Love Creeps

by Amanda Filipacchi

  “I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Don’t you dare! Don’t—you—dare.”

  He was silent. She hung up.

  He did not call back. He drove to New York and checked into a hotel. He bought her flowers. He bought her a ring. He followed her down the street, dropping a penny.

  “I’m sorry. I love you,” he said, walking next to her, holding out the little black box.

  She eyed it without moving her head. “It’s over, Roland. I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Oh, please just take this gift. Then my heart will be at ease.”

  She stopped, opened the box. Inside was a diamond ring, as she had expected. She snapped the box shut, handed it back to him, and resumed walking. “Thanks. Lovely gesture. But I’m finished with you, Roland.”

  Roland sniffed. Tears were running down his high cheekbones. “I love you, Lynn. I need you. I need you for now at least. I don’t think I can live without you. If you’re sure you don’t want to spend the rest of your life with me, can’t you at least wean me gradually, not so abruptly? Please. It’s too cruel otherwise.”

  Lynn rolled her eyes. “You are ridiculous. Why don’t you look into Stalkaholics Anonymous? Alan said it was very helpful.” She hailed a cab, hopped in, and left him standing on the sidewalk with his flowers and ring.

  Lynn was headed for the restaurant where she knew Alan was having dinner with his girlfriend.

  When she got there she sat at a table away from theirs, and watched them.

  The next day, Lynn followed Alan down the street. He went to have a massage. When he came out, forty-five minutes later, she went in and asked to be massaged by the same person who had just massaged Alan.

  She asked the masseuse to massage her exactly the way she had massaged Alan with all of Alan’s preferences. Lynn tried to imagine being Alan, receiving the massage.

  Following Alan and being near him made Lynn feel warm and comfortable. Watching him gave her pleasure. She wondered if Alan had truly changed as much as she thought he had, or if the change had taken place in her, instead. To find out, she dragged Patricia on one of her stalking outings.

  They sat at a table with a good view of Alan while he was having lunch with someone.

  Lynn asked her assistant, “So, is it me or is it him? Do you see a big difference in him or not?”

  Under her bushy eyebrows, Patricia gazed at Alan. “Yes,” she said, “the difference is that he’s not stalking you anymore.”

  “No! I’m not talking about that. Doesn’t he seem … normal?”

  “Yes, but why does that excite you so much? You know a lot of normal people. Or maybe you don’t, actually. Maybe you’ve been hanging out too long in the art world. Perhaps you should frequent some bankers or lawyers or something.”

  “But isn’t it impressive how normal he seems now, considering how weird he was before?”

  “Lynn, what are you doing with yourself, with your life?” Patricia said, leaning toward her boss emphatically, her long hair dangerously close to dipping in the olive oil. “You can’t go around following this guy. What do you want from him? Do you want to date him? If so, ask him out on a date. Don’t follow him.”

  “I can’t, he has a girlfriend.” Lynn paused. “Look at him, it’s not a change in superficial things like clothes or even body weight or muscle tone or hairdo. It’s a change in the core, and it radiates outward. The people I’ve seen him with seem to like him more. No one used to like him. Now, even his clothes like him. They embrace him in a more loving way, as if they’re proud to be associated with such a great guy. Their pride is evident in the way they hang on him.”

  Patricia was no longer observing Alan, but Lynn. “Why have you become obsessed with him?”

  Lynn thought about it. “I guess because I assume that if someone can change that much, he must be an extraordinary person.”

  Day after day, Lynn followed Alan down the street, and Roland followed her. Ray the homeless man was becoming tormented, tempted. He had noticed the change in the stalking direction, the stalking order. His curiosity twitched. He was afraid he might lose his faculties. He still wanted to resist the lure and tried to downplay the situation in his mind. They’re always enticing at first, but I shouldn’t be fooled. Sure, they do things like change their stalking order, but it doesn’t mean anything. They inevitably disappoint.

  The summer semester was approaching, and Alan tried to decide what classes he would take. He was drawn to a class called How to Say No Without Feeling Guilty (And Yes! to More Time). He marveled at how far he had come, because two semesters ago he considered signing up for practically the opposite class, called How to Get Anyone to Return Your Phone Call.

  In the end he signed up for map-reading, swimming, and beading.

  Alan went to the first class of his map-reading course in high spirits. He arrived at 6:45 P.M., fifteen minutes early. To his horror, Lynn followed him into the classroom. She sat two chairs away, and he stared at her in amazement.

  “You can’t take this class,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because this is my class.”

  “But you’re sharing it with these other people,” she said, motioning toward the seated students.

  “You’re not interested in this class,” Alan said.

  “Yes I am.”

  At that moment, Roland entered the classroom and sat between them.

  Alan and Lynn looked at him, horrified. Alan said, “You guys should not take this class. It’s very bad for you.”

  “Why?” they both asked.

  “You don’t even know what class this is, do you?”

  “No, what class is it?” Roland asked, suddenly alarmed.

  “It’s called Lost in Space: Map-reading for the Geographically Bewildered.”

  Roland laughed and blushed on Alan’s behalf. His laugh, this time, came out as a long “Nnnn” sound, with only a little bit of jiggling and wavering to indicate it was a laugh. “I see what you mean. We might die of boredom or embarrassment.”

  “No. You guys are stalkers. Not even in recovery, like me. This class is just going to stimulate your stalking urges even more.” Alan was trying to speak in a low voice, which a quick look at the other students assured him was not low enough. They were glancing at each other with curious expressions on their faces.

  “Why would it stimulate our stalking urges?” Lynn asked, like a rapt student.

  “Because this class has to do with space, geography, destination, traveling, which are all elements of stalking. Not to mention the element of following. Following a map.”

  Roland was midway through an eye roll when the teacher walked in, saying loudly, “What is a map? A map is an overview of something. It allows you to see things in perspective. Don’t you wish everything in life were as easy as following a map?”

  “No,” Alan said. “I wish following a map was as easy as everything else in life, or I wouldn’t be in this class.” There were some chuckles.

  “I want each of you to tell us about a time when you were lost. If you cannot recall a time when you were lost, I want you out of this class.”

  When it was Alan’s turn to speak, he said, “It’s hard for me to recall a time when I was not lost. I’ve been lost my whole life. I’m a recovered stalker, you see, and most stalkers become stalkers because of what psychologists call an ‘attachment disorder,’ stemming from the childhood absence of a caring and consistent parent or guardian, usually in the first six years of life. But that wasn’t the case with me. What caused me to become a stalker was my poor sense of direction. The first time I was lost, as a young child, was traumatizing. It was in Central Park, and I finally just started following someone, hoping she knew where she was going and that her knowledge would rub off on me. Well, it didn’t, but it introduced me to the sick pleasure of following. Ironically, having a poor sense of direction is very inconvenient for a stalker, because it makes it hard for him to find his way home.”
>
  The teacher raised his eyebrows and turned his attention to Roland. “What about you?”

  Roland decided to call the teacher’s bluff. “I’ve never been lost.”

  “Think harder,” the teacher said. “I’m sure there was a time when you were lost. Otherwise, I want you out of this class.”

  “Well,” Roland said, softly dropping a paper clip under his desk, “I don’t know if it counts, but I’m lost now. I’m lost as to what I’m doing in this class.”

  The teacher stared hard at Roland and suddenly turned away, saying, “Yeah, it counts.” He paused. “Now, let’s talk about the map-reading personality, people who have an easy time reading maps versus those who don’t, and what it means. As one may suspect, people who have a hard time reading maps are often more creative.”

  Alan realized he must be the exception to that rule.

  “And the ones who are good at reading maps,” resumed the teacher, looking at Roland and Lynn, “are often more analytical, more orderly, more anal, everything you would expect.”

  “Less loved?” Alan asked.

  “No, not less loved,” the teacher said.

  “More loved?” Roland asked.

  “No, I wouldn’t say that either,” the teacher said. He then opened a small suitcase and took out various maps. He placed them on his desk one by one, saying, “I’ve brought a lot of maps. Here’s a map of a department store. And this is one of your psyche. And this one helps you find your way around in life. This little green map helps you find out what you really want.”

  Alan stood up, relieved that he had an excuse not to take this class with his stalker and his stalker’s stalker. “I’m sorry,” he said to the teacher, picking up his shoulder bag, “I made a mistake. I thought this was going to be a class about how to read real maps.”

  “Oh no, please don’t leave,” the instructor said. “I can teach you to read any kind of map you want. I have astrological maps, cooking maps, maps of the heart, body, and soul. Sexual maps, athletic maps, morality maps, antique maps.”

  Alan shook his head. “I’m sorry, that’s not at all what I had in mind when I signed up for this class.”

  He was about to take a step toward the door when the teacher exclaimed, “Sit down! I was kidding.”

  Alan was too stunned to sit back down, so the teacher told the whole class to get up, and announced that they would all be going into the subway and begin the course by learning how to read subway maps.

  The teacher locked arms with Alan, to prevent him from slipping away, and led him toward the door. As Alan passed the teacher’s desk, he glanced at the maps scattered on top of it. The titles of the maps were, “Map of the Mind,” “Map of the Heart,” “Athletic Map,” and “Sexual Map.”

  Once they were down in the subway station, they stood on the platform facing a large map of New York City. The teacher, whose arm was still locked with Alan’s, said to him loudly, “Why don’t you tell us what train we should take to go to … let’s say Union Square.”

  Alan felt mildly insulted at the ease of it. He told them the Number 6, they all took it, and when they came out the exit the teacher asked him which way was north and which way was south. Alan didn’t know, and when he guessed, he got it wrong.

  Secretly on the verge of tears, but hiding it well, Alan said, “I’d rather we go back to reading the maps of the heart and of the mind.”

  The professor seemed pleased and said, “Fine. What’s the quickest way to make someone love you?”

  “Not by stalking them, that’s for sure,” Alan muttered, glaring at Lynn and Roland.

  “To treat them well?” a student volunteered.

  “What are you talking about? This is a map-reading class, not a psychology class. I need facts, concrete information,” the teacher said.

  They were all stumped.

  “Through the stomach?” Lynn ventured.

  The teacher snorted and took the students back down into the subway. “We will now learn how to ask people for directions. Roland, you begin. Ask the first person who walks by how to get to Times Square.”

  Roland categorically refused, saying he would never, under any circumstance, ask anyone for directions. “I always know where I’m going.”

  “And where are you going now?” the teacher asked.

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m sitting on this bench.”

  “That’s exactly right. Your life is going nowhere, and when you do move, you are headed toward a life of misery. You gotta know where you wanna go.” He turned to Alan. “Let me ask you, Alan. Where do you want to go?”

  Alan was thinking furiously, when the teacher added, “In life.”

  Alan sighed with relief and said, “I want to have a well-balanced life and be completely free from stalking urges.”

  The teacher nodded. “And you?” he addressed Lynn.

  “I want to be loved by this man,” she said, pointing to Alan.

  “And you?” the teacher asked Roland.

  “I want to be loved by her,” Roland said, pointing to Lynn.

  “Fine. I’ll bring you maps next week that will show you the ways to those places.”

  Roland grunted.

  “Do you have a problem?” the teacher asked him.

  “What kind of class is this?”

  “THIS IS A MAP-READING CLASS!” the teacher screamed. “Goals are in places. I will give you maps to reach your goals. I will teach you how to read those maps. What more do you want from me? Isn’t that enough?”

  “That is a lot,” Roland said. “I just have a slight quibble with your notion that goals are in places.”

  “In life,” the teacher explained, “you can reach your goals through various means, and one of many means is physically. There is a place for everything. Haven’t you heard that before?”

  “Yes, but generally for cleaning,” someone said.

  “There is a place, and time, for everything. Unfortunately, in some of your cases, the time has passed. Once the time passes, you can still get to where you want to go by knowing where it is.”

  “Hi, Lynn,” Lynn heard someone say, who she feared was not from the class. Lynn was sitting on the back of the bench, her feet on the bench, with the rest of the students. She turned in the direction of the voice. It was a very competitive gallery owner with her co-owner husband.

  “Hi, Tracy, hi, John,” Lynn said wearily, not getting up.

  “What are you doing?” Tracy asked.

  Lynn looked at them without answering right away, just nodding her head slightly. “I’m with some friends, just hangin’ out.”

  “In the subway?” Tracy smiled. “Your gang?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” the teacher said to the couple, “but you are interrupting my class.”

  “Oh. What kind of class?”

  “Map-reading,” the teacher said, bowing his head slightly.

  The couple tried to hide only their amusement, not their surprise. “Sorry,” they said, and waved Lynn good-bye.

  At the next class, the professor said he had found the maps they wanted.

  On Lynn’s map was an arrow pointing to a town in Westchester, with a handwritten street address and the words, “Intersection of Alan’s love” written underneath.

  On Roland’s map was an arrow pointing to a town in Long Island and a handwritten name of a road and of a field called Simple Plain Field, followed by the words, “Deserted field of Lynn’s love,” in parenthesis.

  On Alan’s map was an arrow pointing to a town in New Jersey with a handwritten street address followed by the words, “Restaurant of balance and freedom from stalking urges for Alan.”

  The teacher said, “All you have to do is go to these places, and you will have those things you want.”

  “What is this, some kind of magic?” Roland asked.

  “No. Have you ever noticed in life how sometimes you get what you want unexpectedly, for no apparent reason, and long after you’ve
given up hope of getting that thing you wanted? Well, that’s usually because you’ve accidentally, unwittingly, stumbled upon the place where that thing can be gotten. For example, if you want a great job that has always eluded you, and let’s say your getting that job happens to be located under a certain tree in Central Park, and one day you’re strolling about, and by chance you happen to pass under that tree, well, you know what happens next.”

  “You get the job?” a student asked.

  “Yeah,” the teacher said. “I’m sure none of you believes me. And if you ever go to those places, and you don’t get what you want, it doesn’t mean this method is wrong, it just means the maps are wrong, or inaccurate. You can’t always trust your sources.”

  Despite their passionate desire to get what they wanted, neither Lynn, Alan, nor Roland believed in the maps one bit or had any intention of going to those locations.

  Alan was upset that Lynn and Roland were admitted into his Deep-Water Confidence class. They swam extremely well. It wasn’t fair they got in.

  The previous semester, Alan had taken the class called Petrified People Don’t Sink. The course catalog had described it as “A special class for those with a deep-seated fear of water. Talk about the cause of your fear and gently make the necessary adjustments and acclimation to the water.” When it had been Alan’s turn to talk about the cause of his fear, he had said he was afraid of what might be in the deep, to which someone had answered, “More chlorine.”

  Alan’s dream was to eventually pass the Lifeguard Training Pretest, the description of which was: “500-yard continuous swim using front crawl, sidestroke, and breaststroke. Surface dive and retrieve a ten-pound brick, return to surface. Tread water for two minutes using legs only. Must be 15 years of age on or before course end.” Ahh. Self-improvement was wonderful, but passing the Lifeguard Training Pretest was a long way away. Alan still could barely swim, and he was starting to suspect that what kept people afloat was not doing the right strokes but having the right personality.