Chapter 24 "You've Got A Stalker"

This was the last straw. I'm moving to California. Guido's loyal red velvet interior was dank smelling and hot. A wave of despair overtook me and I wailed loudly inside the car. I punched at the carpeted dashboard, scuffing my knuckles red and chaffed.

My mom lived in Vegas. I'll stop on the way, take a dip in her pool and then, "Go West, young man. Go West." It might interest you to know that I went to college in the town named after the man who coined that phrase. Horace Greeley. I wonder if he stopped going west at the imposing and impressive Rocky Mountains and just said, "Fuck it." and proceeded to tell every young man to go forth and email him about what they had seen. I think email at that time was called the Pony Express.

My family had been spiraling away from one another for the past several years. My mom and dad divorced when I was in high school and slowly began to phase out family number 1 for family number 2. Dad was still a successful dentist here in Denver, but I rarely saw him. He married a hot little 40 year-old number with two younger kids and had been completely taken by her active and outdoor lifestyle. He instantly gravitated towards her life, even though he was a little over 10 years her senior and began "Dad's life, Version 2.0".

My mom lingered in Colorado for a few years and met a swarthy biker who just happened to have a multi-million dollar dot com, and when he sold it they basically just moved away and retired in Las Vegas. Both my parents were the tanned, skinny and disturbingly happy versions of themselves that I never knew while they were raising us boys. My first Christmas alone was four years ago. I didn't really register it at the time. I got stoned, watched a movie marathon, masturbated a few times and went to sleep.

That year, you heard me actually brag to people. Christmas: how free and unperturbed I was.

I'm not going to lie. I wanted to talk to my mom. Cry. Get some sage advice. Screw it. When I move out to California, I'm getting a cell phone. I'm even going to get one of those ear bud contraptions.

After an especially odd emotional outburst, I calmly pulled ole Guido out into the street and drove towards my apartment. I needed a shower and I needed some stuff and then I was to become a vapor trail on I-70. Or would I take the scenic route 50? Hmmm. What to do with the cats? Decisions, decisions...

On the way over, I randomly wailed and punched. I couldn't stand the radio because my thoughts were so loud. 99.5 FM got punched into silence rather quickly. As I rolled up to my apartment on Josephine St, I pulled into the 7-11 to get a pack of smokes. My mouth was dry, and filled with foamed adrenalin. I needed one. Bad.

After exiting the store, on a strange urge, I broke the pack open and furiously sucked on one. My house was less than fifty yards away, yet I needed a smoke to calm my nerves. What a horrific nicotine-addicted cliché, but it's true.

Milo Methy MotherFucker, another one of my semi-homeless and degenerate neighborhood train wrecks, stumbled up to me and simply held out his hand to take a cigarette, I obliged and also gave him about a buck or so in change. He nodded and said, "Fucking women, man."

I laughed a little maniacally, and rubbed my forehead. It was sore and swollen from Jazzy's ill-fated attempt to kill me.

"Oooooh, what the fuck happened to your head, man?"

"Long story, Milo. Piss off."

"I think you got a stalker there, Joe," He said, pointing towards my apartment.

"You're my stalker, Milo. If you ever throw another forty ounce into the dumpster at 3 AM, I'm coming out of my apartment, and sticking my foot straight up your ass."

"No. That fucker's been over there for at least..." He scratched his head and looked at his forearm which unfortunately did not have a watch. "Um. 4 hours. I smell bacon. Bacon, bacon, bacon, Suuuuuuieeeeeee hog!" I glanced over to where he was pointing and I'll be damned if I didn't see a strange little man in a shabby suit walking away from my door, down the porch and proceeded to sit in a very cop-looking, unmarked Crown Victoria.

At this point, complete and utter numbness. Scientific curiosity. Breathing slowed. Eyes squinted. There was nothing left in my tank. It was just whooshing air in my ears and an even more deflated and ridiculous feeling. This couldn't possibly get any worse and yet it was continuing to get progressively worse. Perhaps, even exponentially worse.

Milo's eyes widened and he sucked on his cigarette. He cocked his head and said, "Witness our hero Joe...Street Name: Red...Nicotine Savior...Peering into a place unknown...His own house."

"Milo. Piss off, bro."

"He has entered a world...just off of the edge...of the Twilight Zone." He sang the Twilight Zone song, "Dee dee dee dee dee dee dee deeeeeee," every syllable showing off his wrecked, black front teeth and then he held his arms out like an airplane and spun away, making airplane sounds, walking towards Colfax Ave.

I actually envied Milo for a moment. All this time, I imagined his life as a bad dream, when in actuality; mine was becoming a complete nightmare. Somebody said to me the other night that Karma's a bitch. I nodded subconsciously while I stared across the street.

That was totally a cop. Not just any cop. He appeared to be a detective. He lit a cigarette and flipped the radio and looked over in my direction. I just peered downward and then gave him the view of my profile. Hunching my shoulders, I turned west and started to walk around the backside of 7-11.

I cut back behind 7-11 and walked a full block and a half up the street. I cut across Josephine St, with my back turned and out of view of this unmarked police cruiser, dashing into the largely unknown courtyard behind my apartment. There was a window through to my shower. I ripped the screen off, opened the tiny window, shoved the screen in, and dove, headfirst through it. It took some wriggling, I cut myself on the window sill, and I was WAY to big for it, but eventually I clattered into my tub, upside down and on my shoulders. I imagined what that pork-pie Jazzy felt like when I launched him into the closet at Jaime's house. Heh.

Yet, I had landed on the cool enameled iron of my super sweet bathtub, and spun over, taking a few rings of the shower curtain with me. They popped with a very satisfying, plastic 'click' and my feet landed with a not-so-satisfying 'ka-klang-wump!'

My grey cat was sitting on the sink. She looked at me and said, "Mee." She continued to try and lick the dripping water from the faucet.

I'm leaving a key for Wyatt. He'll figure this out. I needed to pack a small bag that I could fit through the tiny window. I needed to leave the key, feed and water my cats for a few days and collect any phone numbers and shit I may need.

My search trough the house was quick, silent and decisive. I decided to destroy anything that looked like identification, or bills, or personal writings. While I quickly decided on a fairly large red duffle bag, clothes, and my .25 caliber, I put several personal notes and papers in another, smaller black duffle bag. The .25 was a teensy weensy black Smith and Wesson with a brown polished wooden handle. It was a little gun, but easily concealed. I called it my "belly popper". I had a half a box of ammo and only one clip for it. 7 shots with one in the chamber, I wished that I had listened to my dad and bought a shotgun at one point. I felt like I may have needed it. I loaded it fully, without hesitation, and stuck it in my sock and stuck a butterfly knife into my pocket.

I carefully placed a key into the window well of my kitchen and slammed the window down behind it. Wyatt would have to claim that key by mutilating the screen. The duffle bags went on my couch and I made the last quick sweep of my apartment, every now and then peering out the blinds at the detective. I found a few more odds and ends in terms of bills and stuff with my handwriting on it, was satisfied and sat down on my couch. My orange cat came up and sat on my lap. She squirreled around and rubbed her face on my hands and knees and purred. So happy, cat. I hung my head, petted her, and for the second time in as many days, wept.