a person of my character will ever experience is coming to the realization that it’s not likely I’ll make it as a writer. It’s almost as reasonable to believe that I’ll be the first asshole to walk on Mars. Just like anything, it’s not necessarily about talent in the literary world. What do you know? Who do you know? Where have you been? Yada yada yada. The industry is massive, contradicting and intimidating. Also, I have a mind-numbing fear inside me that we’re all going to stop reading entirely within the next 50 years.
With this in mind, this depressing, evolving mindset in place, I find myself trying to be a creator within my own fantasies just as often as I try to do so with the pen. Fake stalking is just one of many ways to impose inexistent storylines on existing people. The world is too big and I’m too small and without the illusion that I understand each and every one of you, I’m worthless. So I create. Even as I write this in one of the administrative buildings at Ohio State University, I occasionally glance up from my lap top and look at the people eating and conversing throughout the cafe. All of them have stories to tell but none of them are relevant to my life. I swear, I’d go mad if it weren’t for my disposition.
With a tune in place, the shades holstered onto my stupid face, and the primary target identified, I’d commence with the fake stalking procedure. I’d leave the directors chair in my head and transform into the actor on the screen. The world was the studio and I the protagonist. There were no villains because somehow, my tale would bring about the lovable stalker, sort of like Ben Stiller in There’s Something About Mary. I liked to be just a tad creepier than Ben just to give my guy a little more pizazz. He’s conflicted. Misunderstood. A good guy deep down if only she’d give him a chance.
The fake stalking itself is just as fun as planning it out and picking the girl. From this point forward I fall completely out of control and I’m victim to her free will as well as the world around us. Traffic lights, a nearby friend she stops to chat with, Starbucks, time, plans, rout decisions. All of this and much more comes into play. I feel like a cornerback in the NFL, only able to react to my target and hope to keep up. Regardless of how everything transpires, I manage to find similarities between what’s happening with the girl and the music seeping through my headphones. Each note correlates precisely and dramatically with the fake stalking – progressing magnificently and climaxing at just the right moments. There’s no room for an editor to make it work better so I trick myself into believing that everything is perfect as it is.
I continue along on the opposite side of High Street watching her every move. She whips the hair out from in front of her face just the way she would have if we had lunch together five months and eleven days earlier. I’d slip through the crowd over on my side of High Street. They’re not longer people to me, just road blocks. I need to make my way through them while possessing at least some semblance of smoothness. I need to be majestic, almost wave-like as I move along. My character must be cool, otherwise his stalking is unwarranted — his efforts futile. You don’t see stalkers in the movies getting caught up in awkward “who-goes-what-way?” with the locals. Walking down the sidewalk in rhythm with another unaware person is a lot easier said than done – especially when you have to simultaneously attempt to synchronize your efforts with I-Pod music. This is just as much a reality show as it is a cinematic feature. Sure, it’s all bullshit, but there are a handful of tangible factors that affect the production.
The majority of students at Ohio State live east of campus, which usually means the girl will make her way over to my side of High Street. When this happens, even though she would be fine with my presence, I have to disguise it in the name of the fantasy. If she makes her turn on the corner of 18th and High, I’ll duck into the doorway by Buckeye Donuts. 14th and High would mean a trip into Starbucks or a local New York style Pizzeria, The Flying Pizza. The hardest times are when the girl decides to cross over in between 15th and 17th avenue. The businesses all run parallel to each other with no indented doorways to sneak into. Usually I’ll resort to grabbing a U-Weekly from one of the newspaper stands and whisper “whew… close call” under my breath as she passes just a few feet away.
The most intense times are after the girl turns off High. Obviously, the pedestrian traffic diminishes once leaving the main road. This makes it increasingly difficult to walk along behind her without being spotted. Even in reality the girl might find it weird if I’m trailing along behind all the way to her apartment. There are a lot of creeps out there, and while I’m not one of them, I certainly fit the description with my actions. I sometimes wonder if these deliberate invasions of personal space are identified by my subjects. Fuck, I wonder if they’re identified by family and friends. Do any of us really know how we’re perceived?
During these periods on the side streets I finally start to deviate from the stalking aspect of the walk and start re-creating the back-story behind my actions. I will also, in all likelihood, come off increasingly suspect. I’ll turn off my headphones, pocket them, and start speeding up my pace behind the girl. Usually her pace will remain the same because she’s not necessarily worried about me and feels the need to make that point clear. Women this millennium move about with unprecedented confidence, at times to a fault. If I were a real stalker it would have better suited her to run the rest of the way home.
But as it is, I’m not a real stalker, and providing her apartment isn’t right off of High Street I’m usually able to catch up. When I do, I justify that somehow, someway, this woman can tell that I’m a New Yorker and the elevated pace is brought into context.
“Excuse me, do you have the time?” I’ll say.
This too gives off the impression that I was in a rush and was heading somewhere important. I wasn’t speeding up behind her for her, but for some other colossal event. She’ll fiddle through her purse, revealing to me her mannerisms and how she responds to strangers, furthering my understanding of her personality. Her voice then is the biggest indicator of who she is and what she’s all about. I’ll make assumptions about her childhood, love life and aspirations just from a how she iterates three or four numbers. Eye-contact is key. Does she look at me or does she answer while staring straight through her purse? Does she smile? Does she respond affectionately if I smile in gratitude? Does she begin moving forward again as she’s responding or does she remain stationary and attentive throughout the answer?
All of this gives a personality to the blond bombshell I followed so aggressively. It also gives me a chance to view her up-close and note the imperfections on her face. I don’t necessarily mean imperfections as a negative thing. Again, all of this is about the development of her character, and in way, the development of mine. It she gives off the impression that she’s a horrifying bitch of a woman, it means my guy eventually realized she wasn’t the right one and lived the meandering life of a care-free bachelor. If she’s the sweetheart I’m hoping for it means the stalking didn’t serve as an action that helped me realize the truth, but rather the tactic which eventually got me the girl. On the rare occasion she ignores me or says she doesn’t have the time, it brings me back to the creep who doesn’t understand the word “no” and the ending to my story becomes that of an overly Emo Indie film.
No matter how the story ends, I’m always left with two things. The first of which is my creation. Whether inspiring or pathetic, I created something – something that hadn’t existed before and will never exist again. It’s a story that’ll never be told and within a day or two will be completely forgotten even by me. Still, if only for a moment, it was real. The personalities were flesh and blood. It was a tale equipped with in-depth characters, an inspirational musical score, and a wardrobe that materialized right before my eyes, right inside my head. The story needs no moral to be entertaining and it adapts to the reality it was imposed on.
The other thing I’m left with is a longer walk home. When my roommate would ask what took so long to pick up a bag of Cheez-Its, I simply tell him that I took the longer route back. The evening was too beautiful to be spent inside my apartment.
