Love Creeps

by Amanda Filipacchi

  He followed the strokes very precisely, like people who followed cooking recipes more closely than was necessary. One, two, three. As he swam, he was much more concerned with moving upward than forward. The result was that he didn’t advance very rapidly. He felt like a bug in a toilet and had the uneasy sensation someone was about to flush. He could feel himself sweating in the water. It didn’t help that Roland was swimming next to him, taunting him, trying to make him seem ridiculous in Lynn’s eyes, or that Lynn was swimming on his other side, staring at him lovingly, telling him to relax.

  “You’re sinking,” said Roland.

  “No, you’re not,” Lynn said. “I’ll save you if you are.”

  A Japanese woman in the class told him he might be a hammer, that in Japan people whose bones were so heavy that they had trouble staying afloat were called hammers. Alan loved that concept; he was undoubtedly a hammer. He hoped she would tell the swimming instructor.

  “So, Alan, let me ask you a question,” Roland said.

  Alan scowled, trying not to be distracted from the strokes.

  “Why didn’t you learn how to swim before now?”

  “Just never did,” Alan said.

  “Did you have some traumatic experience as a child, drifting in shark-infested waters for days, clinging to an inner tube?” Roland said, flipping onto his back and leisurely doing the backstroke alongside Alan. “I mean, you must have some pretty bad water memories, right?”

  “Wrong. I have just one, and it’s fond.”

  “Really. What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Aw, come on, tell me.”

  “No.” The passion with which he uttered that word made him momentarily lose track of where he was in the stroke pattern, and the water came up to his mouth, which unnerved him. He steadied himself.

  “Come on!” Roland said, loudly.

  “Shh,” Alan said.

  “Tell me!” Roland said, again loudly.

  “Damn you. I was in the ocean, lying on a floating raft, when I was five or six, and a woman helped me pet a mangofish. Are you happy?”

  Roland’s eyes opened wide. He switched to sidestroke, staring at Alan. “A mangofish.”

  “Yes, it’s a gentle fish that lets people pet it sometimes.”

  “And did you pet the fish?”

  “Yes.”

  Alan, Roland, and Lynn reached the end of the pool, turned around, and began the next lap.

  “What does a mangofish look like?” Roland asked.

  “I didn’t see it. It doesn’t like to be seen.”

  “But it likes to be petted. Hmm. What did it feel like?”

  “The way you would imagine a fish to feel.”

  “Which is?”

  “Soft and slippery.”

  “That woman didn’t, by any chance, say, ‘This is a perfect day for mangofish,’ did she?” Roland asked.

  Alan blanched, and chills coursed through his body, causing him to lose track of the stroke pattern again. The water came up to his nose, and he flailed and doggie-paddled up to the edge. Lynn was grabbing him around the waist, pressing the length of her whole body against his. She did not promptly let go of him when he was holding on to the edge. He had to push her away and say, “That’s enough, I’m fine.”

  Alan turned to Roland. “There is no way you could have known that. How did you know she said that?”

  “Lucky guess, I guess,” Roland said, treading water using legs only. Alan was annoyed because treading water using legs only was a feat that was attained only in the most difficult class, the class Alan was dreaming to be in one day, the Lifeguard Training Pretest class. Alan knew Roland knew that and was showing off.

  Roland said, “But listen, maybe one day you should tell a therapist that little story. Even though it’s a lovely memory, I’m sure a therapist would be able to whip up some explanation as to how it might be related to your avoidance of water.” Roland arched his back and did a backward somersault under the water.

  When Roland came back up, Alan repeated, “How did you know the woman said that?”

  Roland glanced at Lynn to see if she was impressed by his knowledge. His face sagged when he saw she was smiling at Alan beatifically.

  “Relax,” he said to Alan. “I went to Harvard, remember? Nothing beats a good education.”

  Alan blinked, awed by Roland’s vast and mysterious knowledge that had endowed him with such acute psychological insight that he was able to speculate as to what someone had said thirty years ago.

  “I suggest you read a short story called, ‘A Perfect Day for Bananafish,’ by J. D. Salinger,” Roland said. “You might gain some insight into why you never learned how to swim. Then again you might not.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Alan carefully let go of the edge and resumed the breaststroke. Lynn and Roland flanked him like pilot fish.

  The instructor told the class that the next week they would be learning how to turn over front to back to front, and how to perform deep-water bobs, and that in three weeks they might try some beginner synchronized figures.

  Two days later, Lynn was hosting an art opening at her gallery, looking at her watch. She knew Alan’s yoga class finished at seven o’clock, and she wanted to be there when it ended, so that she could stalk him for a few hours.

  At ten to seven, she walked over to Patricia, who was standing with a glass of white wine, talking to two artists. Lynn told her she was leaving.

  “You can’t leave now,” Patricia said. “Look who just walked in.”

  It was Aaron Golding, the senior curator of contemporary painting at the Met.

  “I can, and I will,” Lynn said.

  Patricia grabbed her arm hysterically. “Now Aggie just got here.”

  “I don’t care,” Lynn said, yanking her arm away. She walked out of her crowded gallery, avoiding eye contact with Aggie Slinger, the president of the Museum of Modern Art, and a very wealthy collector herself.

  A few months ago, Lynn would have considered any gallery owner who left her opening as Aggie arrived to be completely deranged. But now, Lynn ran to the gym and got there not a minute too soon. She followed Alan down the street. She checked behind her. Roland was following her.

  Alan tried to ditch his stalkers before going to his beading class. Alan was improved, but not perfect; he still had his insecurities. Last semester he hadn’t wanted his girlfriend to know he was taking a beading class, and this semester he didn’t want her to know he was continuing his beading studies. Jessica, being a detective, knew everything he did, and when he gave her some odd, beaded necklaces and said he had bought them for her, she knew he had actually made them.

  Alan thought he had succeeded in derailing his stalkers before arriving at his class, but he was wrong. They joined the class.

  They all got immersed in the beading and were quiet. You could hear Roland, faintly humming the song, “Ne me quitte pas.” Finally, he said to Lynn, “I’d be a lot happier if you weren’t so obsessed with Alan. I read maps better than he does. Or rather, I can read them, and he can’t. I sing better. I swim better, or rather, he can’t. And I bead better.”

  Alan didn’t say anything. He nobly continued stringing his inferior bracelet.

  Roland asked him, “Why did you decide to take this class, anyway?”

  “I thought I would enjoy it,” Alan said.

  “It’s always about you, isn’t it?” Roland said. “You thought you would enjoy it. What about us? I just don’t understand why you can’t pick more fun things to do, out of consideration for us poor stalkers who follow you. I mean, you knew we’d follow you. You know we can’t help it. If you were truly considerate, you would consult us as to which activities we could all enjoy.”

  “I’m enjoying all Alan’s classes,” Lynn said to Roland.

  “I think Alan does it on purpose,” Roland said, dropping a paper clip. “He chooses deadly boring activities to torture me.”

  Alan ignored them and tried to concentrate
on his beads. He had a feeling he had already screwed up the pattern. It was one blue, one red, one white. Or was it one red, one blue, one white? He couldn’t remember the order.

  The teacher took out some new beads, made of crystals. They were all the size of small peas, and she said each type of crystal had special metaphysical properties. She described those properties as she held each one up for the class to see.

  “Citrine is sometimes called the ‘success’ stone. It strengthens your willpower and lessens your mood swings.” She then held up a pale pink bead and said, “You probably all know that rose quartz is the ‘love stone.’ Dumortierite enhances organizational abilities, self-discipline, orderliness. Amethyst,” she said, holding up a translucent purple bead, “has been called the ‘addicts’ stone,’ because of its metaphysical property of diminishing addictions. Calcite helps you if you have a sense of being lost in spirit and if you have memory problems. Golden topaz increases creativity. Peridot lessens jealousy. Sugilite, also known as luvulite, helps you deal with shock and disappointment. Tourmaline enhances happiness. As for tektites, they are a type of glassy mineral believed to be of extraterrestrial origin. They increase your wisdom.”

  After only fifteen minutes of beading, Alan got irritated that Roland had hoarded all the creative beads—the golden topaz. Alan had only three of them. Roland had maybe forty. Alan watched as gorgeous beaded strings trickled from Roland’s fingers. And this was only his first semester. Alan tried to trade him the love beads for the creative beads. Roland declined.

  Then the teacher made the mistake of stepping out of the classroom for a few minutes. Roland still refused to trade beads. Alan’s sense of injustice mounted. In a moment of frustration, he secretly, discreetly, placed his three golden topaz beads, one by one, in his mouth, and swallowed them. He figured their creative powers would be more effective absorbed into his bloodstream.

  Lynn saw what he was doing, was at first disturbed, but when she realized the logic, thought it was clever, and began swallowing the love beads.

  Roland saw her, was horrified, and a moment later was doing the same, guzzling down pink quartz to win Lynn’s love, as well as golden topaz to bug Alan.

  The beads were rolling around on the table, as the three bead-eaters made a grab for them.

  Lynn’s cell phone rang. She was reluctant to interrupt her quest for beads, but on the third ring, she answered her phone. It was Arthur Crackalicci, one of her very rich clients. A year ago he had bought a painting for a hundred thousand dollars, which was her biggest sale.

  “Patricia is being very secretive as to your whereabouts, Lynn,” he said to her now.

  “That’s because she doesn’t know where I am,” Lynn said, antsily eyeing Alan, who was devouring the wisdom beads of extraterrestrial origin in hopes of improving his map-reading.

  “Great art opening, but you disappeared before I could say hello. Of course, I can’t be offended since you did the same to Aggie. My God, Lynn, Aggie of all people. Everyone was quite impressed. Now they think you’re more mysterious than ever. Who are you fucking? Who is more important than Aggie? I can’t think of anyone. Wait, is it the White House? Is that where you went? Where are you now?”

  “I’m in beading class, Arthur.”

  “Say again?”

  “Beading class,” she enunciated.

  “Why should you be embarrassed? Beading is a fine activity, I’m sure.”

  “I’m not embarrassed.”

  “Then why all the secrecy?”

  “I didn’t know I was going to beading class until I got here.”

  “Is this a new lifestyle you’re trying out? The Don’t-know-where-I’m-going-until-I-get-there lifestyle? The Walk-out-on-the-president-of-the-MoMA-for-an-unknown-destination-which-could-turn-out-to-be-beading-class lifestyle?”

  “Sort of,” Lynn said.

  “Well, I don’t want to keep you,” Arthur Crackalicci said, sighing. “I also wanted to know if you currently have some of Charlie Santi’s work, because a friend of mine wants to drop by your gallery next week to see some.”

  “I sure do. Great stuff. You should see his recent work. Tell your friend to come over, and you should come, too. I’ll talk to you soon.” She hung up.

  Interestingly, the tourmalines were left largely untouched, undoubtedly because the bead-eaters thought they could reach nirvana faster by eating specific facets of happiness. They also didn’t partake of the addicts’ beads, the memory beads, the success beads, the organizational beads, or the antijealousy beads, except one or two, by accident.

  Once all the most useful beads were in their stomachs, the bead-eaters resumed their beading.

  “I feel even more creative than before,” Roland said, glancing at Alan slyly. “It’s all that golden topaz I ate.”

  When the teacher came back, she wondered aloud where all the rose quartz and golden topaz had gone.

  One of the other students said, “They ate them.”

  More of the students confirmed this, and one added, “They’re nuts.”

  Roland and Lynn did not feel the need to explain or deny anything. They remained silent, staring down at the table. Alan, however, apologized, tried to make the teacher forgive him, feel sorry for him, not kick him out of the class. He gave her a sob story about being so artistically disinclined, and how he desperately wanted to try to squeeze some tiny drop of artistic ability out of himself, or into himself, or whatever, and he couldn’t stand the fact that Roland was better at it than he was.

  “Do any of you see a therapist?” the teacher asked.

  “I see a massage therapist,” Alan said.

  That night, the bead-eaters had stomachaches, particularly Alan. Jessica asked him whether he had eaten anything bad. He wouldn’t have minded confessing to the bead-eating part, because that was merely deranged, but he didn’t want to confess to the taking-a-beading-class part, because that was embarrassing, and he’d rather seem deranged than pathetic.

  So finally, he said, “I bought you a necklace, and I put it in a bag of candy I had bought for myself, and somehow the necklace broke in the bag, and all the beads were loose, mixed in with the candy, so of course, I ate many of them, thinking they were the candy.”

  “You didn’t notice you were eating rocks? That’s very strange,” Jessica said, looking at him as he sat on his white easy chair holding his stomach.

  “No, I didn’t notice,” Alan said. “They were round, and polished. How could I know?”

  “Hmm,” Jessica said, petting Pancake. She knew very well that Alan had made the necklace and not bought it, but as to why he had eaten it, she had no idea.

  “Oh, by the way,” Alan said, “they were golden topaz beads, supposed to increase creativity, according to that New Age crap. I wonder if eating them is more potent than wearing them.”

  So now she knew. “Who knows. You may feel very creative later, while defecating your golden topaz.”

  At the attorney general’s office, Roland’s office manager took Roland aside and said, “You know, it’s a little disturbing that you said you were going to be at a meeting at Marty Bernstein’s office, but then when we tried to reach you there, he said there was no meeting.” He paused. “Is there some problem we can help you with? You’ve been out during the day a lot lately.”

  Ten

  Weeks passed. Summer classes ended. After a great deal of thought, Alan decided not to register for the fall semester. First, he knew his stalkers would follow him, and he wanted to minimize their interactions. Second, he felt he had improved himself and his life enough, and he wanted to devote more time to his girlfriend. Third, he had always looked at the classes as a crutch, and he wanted to prove to himself he no longer needed them to be happy.

  He realized his stalkers, particularly Lynn, must be feeling frustrated now that the classes were over. He wondered why she never tried to follow him into a Stalkaholics Anonymous meeting. Little did he know she was always there, in disguise. But Alan’s sense of ob
servation was no better than his sense of direction, so he never noticed. Plus, he was very trusting and unsuspicious by nature.

  At his SA meeting, he talked to the group about how annoying it was to be stalked. The group complained that he was drifting away from the topic of the meetings. The topic was: how distressing it was to stalk, not to be stalked. Alan apologized and said they were right. So then he talked about how he sometimes had the urge to stalk his girlfriend. Or even just stalk strangers walking down the street. “It’s been a big help, though, being stalked by Lynn. It’s been helping me see how unattractive it is, how much I don’t want to be like that. And it really decreases my temptation to stalk again. The best thing that could happen to any of you is to have someone stalk you.”

  As he was talking, Lynn discreetly began to cry. No one thought it was strange, because people sometimes cried during the meetings.

  As time passed, Ray the homeless man was having more and more difficulty handling the change in the stalking order. The mystery of it was hard to bear. But he would not give in to his curiosity, would not ask them questions. When they passed, he closed his eyes and held his breath, to minimize his sensory contact with such tempting creatures. But in his mind, he screamed, Why have you changed direction? Why have you changed your order? WHYYYYYYYYY?????

  One afternoon, when Alan was walking to his doctor’s office, followed by Lynn and, therefore, by Roland, his cell phone rang. He had grown to dread answering the phone while walking down the street because it was sometimes one of his stalkers, usually Roland, complaining about how long they had been walking. Roland would whine into Alan’s ear, “Are we almost there yet, wherever the fuck there is?”

  This time, when Alan answered his phone, Roland said, “Let’s talk.”

  Alan was supremely annoyed. “What do you mean let’s stalk? I’ve given that up, and you’re already in the middle of it!”

  “I said let’s talk,” enunciated Roland. “As in chat. As in, over lunch.”

  “Not interested,” Alan answered.

  “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “So talk.”