Stalker vs. Friend
I have a stalker. I picked him up on one of my daily jaunts to the local Starbucks to check my email. His name is Joey. (I thought about giving him an alias, but decided against it when I realized that if my body was ever chopped up and mailed back to my parents in a black Hefty bag, the police would find their first clue here!).
Joey is about 5'8", 160 pounds, with dirty blond hair that is always buried in a Lucy cap. He has no distinctive markings or piercings, at least not that I have noticed. He looks a little like the kid from Home Improvement -- you, know the one with the three first names. (Again, this is for the benefit of the police artist.) I would guess that he is around 20. He says that he is from Detroit - I have my doubts.
No matter what time I drag myself out of bed and walk to Starbucks, Joey seems to appear within 5-10 minutes of my arrival. Having "conversed" -- and I do use this word lightly -- with Joey, I know that he does not have the place under surveillance, as that would take way more gray matter than he has available. Since no one else at Starbucks will talk to him, I have ruled out an accomplice on the inside. This leaves me pretty much with perpetually stoned, serial-Starbucks junkie turned stalker.
Joey is a self-professed heavy metal musician. I know this because he asked me to "critique his stuff". (I took this to mean his music, but after 4 "chance" meetings, perhaps I could be wrong.) To boot, Joey is a frustrated heavy metal musician (how's that for an oxymoron?) It seems that Joey works 90 hours a week (60 at Von's and 40 at Target -- his math, not mine) and he can rarely find the time to record in the studio. His main goal in life is to continue his "soul's love", but his various "non-careers" are sucking the creative juices out of him. I resist the urge to point out that many a musician has capitalized on a down-and-out situation, but really, what would be the point? I, for one, think Joey's more immediate concern should be that he is a pathological liar.
While Joey is ranting about "rolling a f-ing peanut up a mountain with my nose, dude", I can't help put to wonder how it is that Joey got to this place, and I not speaking figuratively. I'm actually wondering if he took the bus to Starbucks. If so, I am even more disgusted with myself that someone like Joey, whose few remaining living brain cells are locked in mortal combat over whether to breathe or speak, can figure out how to get off the bus, yet I can't. What the hell is wrong with me?
As the conversation turned to the "dental hymenist chick" who said she loved him but then left him when he lost his mechanic's job, another f-ing job that sucked the life out of him, or so I'm told, I'm shocked to realize that had I met this very same Joey in Brussels, he would make my "friend list"! Disturbing, isn't it?
© 2006 Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.
Joey is about 5'8", 160 pounds, with dirty blond hair that is always buried in a Lucy cap. He has no distinctive markings or piercings, at least not that I have noticed. He looks a little like the kid from Home Improvement -- you, know the one with the three first names. (Again, this is for the benefit of the police artist.) I would guess that he is around 20. He says that he is from Detroit - I have my doubts.
No matter what time I drag myself out of bed and walk to Starbucks, Joey seems to appear within 5-10 minutes of my arrival. Having "conversed" -- and I do use this word lightly -- with Joey, I know that he does not have the place under surveillance, as that would take way more gray matter than he has available. Since no one else at Starbucks will talk to him, I have ruled out an accomplice on the inside. This leaves me pretty much with perpetually stoned, serial-Starbucks junkie turned stalker.
Joey is a self-professed heavy metal musician. I know this because he asked me to "critique his stuff". (I took this to mean his music, but after 4 "chance" meetings, perhaps I could be wrong.) To boot, Joey is a frustrated heavy metal musician (how's that for an oxymoron?) It seems that Joey works 90 hours a week (60 at Von's and 40 at Target -- his math, not mine) and he can rarely find the time to record in the studio. His main goal in life is to continue his "soul's love", but his various "non-careers" are sucking the creative juices out of him. I resist the urge to point out that many a musician has capitalized on a down-and-out situation, but really, what would be the point? I, for one, think Joey's more immediate concern should be that he is a pathological liar.
While Joey is ranting about "rolling a f-ing peanut up a mountain with my nose, dude", I can't help put to wonder how it is that Joey got to this place, and I not speaking figuratively. I'm actually wondering if he took the bus to Starbucks. If so, I am even more disgusted with myself that someone like Joey, whose few remaining living brain cells are locked in mortal combat over whether to breathe or speak, can figure out how to get off the bus, yet I can't. What the hell is wrong with me?
As the conversation turned to the "dental hymenist chick" who said she loved him but then left him when he lost his mechanic's job, another f-ing job that sucked the life out of him, or so I'm told, I'm shocked to realize that had I met this very same Joey in Brussels, he would make my "friend list"! Disturbing, isn't it?
© 2006 Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.
posted by Cindy Lane at 10:29 PM
2 Comments:
I think Joey is the brother of your friend on the bus.
how much do part time jobs in San Diego usually pay?
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