Love Creeps (24 page)

A cop came by and told him to cover up or he would arrest him for indecent exposure.

“But there's a fire in my building!” Alan said.

“Exhibitionists always have excuses,” the cop replied.

A rumor began spreading that the fire was started by a young woman from the fourteenth floor, technically the thirteenth floor, the bad-luck floor, who was burning a contract her boyfriend wrote and signed in his blood that he'd never lie to her again. And then he did. So she burned the paper and left the fire unattended to cry on her bed.

Alan approached the woman from the fourteenth floor—the fire starter. The crowd of tenants parted to let him through.

He stood in front of her and said, “How could you leave burning paper unattended? Are you insane?”

“I'm sorry it caught you at that bad moment, when you were doing whatever you were doing,” she said, pointing to his chocolate-covered nudity.

“There is no good moment to cause a fire,” Alan replied.

“I'm sorry. I was disillusioned.”

“Why?”

“It's personal.”

“Everyone already knows about it. You burned a contract in which your boyfriend swore he'd never lie to you again, but he did. Tough. So what?”

“Get away from me. You're naked and disgusting and infringing on my privacy.”

“And you started a fire. I'm one of your victims.”

She rolled her eyes.

“On candles it says, ‘Never leave burning candles unattended.' Haven't you ever had a candle?”

“Get him away from me,” she said, cringing. “You're naked and disgusting and holding a rat.”

Alan puffed out his chest and loomed over her. He then hopped up on a little wall and spun around, facing the tenants, his rat in one hand. With his other hand he pointed to the disillusioned fire starter. “And whose fault is that? Am I the one who chose to leave burning paper unattended just when I happened to be naked and covered in food? What did you expect me to do? Stay in my apartment and burn to death with my pet?”

“Listen, I can understand why you're upset,” the woman said. “You're feeling humiliated and frustrated because I obviously interrupted you in the middle of some perverted sex game, but you're not improving your lot by screaming.”

A businessman from 3A said, “It does look like the fire alarm caught you in the middle of a titillating situation. It must have been a drag to be interrupted.”

“No! I was in the middle of trying to kill myself, okay?”

A few tenants laughed, assuming it was a joke.

The businessman smiled. “What suicide method involves being covered in chocolate?”

“None. But being covered in chocolate does not stand in the way of suicide,” Alan said.

“No? I think it should,” the man said. “Finding oneself covered in chocolate periodically and for any reason is a sign that one's life is rather exciting and not worth ending, in my opinion.”

“Well, you're wrong.”

“If I'm wrong, why did you run out of the building to save your life, just when you were about to end it?”

“I was saving my rat, not my life.”

People were silent.

Alan added, “Every day of my life I go up and down the stairwell, closing every door on every floor to protect myself and others from maniacs like her who leave burning, broken, bloody contracts unattended!”

After a moment, the businessman said, “And now, do you still think you'll kill yourself?”

“Possibly not. The moment passed.”

“So the rest of your life will be thanks to her.”

“Yes. And if my life is bad, which it probably will be, as it has mostly been, it'll be thanks to her, too.”

“You can't blame things on others.”

“Just watch me. I'm sure you're all very familiar with how comforting it is, how mentally helpful it is to blame things on others. You all have your childhood molesters, your bad parents, your abusive teachers, people to blame everything on. I never had one. I thought I did, recently, but I was misled. Now I finally have mine.” He pointed his finger at the woman from 14C and proclaimed, “The rest of my life will be her fault!”

The ex-psychologist homeless man, Ray, looked on, askance, wearily transfixed. He felt beaten down, worn down by the flurry of questions coursing through his mind like a drug whose effect he was trying to resist. It looked to him as though Alan were auditioning to be his patient, and Ray had to admit it was a convincing display of insanity.

Alan suddenly heard a loud voice from the crowd shout, “Drop your weapon!” He looked in the direction of the voice and saw two policemen pointing their guns at him and asking him again to drop his weapon.

“No, it's not a weapon, it's my pet rat!” Alan shouted.

“Drop what you're holding!” they said.

“No! Look, it's not a gun, it's just my pet rat, Pancake. He's not like a dog. He'll run away if I let him go.” Alan raised Pancake by his tail, letting him dangle. He held the tail between his thumb and index fingers, the rest of his fingers lifted high and spread out, to show that he wasn't hiding anything else. Pancake struggled at the end of his tail, and abruptly swung up and bit Alan's hand.

“Ow!” Alan screamed, dropping the rat, who scurried away. Alan leapt off the wall and chased his rat, shouting to people, “Catch him! Catch him! He's my pet!”

The policemen ran after Alan, who finally caught up with his rat and managed to grab him. Furious, Alan turned to the cops. “How dare you make me almost lose my fucking pet! What do you want? I'm naked because there's a fire in my building, and I didn't have time to put on clothes, is that a crime?”

“We need to take you in for questioning.”

“Because I'm naked?”

“No, it's about another matter.”

“I'm not the one who started the fire. Everyone already knows it's the woman from 14C. She confessed.”

“It's about another matter.”

“What other matter?”

“Get in the car.”

“But I'm naked and covered in chocolate and honey. I'll dirty your car.”

“It doesn't matter. We've seen worse.”

The police questioned Alan about Max, eventually revealing to him that Max had been found dead. Alan told them about his last exchange with Max and about catching Max having sex with Jessica. They questioned Jessica, who answered all their questions truthfully, and immediately fell into a deep depression, believing she had been the cause of Max's suicide when she had told Alan, in front of Max, that she had no intention of seeing Max again. They questioned Lynn. They also questioned Roland, even though as far as anyone knew, he hadn't been at the inn in over a week.

After their brief investigation of Max's death, the authorities chalked it up to suicide.

Jessica left New York and decided to stay with her parents in the Midwest for a few months to think about her life and the people she had hurt.

Twelve

Four months passed, the dead of winter came, and, remarkably, nothing changed, the stalking chain remained intact.

Alan's building hadn't been seriously damaged by the fire. All the residents were able to continue living there, except for the fire starter, whose apartment had been destroyed. Alan still checked the stairwell doors every day.

After the fire and the news of Max's suicide, it had no longer seemed so important to Alan that Roland had beaten him up in a field, had come to his apartment and shot at him with a gun that easily could have been loaded, and had then carried Lynn off over his shoulder.

Alan did mention those offenses to the police when they questioned him, which was what led them to question Roland, but Alan didn't bother pressing charges against Roland or putting a restraining order on him. His magnanimity was not brought on by a feeling of strength, but quite the opposite, by feeling overwhelmed and numb.

Misfortune eats at one's self-confidence. Alan's strong new self had gotten weaker. He had learned the falseness of the saying “What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.” He now knew that what didn't kill you made you weaker and weaker. He was no longer in touch with the friends he had made during his new life, which was now old and gone. His recovering stalker friends had stopped calling him, because he lacked the energy to give them pep talks and help them resist the temptation to stalk. He himself had not been gripped by an urge to resume stalking, but so what? He wasn't happier now than when he was a stalker. He was depressed and lonely and he shamefully admitted to himself that being followed was somewhat comforting. So dim did his life seem to him that his stalkers had become sparks of light. Even though he rarely spoke to them, he thought of them as his support group.

It had taken Roland a couple of weeks to adjust to living without the cyanide, without the reassurance that he could end things at a moment's notice if he wanted to. He felt vulnerable. But he also felt closer to his fellow beings, as though they were all in the same boat. He and they now had something important in common: They weren't carrying cyanide on their persons. He still wore the locket so that he wouldn't be reminded, as often, of the cyanide's absence.

As for being a murderer, it wasn't much on his mind. He found the topic uninteresting; it wasn't suicide, after all.

He hadn't committed any grave offenses since then. Granted he had tried to shoot Alan with a gun that might have been loaded, but it hadn't been—thank God, because he couldn't have passed that off as suicide. He had carried Lynn out of Alan's apartment against her will, but he'd let her go as soon as they hit the sidewalk—it's not easy for a man to carry a screaming woman down the street. She had then taken a cab home. He'd been glad he'd at least gotten her out of Alan's building.

The next day the stalking chain had resumed as if nothing had happened.

Patricia was surprised that Lynn, despite stalking Alan every day and being in a perpetual state of rejection by him, was still applying to clubs that wouldn't want her as a member, just to play it safe.

Alan, Lynn, and Roland continued to give money to Ray the homeless ex-psychologist who still held his breath and closed his eyes when the stalking chain passed him, particularly now that he had seen one of its links act so strangely, perform chocolate-covered naked ranting on a wall with a rat, before being whisked away by cops.

One snowy winter day, Alan stopped in front of the homeless man longer than usual, wondering why his eyes were so often closed and his breath so often held. Alan took off his coat and placed it in the arms of the homeless man. It was a beige shearling coat that Alan had worn for three years and didn't want anymore. Ray held the coat, stunned. He didn't usually accept presents, since his homelessness was relatively intentional, but a present from a link in the stalking chain was hard to resist.

Ray cleared his throat. “What is this?”

“A gift. Put it on, won't you?” Alan said.

Ray didn't move. He had to admit he was somewhat curious, somewhat seduced, despite his better judgment, despite knowing full well that deep inside, this nut was probably terribly banal.

Alan took back the coat, walked behind Ray, and held it up for him to slide his arms into. After a moment's hesitation, Ray placed his hand in the armhole. He could not help relishing every second as the enticing crazy person slid the sleeve up his arm. And then the other.

“There, that looks good, it fits you well,” Alan said. What he meant, of course, was, “It fits you well for a coat that's two sizes too small for you.”

“Thank you,” Ray said. It was the perfect opportunity for Ray to ask Alan why the stalking order had changed, but he did not permit himself to ask any questions. He would not pander to his curiosity disorder.

Alan smiled and walked away.

Lynn witnessed the gesture and ruminated. She came up with an idea that excited her. In order to impress Alan, she paid a gourmet store on the corner to give the homeless man two meals a day, in a paper bag, for a month. It was not an inexpensive gesture, but if it had any chance of impressing Alan, it was worth it.

After handing Ray his first lunch and informing him of the ones to come, Lynn said to him, “The only thing I ask in return is that you mention this to Alan. Alan is the man who gave you your coat.
Bon appétit
.” She smiled and walked away.

As soon as Lynn was far enough away, Roland stopped in front of the homeless man. “What did that woman say to you?”

“She said she paid that store to give me two meals every day for a month.”

Roland walked away, dropping a button and ruminating. He came up with an idea that made him smile hesitantly and invisibly.

Roland rented an apartment for Ray. He broke the news to him on the street the next day.

“Listen, I don't know how you feel about sleeping on the street,” Roland said, “and I don't want to seem presumptuous, but I got you a small studio for the winter if you want it. You'll owe me nothing except to speak well of me to Lynn, and to tell her about this little favor I've done for you.”

Ray didn't respond at first. Finally, he said, “Sure, why not.”

He had had the willpower not to ask questions, and still did, but he did not have the willpower to refuse these advances. He knew he should turn down the presents, he knew it was fate, taunting him, but he couldn't.

He went to the apartment wearily.

Despite his coat, meals, and studio, Ray still stood at the corner to beg. The next time he saw Alan, he felt somewhat obligated to tell him of Lynn's gift of the meals. And while he was at it, he also mentioned Roland's gift of the winter studio. Alan stood, dumbstruck, in the snow. Ray found it irresistible to add, “Feel free to visit me sometime.”

Alan was upset by Lynn's and Roland's gestures, because he knew that this beggar would eventually feel let down when the two stalkers stopped supporting him. He felt responsible for having unwittingly started this chain reaction. To assuage his guilt, Alan bought Ray some clothes. And when he visited Ray's new place and saw the squalor he lived in, meaning no TV and not much furniture, he went shopping for a sofa, a table, and chairs, and had them delivered to Ray's.