Houston, We Have a Problem.

Years ago, I was living in Los Angeles and had the complete L.A. experience: I lived in a cute little bungalow off of Melrose and La Brea, had work as a personal assistant to society-type people and celebrities, and had the quintessential L.A. lifestyle accessory: my very own stalker.


This is something I would not wish on my worst enemy. Actually, my worst enemy is my former stalker, whom I christened "The Troll" (no need for fake names in this post, dear readers; that's just what I named the bitch), so I would wish a stalker on her, except she'd probably like it.


After leaving Los Angeles to escape The Troll, I had nightmares for years. Literally. The Troll reigned supreme in my nocturnal dramas, showing up in unexpected places, engineering evil outcomes to situations, sneering, laughing, conniving. You can imagine my joy, visiting with The Troll every fricking night, for three years after escaping from Los Angeles.


Well, that was twelve years ago, and dreams of The Troll have been dormant for a long time. What a relief.


However, something else came up last night and I'm fairly concerned.

Leaving a BBQ at about 10:00 p.m., GWH was across the street waiting for me.

"Hey purdy lady," he slurred, unsteady on his feet. "I was waiting for you."

"You were? How'd you know I was here, GWH?"

"Weelllll... I jes'... a little bird tol' me that there was a purdy lady up there at a BBQ, so I thought I'd come by an' see if I could escort you home."

Jesus Christ. Was he messing with me? Was it coincidence he saw me leaving (most likely) or did he really know where I was? I tried to think quickly and not panic. I had one clear thought: DO NOT LET HIM KNOW YOU'RE AFRAID.

"Well, sure GWH. If you want to walk me to my place, that's fine."

So we walked (rather, I walked and he staggered) down the street. He had been in Nebraska fishing over the holiday weekend, just got back this evening, was down at the local tavern where he "heard" I was at the BBQ. I told him nothing about my weekend, naturally. Anything I said was delivered in a neutral tone.

We reached my house.

"Oh! This's your place?" he asked. "Yes, it is," I answered, even though he knew full well where I lived. "Thanks for walking me down," I added.

"Oh, sure. Hey! I wanna tell ya that there's talk around the shop that I fried your cat. I dint fry your cat. I'm jus' a l'il 'lergic, thassal."

I said adamantly and firmly, "I NEVER said that to anyone. Never."

He replied, "Oh, well then-- they mus' jes' be teasin' me 'bout it. Can I have a hug before you go up?"

Don't piss him off. "Sure," and I gave him a quick hug, my skin crawling. "See you later." I unlocked my door and went it, shutting the door firmly behind me.

I went upstairs, drew all my shades, closed my curtains and turned off my lamp, leaving my house in total darkness. I kept walking to the windows, peeking outside from the shade's edge, hoping he wouldn't be standing across the street. I locked my slider. I performed my bedtime ablutions in pitch blackness. I got into my pj's and under the covers. It was difficult to get to sleep.

It's hard to know if GWH is toying with me, teasing me, or if he's telling the truth about knowing I was at the BBQ.

As far as Nicole the cat goes, I assume I'll never find out what happened to her. But I'll let you know-- when GWH mentioned the cat and that he hadn't "fried" her, then mentioned the guys around the office had been "teasing" him about her disappearance, it sent a chill down my spine. It makes me wonder just what kind of person I'm dealing with here.