Love Creeps

Three

By the next time the two men met, Alan had come up with a theory as to why Lynn preferred Roland to himself, and he was excited to share it.

“It has to do with color,” Alan said, pausing dramatically, clearly waiting for Roland to say “Oh?” So Roland humored him and said, “Oh?”

Alan nodded with delight. “It’s the colors you wear.”

“What colors?”

“Any colors. You wear those things called colors. I don’t. I mostly wear black. I was watching a nature show last night on birds. And bingo. Our little Lynn, she’s like a little bird, haven’t you noticed? So it’s normal that she would respond favorably to men adorned in bright colors.”

It was strange to Roland that Alan was so blind to Roland’s more obvious attributes, but Roland didn’t see how he could inform him of them without being offensive or sounding monstrously conceited.

Lynn came back to her gallery after having spent hours stalking. Exhausted and achy, she lay down on the floor.

Patricia stood over her without pity.

“Stalking makes me feel humiliated,” groaned Lynn.

“Good,” Patricia said. “As you said yourself, you’ve been on top of the world for too long. A little humiliation once in a while is healthy, it’s part of the human experience. It’s like gravity. If you don’t have it, you’re like those astronauts who’ve been in space for ages. Your muscles get weak. You start having problems, unless you’re on a special exercise program. Your exercise program is stalking.”

Charlie Santi entered the gallery. Lynn promptly picked herself off the floor.

He wanted to show her some of his new paintings. Lynn had been representing Charlie for five years and had always been his staunchest supporter until the sudden disappearance of her desire. She took him to the dreaded light box, remembering when she used to call Charlie up almost every day, begging to know what he was up to.

Charlie began laying out transparencies of paintings. They were in his usual style. Charlie’s canvases were always fairly large, covered in textured white paint. In a corner, or at least off center, was always a tiny shape, which looked vaguely like a person, but that was never certain. In Lynn’s all-time favorite painting of Charlie’s, the little shape looked as though it might be lying on its side, sleeping, possibly with its hands under its cheek. It was a very peaceful painting, which, along with all the other paintings in the world, she no longer liked.

Lynn stood rigidly over the light box, making polite but reserved sounds.

Her stalker, whom she hadn’t yet noticed, was standing outside the gallery window, staring at Lynn through the glass fondly. He was wearing red pants, a green shirt, a blue tie, a yellow jacket, orange shoes, and a purple hat with a white feather sticking out of the top. He looked like an elf. Or a parrot.

When Charlie was done showing Lynn the transparencies, he said, “So, what do you think?”

She glanced at him almost pleadingly. “Oh, Charlie. I think you should trust your instinct. I’m not the right person to ask right now.”

“I want an answer. An honest answer. Yes or no. Do you like them?”

“Charlie, I’m not …”

“Yes or no, Lynn! Yes or no, goddammit!”

The cuckoo clock Patricia had recently bought for Lynn did its hourly thing. Its doors flew open, the yellow bird came out, but instead of saying “Cuckoo!” it said, in Patricia’s voice, “Stalk! Stalk! It’s four o’clock! Do you know where Mr. Dupont is?”

Unwilling to be distracted, Charlie said, “Just answer me, Lynn, do you like them?”

“No,” she said gently. “But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Shh! I brought two canvases with me.” He quickly unwrapped them. “This work is phenomenal,” he said. “I’m no longer asking you, I’m telling you. Because I don’t have the slightest doubt.”

“That’s great,” she said.

“Really? You like them?”

“Well … I meant it’s great that you feel so strongly about them.”

“But do you like them?”

Lynn scrutinized the paintings, searching for the faintest speck that might thrill her. In one painting, Charlie had, for the first time ever, painted not one, but two tiny shapes. One appeared to be strangling or hugging the other. In the second painting, the single tiny shape was in a fetal position, or possibly just thinking in a position like The Thinker, by Rodin.

The little shapes became blurry through Lynn’s tears.

“Can I ask you a question?” Charlie finally said.

Lynn nodded.

“Do you think I suck, or do you think you suck?”

“I think it’s probably me,” she said.

“What do you mean it’s probably you? I won an American Prix de Rome, a Guggenheim, an NEA, and an NYFA. I’m at the forefront of academic interest. Doesn’t that speak for my work?”

Patricia laughed softly. Lynn frowned with alarm at the lack of tact.

“Did you take a look at your stalker today, Lynn?” Patricia said, pointing to the window.

Lynn looked at her stalker. “Why is he dressed that way?”

“Who knows,” Patricia said. “Maybe he watched that nature show last night on birds and decided to dress colorfully to attract your attention.”

Charlie packed up his art and left without saying anything.

Roland dropped quarters into the hand of the homeless man, who looked into his eyes, and whispered, “You’re being followed.”

When Lynn gave him change ten seconds later, the homeless man said to her, “You’re on a downward spiral of self-destruction. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

And after Lynn, he said to Alan, “Take a class, a vacation, a multi-vitamin. Take your mind off romance, take control of your life and your future.” Alan stared back at Ray, who was screaming, “Go and see a movie, take a self-improvement class. You’re better than them!”

At a small café near the gym, before their scheduled game of racquetball, Alan told Roland that his color theory hadn’t worked. Roland was pleased, and said, “That’s terrible.”

Alan was silent, looking down at the table morosely.

To be nice, Roland tried to change the topic. “So, what did you do last night? Did you go out?”

“I walked down the stairs of my building, making sure the stairwell doors were closed on every floor.”

“Why?”

“In case there’s a fire. It’s really important for the stairwell doors to be closed. It prevents the fire from spreading too quickly. I check the doors every day.”

“Doesn’t it take time away from your stalking?”

“It only takes about four minutes.”

“Did you do anything else last night?”

“No. I tried to understand why my color theory didn’t work.” Alan looked disillusioned. “I really thought it was the key. I mean, it made so much sense. Look at us. Color was the only difference between us. Now that we’re both colorful, we could be twins. Well, no, I’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean. We’re both fine-looking guys, relatively charismatic, intelligent, pretty well educated, somewhat athletic.”

Roland could no longer be polite.

“Where did you go to college, Alan?” he asked.

“Putnam.”

“I went to Harvard.”

“Same difference,” Alan said, nodding. “Both good colleges. Don’t tell me you’re going to quibble over which is better?”

“Who always beats whom in our games of racquetball?”

“I think we’re pretty well matched. So far, you may have beaten me more often. I don’t really keep track of these things.”

“Which one of us is a lawyer, and which one an accountant, not even a CPA?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Who is six-three, 190 pounds, muscular, with a full head of hair? And who is five-seven, 190 pounds, not muscular, and bald?”

In a small voice, Alan said, “Well, who has blond hair and blue eyes?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, who has blond hair and blue eyes?”

Roland stared at Alan for a few long seconds, then said, “You are a short, fat, balding man with blue eyes and a few patches of yellow fuzz. You’re like Danny DeVito with blond hair and blue eyes.”

“But you don’t have them at all.”

“That’s right.”

“Wait, let me get this straight,” Alan said, smiling. “Are you trying to tell me that you don’t think we’re equal in the realm of desirability? Are you trying to imply that you’re … um … superior to me, in some way?” Alan stared at Roland’s locket, feeling sorry for whatever family member or sweetheart was in there. He pitied that relative for being associated with such a pompous ass.

Roland saw him look at his locket, guessed his thoughts precisely, and rolled his eyes. In his locket was not a family member or sweetheart, but cyanide, for the purpose of self-deliverance if the need ever arose. Wearing a cyanide-filled locket was a tradition in his family. The item had been passed down four generations. When Roland had turned fourteen, his father had taken him on a walk, “man to man.” (“D’homme à homme,” is what he actually said, since they were French.)

“I want to give you this,” his father had said, pulling out of his pocket a chain from which swung a locket just like the one hanging around his own neck, the inside of which had always remained a mystery to Roland and his sister.

The young Roland took the locket.

“C’est du cyanure,” his father said. (“It’s cyanide.”)

Roland’s innocent eyes opened wide. “To kill someone?”

“No!” the father said, shocked that his son’s mind would jump to such vile conclusions. “To kill yourself.”

Roland winced and looked up at his father to make sure he wasn’t joking. “But I don’t want to kill myself.”

“One day you might.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes in life, it happens,” his father said, in his usual impatient tone that meant, “You are a moron, my son.”

Roland tried not to cry, but couldn’t hold back the tears. He threw the locket on the ground and kicked dirt over it.

His father hurriedly picked it up and wiped off the dust. “Non mais, ça va pas la tête?” (“Are you crazy?”)

Roland’s cheeks were like peaches in the rain.

“Why can’t you ever act like a man?” his father said, pacing around him. “It’s an honor, that I’m giving you this. I’m not giving one to your sister. Doesn’t that make you happy?”

“That’s because you don’t want her to die!”

His father grabbed his arm and shook him. “I don’t want you to die. Unless you want to.”

Roland still pouted.

They resumed walking, and his father began a speech, which Roland never forgot. His father said, “Life is a prison. Most of the time, it’s a nice prison, and you want to be in it, but the prison is even nicer if the door is unlocked. Knowing that the door can be stepped through at any time makes your time in prison more relaxed, that’s all. By giving you this locket, I am telling you, ‘You are old enough, my son, to decide if you ever want to walk through that door.’ I’m giving you freedom. Having quick and easy access to death makes us more elevated, more evolved than other men. Less like women. We’re carrying around a bit of perspective at all times.”

The young Roland reluctantly began wearing the locket. He would practice finding the idea of spontaneous self-destruction attractive.

After a few months, he always wore it and enjoyed what it meant, and now, as a grown man, he couldn’t imagine what it must be like, psychologically, for the rest of the population, who didn’t have this quick and easy access to death. Of course, they had certain means at their disposal — jumping out a window or hurling themselves in front of a subway train, for example — but those methods were inefficient and melodramatic.

“Well,” Alan repeated, “are you trying to imply that you’re superior to me in some way?”

“No, not in some way. In every way,” Roland said. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t take it any longer. I didn’t want to hear any more of your crap. I’m sure you understand.” He got up and added, “We better call this game off. Maybe I’ll see you next time.” He walked away, dropping a small button.

Alan remained sitting for a long time. He had never been so insulted in his life. His skin prickled. There was not such a big difference between them. It bugged him that there was even a single soul on earth (Roland’s soul) who thought there was.

Alan hated that soul.

He ordered a beer. The waitress asked him for ID. He could not believe it. “I’m thirty-four,” he said to the waitress, who didn’t seem to care. While searching for his driver’s license in his bag, he thought, Well, I may be short, fat, and balding, but at least I look under twenty-one. He didn’t find his license and wasn’t given the beer.

The homeless man said to Roland, “They’re still behind you. You’re not alone.”

To Lynn, he said, “You’re being followed as well. Join a dating service, a choir. Take a break, an antidepressant. Get hold of yourself.”

And to Alan, “Forget about her. Get a pet, a hobby, a makeover, dignity. Explore the world and gain perspective.”

Roland felt guilty immediately. He regretted the things he had said to Alan and was surprised that Alan continued meeting with him for their racquetball games.’ When Roland tried to apologize, Alan didn’t accept the apology and was not willing to forgive him.

Alan was smart enough to know that he was in an advantageous position. He would continue to sulk mildly, until he came up with a way to profit from Roland’s guilt.

Alan liked hating Roland. In fact, he had wanted to hate him from the beginning, but it had been hard at first, Roland being nice, most of the time.

In an attempt to rekindle a semblance of friendliness between them, Roland brought up an old topic. “You know, it’s a shame that we never came up with a plan to get back at Lynn. She toyed with us. We’ll toy with her.” Roland looked affectionately at Alan and managed the approximation of a smile, using his neck and eye muscles. “Whatever it is we’ll do to her will be a lot of fun for us, I’m sure,” he said. “So let’s give it some thought, okay?”

Sitting on his beloved armless white easy chair at home, Alan did give it some thought. And he did come up with a plan. An excellent plan, for someone who hadn’t gone to Harvard, he gloated.

Taking advantage of Roland’s still-existing feelings of guilt, he told him the plan, and quickly pronounced it as the only way Roland could ever make up for the awful way he had treated him.

Resentfully, Roland said, “That’s not the kind of plan I had in mind.”

Firmly, Alan said, “I know it’s not.”

“Listen,” Roland said, “you annoyed me so much when you pretended you couldn’t see the differences between us, that I ended up saying those stupidities that made me feel remorseful. If it now amuses you to take advantage of that by forcing me to do this thing which you know will be a nightmare for me, fine. I will make this huge sacrifice for you. But then I’ll be done with you.”

Roland Dupont strolled into Lynn’s gallery, casually dropping a button. He planted himself in front of Lynn and her assistant, who were standing in front of a blank wall, discussing it. They were stunned by Mr. Dupont’s arrival.

“I need to speak with you. I have a proposition to make,” he said to Lynn. “I propose that you spend a weekend with Alan, the gentleman who fancies you, and in return I will spend a weekend with you.”

Lynn had no idea what he was talking about. She didn’t know who “Alan” was. She knew lots of Alans, and it didn’t occur to her that her stalker and stalkee could know each other. But regardless, she was already shocked by the repulsiveness of the offer.

“Who’s Alan?” she asked.

“The gentleman who fancies you.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“There are lots of gentlemen who fancy her,” Patricia said.

“Alan is the gentleman you might have noticed walking behind you on occasion,” Roland said. “He sent you a naked picture of himself, which you then kindly passed on to me. Am I jogging your memory? He sent you dozens of notes signed ‘Alan,’ which you covered in Wite-Out. You sent me the underwear he bought for you. You sent me the bonsai tree he gave you. And the flowers, and the cookies. It’s always good to economize. Passion doesn’t need to be expensive, nor does it need to use up mental energy or creativity.”

Lynn was getting the sneaking suspicion she had picked a nutcase to stalk. “You know my stalker?” she asked.

“Yes. Your stalker, Alan, is my racquetball partner.”

They stared at each other.

“So where are you from, anyway?” Roland asked. “If we’re going to spend a weekend together, I’d like to know a little about you.”

“Long Island,” she said, and added nothing.

“So, are you interested in my weekend offer? Sex will not be expected, on either weekend, from any of the parties.”

Since she didn’t answer right away, he added, “I know that half of the deal is repulsive to you, but just think of the other half — the weekend with me.”

“I am.”

“She’d like to mull it over,” Patricia said. “Wouldn’t you, Lynn?”

“Yes,” Lynn said.

They exchanged business cards, and her stalkee left, dropping a paper clip.

“I’m not sure my stalking therapy is working,” Lynn said to Patricia. “My degree of revulsion is … phenomenal.”

“You do look pale. But he’s not so bad, Lynn,” Patricia said. “He’s pretty good-looking, and he could be intelligent. You never know, he might turn out to be the man of your dreams.”

“No one is ever going to be the man of my dreams unless he utters my secret name,” Lynn said.

“What secret name? You mean like Rumpelstiltskin?”

“I guess so.”

“So what is it?”

“I can’t tell anyone. That’s part of the rules.”

“What rules?”

“They’re from my childhood,” Lynn said, her head in her hands.

“I’m not surprised, it does sound rather childish.”

“It’s not childish, it’s romantic.”

“And what if no one ever utters your secret name?”

“Then I’ll have boyfriends, maybe even a life partner or a husband, but not a man of my dreams.”

“How sad.”

“It may be sad, but that’s the way it is.”

“Your stalkers are still there,” Ray the homeless man whispered to Roland, who was passing.

After accepting Lynn’s coins, Ray tried to exercise his influence on her. “Do volunteer work, make new friends, learn an instrument, catch up on your reading.”

He took Alan’s money as well, and said, “Drink eight glasses of water a day. Wear sunblock. Endanger your life to gain perspective.”

Lynn thought about the offer. Hoping that spending a few days with a man might revive her desire more effectively than following him down the street, she finally agreed to the deal, as long as she could do the weekend with Roland before the one with Alan. She wanted to get ready for maximum revulsion. The men accepted the order.

Lynn decided to go to Bloomingdale’s to buy some cologne for Roland, cologne that she hoped would make her desire him.

In the perfume department, she approached a man behind a counter and asked him for the most widely proven men’s cologne. He reached for a bottle. It annoyed her immeasurably that he didn’t ask her what she meant by “widely proven.” Clearly, he just wanted to sell her anything.

She sniffed the top of the open bottle. “And this will do what I want it to?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, looking in the other direction, clearly bored.

“How do you know what I want it to do?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter what you want it to do, specifically. It makes all your dreams come true. And his, too.”

“What if mine and his are not the same? What if they are mutually exclusive?”

“Then it finds a way to make them coexist without problems.”

“Can I get my money back if it doesn’t work?”

“If you haven’t opened the package and you still have the receipt, yes.”

“How can I test it out if I don’t open the fucking package?”

“Excuse me?”

“How can I know if this perfume will make my dreams and his coexist without problems if I don’t open the package?”

“You must have faith. If you open the package and it doesn’t work, that means you didn’t have faith, and your money’s gone. But if you have faith, it will work.”

Lynn felt a momentary twinge of desire. It was the desire to kill the sales assistant, so it didn’t count.

Instead, she bought the cologne and walked home, hating the world and observing herself hating it. She always found it curious to be in a truly bad mood, a mood in which she got angry at her pocket, at the carpet, at the peephole, for all sorts of uninteresting reasons.