What a crazy week itís been. I've been stocking this girl. I know, I know... I'm supposed to say I've been stalking this "woman." But old habits die hard, one supposes.
Itís weird too, when youíre young, if youíre stalking someone, you have all the energy in the world Ė stand in the rain, run after the street car, but when you get a little bit older, itís like, "well, canít I just call and hang up?" "Canít I just watch ĎThe Nationalí instead?"
But anyway, I bought a chair, the little one you see people at the Jayís game in, just so I have my own seat. I mean, just because Iím stalking, which by nature is an obsessive and cowardly act, doesnít mean I canít have the dignity of my own chair.
So Iím walking my chair to its spot (beside the dumpster) by the backdoor apartment building, and by the way, let me further complain, sheís on the seventh floor! How in Godís green planet are you gonna stock someone on the 7th floor? I can barely see what sheís doing. Iím always looking up. I have to go to the chiropractor all the time because itís so hard on my neck. He says, "Hey Bruce, whatís wrong with your neck?" His name is Mr. Fugazi (I think the band named themselves after him Ė you donít want to know).
So Iím taking my little chair to its sweet spot and thereís another guy there. Heís stalking my girl too. So we get to talking, heís actually a really nice guy. He starts telling me all these horror stories about how bad his knees are from climbing in "said dumpster" and sifting through her garbage, you know, looking for something with her smell on itÖ
So we decide that weíre gonna share her. I mean weíre obsessed with her Ė the way her yoga bag is slung over her shoulder as she exits the apartment, the way sheíll ride her bike and give cab drivers the finger if they cut her off, the way sheíll wolf down all the free samples at Starbucks Ė you know, the things we like about a woman. I mean weíre obsessive, but, weíre practical.
And then I started feeling like the whole thing wasnít working. Iíd show up late, heíd be reading his Chaucer book and when he'd tell me stuff like, "I think sheís watching 'Survivor,' I can tell by the way her light flickers on her blinds," I just didnít care.
So this morning, I took matters into my own hands. I decided I had to break up with her. She comes out of work, (she works at a used bookstore), and yes, there is an injunction about me going within 300 feet of the door, and to be honest, Iíd kind of nodded off. So she gets on her bike, about 100 feet from me, and I start springing down the street, screaming, "I donít want to harm you, I just want to break up with you. This isnít working anymore. Itís over. Itís over."
And just as I get close to the red light, I hear a snap. I thought at first it was this really cool figurine that was bouncing around in my fanny pack, but it was my knee. She took off around the corner and looked back, and our eyes locked. And the moment I was letting her go, I think, is the only moment she ever understood me.