I had a stalker in college. I’m not sure for what duration as I only encountered the person once face-to-face.
I worked as office staff for the University of Missouri; more specifically for the reference department in Ellis Library. It was a typical 8-5 professional job and I walked to and from work, my apartments located variously around campus through my 2-year tenure at Ellis.
One fall day, only a few months into my new position, I walked home towards East Stewart; 15 minutes from the library on the west side of campus. It was seasonably warm, a beautiful sun setting and fall leaves gold, but still dangling from trees. A few minutes into the walk, I realized, glancing over my shoulder, that there was someone close behind me, a shorter girl who was keeping pace a few strides back. She was so much shorter, in fact, and bearing such a large backpack, that I assumed she was just another student, bolting from campus in the waning sunlight.
But after a few minutes of this, I noticed that she was not in such a rush as to pass me, but not so slow as to be left behind; she was keeping my exact pace. I quickly grew suspicious and found that if I slowed, she slowed, and if my step quickened, hers did as well. She stayed inches behind my heels for the next several minutes. Wanting to turn and see if I recognized her face, I slowed and stopped, turning to speak to her. I did not recognize her, and uttered nervously, “I’m sorry, do I…” to which she seemed baffled and did not make eye contact. “Never mind,” I said turning, continuing on my way. She resumed the uncomfortable space between us.
We reached the final stoplight before the home stretch to my apartment and now my heart raced and throat grew tight as she stood behind me, waiting for the stoplight. I turned once again, looking into her face for recognition, but finding only an aloof girl who looked like a graduate student, staring into the distance as if she didn’t see me. When the light turned green, I hurried across the street and she hurried with me, twice stepping on the heel of my shoes.
In my head, I planned to walk directly into my house without stopping, and assumed she’d not be so bold as to follow me. I was wrong. We reached the steps to my porch and it was clear that she was not headed to another location. I turned fully, terrified, and said, “Can I help you with something? I don’t know you.”
She paused a moment, and spoke with chilling aggressiveness, “Now you know how it feels.” “What?” I replied. “You’ve been stalking me,” she said.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” I said. “I don’t know who you are!”
She had a brief moment of confused blankness and continued, “You’ve been stalking me and now you know how it feels to be stalked.”
“I haven’t been stalking you. I don’t know who you are!” I said and backed into the house, locking the door. I went into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, then to the window of the front door, where I saw her walking around the house, looking in windows. I called my friend Amanda, telling her what happened, and she advised me to call 911 immediately.
I checked other windows and did not see the girl. Thinking she was gone, I went to my room in the basement where I had a minor panic attack. Moments later there was an explosive sound of busting glass. I raced upstairs to the front door, where she stood, her right hand covered in dripping blood. She had punched out a window pane in my front door, and stood somewhat calmly, as though she were a UPS driver that had rung the bell and waited patiently to drop off a package.
Still holding the knife, I opened the door and she backed away. What follows embarrasses me, as my naivety could have caused me great physical harm, but in that moment I felt sad for her; a quick, stupid bite of compassion. “Are you okay?” I asked. She stood, her head shaking, “You stalked me. Now you know how it feels.” Her hand was vibrantly red with streaming blood. “Do you need help?” I said referring to the hand. “Oh, you’d love that,” she said, backing away.
“Wait!” I said. “Who are you?” She turned and jogged back towards campus. I called 911; it was maybe 15 minutes when a police officer arrived on the scene. She was a late-30s woman, stockily built with hair pulled tight into a bun. I recalled the story quickly, panicked, and when she asked me if I wanted to press charges (if they found her), I couldn’t shake the feeling that this girl was indeed deeply sick, likely off whatever medication she obviously needed. She seemed genuinely spooked by the feeling of being stalked, whether it was real or imagined. More than anything, she seemed like someone tormented. Again, my dumb instincts were in opposition to the angry desire for retribution I should have felt. I told the officer, “No. Not if she was actually stalked.”
The officer smirked tightly and looked perturbed; her time had been wasted. I asked, “What do I do if she comes after me again?” The officer replied matter-of-factly, as if to confirm the brutal, cynical nature of life on Earth, “If someone wants to hurt you, they will. You can’t prepare for it. The best you can do is be aware of who’s around you and not put yourself in dangerous environments.”
I got a call from the officer an hour later. “We followed the blood stains on the sidewalk into a Taco Bell bathroom and then they disappear. No one saw her enter or leave the restaurant. Since you don’t want to press charges, we’re closing the investigation. Let us know if you see her again and want to press charges.”
I only saw the stalker again once. She was at a bar, my bar, The Heidleberg, sitting alone at a table on the patio. I didn’t confront her and she didn’t seem to notice me. She drank alone as I sat with friends and left shortly thereafter. In retrospect, I feel like I had seen her before the incident, using a computer at the library, one of a few hundred on the main floor, but somewhat near my office.
I can only hypothesize as to the truth of the situation. Maybe she had targeted me for some time or maybe she had just chosen me that particular day. Why me and not someone else? Maybe she was actually being stalked by someone who looked like me or maybe she was just experiencing some psychotic episode of fear and paranoia and it was completely random. Why didn’t she try to hurt me, why instead herself in punching my window? Is she still alive, were there others stalked besides me? Who is this person?
The reality is that I could have been killed by this, or any, person; if she had a knife that day, she could easily have exercised her wrath upon me. One of the awful truths is that anyone in public can attempt to kill anybody else at any time. And could have I stabbed a 5’3″ 20-something girl in self-defense? Fended myself with only my hands against a knife-wielder? Thank God I didn’t have to find out. But it was within the realm of possibility; it always is.
Now I live in NYC; perceived as one of the more dangerous cities in America. There are muggings every day; unpredictable bursts of ugliness and cruelty from faceless shadows. People I know have been mugged; it seems something of an inevitability if you live here long enough. The only way to live sanely is to largely ignore the threat of such attacks; the gazelle approach on the Serengeti. Keep an eye on your surroundings, take long strides and react quickly. I try not to carry anything in my right hand. I hope for the best and stay alert for the worst. But that officer’s words are true: “If someone wants to hurt you, they will.” Strangers, friends, enemies; one is never so safe as to live beyond danger’s grasp. This is true whether you’re in Brooklyn, NY or Newburg, MO.
In my short performing life, I have had the experience of meeting uncomfortably enthusiastic “fans” before. Devoted audience members that seemed obviously afflicted with autism or Asperger’s, insisting rabid, somewhat emotional allegiance to me or my group. And when the inevitable, annoyed request for “group time” after a show lands clearly, I have felt twinges of fear at the hurt in their eyes, when they didn’t understand why their genuine love would not be reciprocated. This has happened with maybe three individuals in seven years, but it is the same each time.
It gives me pause when thinking of the future. Sure, it’s arrogant to ask, but am I putting myself at extra risk by devoting myself to excellence in entertainment? To being funny and likable onstage?. I’ve seen and read enough accounts of celebrities stalked by obsessive fans to know the stakes involved. Loneliness can torment a certain type of demented individual, one that seeks a delusional “ultimate connection” with their beloved idol; creative products and entertaining performances are not enough. Athletes and politicians face this to some extent, but musicians and actors face the factor to an elevated degree.
I’d hypothesize that these types of artists reveal a “personal self” that is intended to resonate with audiences, whereas the performance of athletes or the persona of politicians are less naked or emotional. It is an art product, rather than a physical feat or embodiment of ideology. A fan does not respond to shear level of fame, but rather to the idea that they are somehow “the same” as the artist. A Peyton Manning touchdown is thrilling, but ultimately unconnected to the fan’s personality; they could never play at that level. A Ryan Gosling scene, or a John Lennon song, reaches to the unconscious depths, and stirs up a feeling of simpatico that can lead to derangement. Suddenly people feel like Lennon wrote that song for them, or that they understand Brando and just know they’d be best friends, or sometimes they try to drive a truck through Eddie Vedder’s front door.
The world is dangerous, but we go on living; I can’t live life in fear, because there are enough frightening realities to keep one indoors 24-7 if one really gives pause to count them all. All I can do is stay alert, pray for protection, and barrel ahead with full steam.
