Love Creeps (12 page)

The filming was taking place in a luxurious apartment on Fifth Avenue and Eleventh Street. Alan tried to take advantage of the time between takes to prepare tax returns, but the seductive owner of the apartment had taken a liking to him and was driving him to distraction. His penis was annoyingly erect, a condition that shocked him and of which he disapproved, since he had a wonderful girlfriend, Jessica, and would never cheat on her. A month earlier, they had officially decided to make their relationship monogamous, not that it had not always been.

The day before, Alan had discovered a fun-filled solution to his tormenting lust. The apartment had very large, very private, comically lush bathrooms, and when his erection got in the way of his concentration, he would politely excuse himself with his cell phone, retreat to one of the far bathrooms, and call his girlfriend, who fortunately was spending her afternoons in his apartment, which made it convenient for them to engage in phone sex. They had done this before, on occasion, but it was particularly helpful this week.

“Why are you out of breath?” he asked, when she answered the phone.

“I'm exercising for you,” she said, and suddenly he heard an exercise video in the background.

Alan asked her to take off her clothes. She was always up for phone sex. As well as real sex.

“I'm taking off my underwear now,” she said, while moving up and down over a man, who had his penis in her.

“Are they off?” Alan asked, lying on the floor, on a giant, plump, pink mat, his own underwear and pants lowered to his thighs.

“Yeah, oops, hang on, they're caught on my heel. There,” she said, easing herself down more slowly onto the penis of her afternoon lover, who knew not to say a word when Alan called. His hands were on her butt, trying to speed up the pace, but she liked it slow, particularly during phone sex with Alan, which she had engaged in before while cheating on him. The afternoon lover was not averse to this. He was sprawled on Alan's white easy chair, the chair with no arms, which made it ideal for Jessica to straddle him in the way they both liked. The white chair had gotten gradually more stained with each passing day, but Jessica diligently scrubbed the stains after each ride, succeeding only, of course, in making them paler and larger.

Midway through the phone sex, which was even more real than Alan imagined, Jessica's call waiting beeped. Not wanting to miss a call from her morning lover, she checked, but it was some guy with a French accent, asking for Alan, claiming to be an old friend. He said his name was Roland. She gave him Alan's cell phone number, and added, “But I'm actually talking with him on the other line right now, so please wait a bit before calling.”

Thirty seconds back into the phone sex, it was Alan's turn to announce he had another call coming in.

“Fuck that guy, I told him to wait,” Jessica said.

“Fuck who?” Alan asked.

“This jerk who just called and interrupted us. Just don't answer it.”

“I have to. It could be my friend John, who's in a terrible mess.”

“No, that wasn't the name he gave me. I can't remember it, but it wasn't John.”

“It could be someone else in need. Hang on.”

Alan switched lines, and this time it was indeed his friend John, sounding very depressed.

Alan apologized to Jessica for having to stop things in the middle like this.

“Suit yourself, honey. It'll be harder for you than for me,” she said.

Alan laughed. “Why?”

“Because I can finish. And you have to talk to John.”

“Have fun.” Alan zipped up his pants and switched back to his friend in need: a full-fledged stalkaholic from an SA meeting.

John was crying, saying he was on the verge of following the woman he had been trying not to follow for months.

Alan attempted yet again to persuade him to forget about the dumb woman. And he added, “Did you use the gift certificate I gave you for that massage?”

“No.”

“Well, use it, man, please. It helps.”

“I want to follow her.”

“She's gonna call the cops on you again.”

John sniffled.

“Or just come here,” Alan said. “Come to the set. There's a nice woman here, who owns this apartment. She's very sexy, very hot. I'll introduce you.”

“No one else interests me.”

“I know what it's like. You don't have to tell me. Go get the massage.”

There was a loud knock on the bathroom door. It was the director, calling him for the scene. Alan was sorry to have to make the crew wait, but he felt it was his responsibility to talk to his friend until his obsession to stalk passed.

Roland paced, unsure how long he was supposed to wait before calling Alan's cell phone. Sitting on their bed, Lynn was watching him.

“I think this is going to be good,” he said. “A chick answered the phone at his apartment. It could be a friend or relative, but even if it's a girlfriend, it doesn't mean his life is good. She was panting, and I could hear an exercise video in the background, which probably means she's fat, trying to burn calories, which would explain why she's going out with a guy like Alan: She couldn't find anyone better.”

Lynn flipped through a magazine.

Roland glanced at his watch. Half an hour had passed. Enough. He dialed Alan's cell phone. Alan himself, once again, did not answer. It was a man, asking Roland to hold on. Roland listened, straining his ear for signs of pathos. Suddenly he heard “Cut!” He frowned. Then he heard people clapping and saying, “Wow, that was great, Alan,” and a sexy female voice, “Alan, that was amazing,” then someone else, “There's a call for you, Alan!”

Four days later, Alan was sitting with Lynn and Roland in a coffee shop. Roland had not said much about their reason for inviting him, claiming only that it would be nice to see him. When Alan had lightly pressed him for a more plausible explanation, mentioning he had forty-two tax returns to prepare that week plus a movie role, Roland had replied, enigmatically, “It would be good for all of us.”

Sensing Alan's hesitation, Roland had handed the phone to Lynn, urging her to say something encouraging. Not knowing what to say, she blurted that she was from Long Island, too, and asked him what town he was from. He said Cross. She said she was from Stanton, the next town over. They chuckled politely.

After taking a day to think about it, Alan had accepted their invitation.

He was starting to wonder if he had not made a mistake, because their questions were getting strange. At first they had asked him simple things, like the plot of the movie he was in.

“A married woman falls in love with another man,” Alan had replied.

“What's your part?”

“The other man.”

They asked him how he was doing, and he answered, “I'm doing well, thanks,” and they said, “It must have been hard for you, what we did.”

Alan couldn't quite figure out what their intention was—to revive his murderous thoughts?

“Yes, it was hard.”

“Oh, boy, I can just imagine,” Lynn said. “Did you have to go into therapy?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” Roland said. “Did you ever have suicidal thoughts?”

“Yes.” Alan saw a twinkle in their eyes. So he added, “I also had murderous thoughts.”

They were visibly less interested in those. Misery seemed to be what they wanted to hear about. Less so the anger.

“And now? How is your life now? Are you lonely? Depressed? Unmotivated?” they asked, with an air of hopeful concern.

“No,” Alan said.

Roland scratched his cheek. After a time, Lynn said, “It must be hard for you to see us now. I mean, painful.”

“No. It's almost the opposite. It helps me realize how much better I feel now. How much better my life is. You know, in a way, I should even be grateful to you both for what you did to me. If you hadn't helped me reach bottom, I might not have kicked back up.”

It was nauseating how he was going on and on about himself, the little self-centered prick, Roland thought.

“That's a very generous way of looking at it,” Lynn muttered. She was watching Alan closely. Within a few months, his body language had completely changed. He was calm, that was a big part of it. And he didn't seem to hold a grudge, which was remarkable. He had risen above it. Wait. Was he on Prozac, or something?

“How's your job?” Roland asked.

“Good.”

“Have you made partner yet?”

“No.”

“Supervisor?”

“No.”

“Still doing all the grunt work, huh?”

“Yes, but it's fine.”

“Are you on any antidepressants?” Lynn asked.

“No.”

“But you've changed so much!” she said. “You don't even move the same way. You seem less agitated, and you no longer make those silly facial expressions that were too drastic and too frequent.”

Alan was so well-adjusted that he barely felt the sting of that remark. Nevertheless, he did flag down the waiter, knowing there was a 25 percent chance of getting the result he wanted.

“Could you bring me a beer?” he said to the waiter.

“Could I see some ID?” the waiter asked.

Bingo. Alan glanced at Roland slyly, who already had a beer in front of him and hadn't gotten carded.

Roland said to the waiter, “You think he looks under twenty-one?”

“You never know,” the waiter said.

“I'm sorry, I've lost my driver's license,” Alan said. “Can I have the beer anyway? I'm thirty-four, a year older than this man, and you didn't ask him for his ID.”

“I'm instructed to follow my judgment,” the waiter said. “I shouldn't sell you the beer without ID.”

“That's fine, no problem,” Alan said. “I'll have a Coke.”

When the waiter had left, Roland asked Alan, “Do you still have that rat?”

Alan smiled. “Yes, Pancake is a wonderful pet.”

“You know,” Roland said, smiling and stroking Lynn's hand resting on the table, “I was telling Lynn the other day that I thought perhaps we should let you have that weekend with her.”

Lynn stared at Roland in shock.

“I'm … flattered,” Alan said, looking uncomfortable, “but I'm in a relationship now.”

“Lucky her. Or him?” Roland said.

“Her,” Alan said.

“Is it that girl who answered the phone when I called your apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Is she fat?”

“No, why would you ask that?”

“Oh, because she was clearly exercising, you know, aerobics video in the background, panting, so I figured, hey … she must be fat, trying to shed the pounds.”

“When you called, she was actually on the phone with me—as she told you—and the reason she was panting was that we were having phone sex.”

Roland and Lynn looked slapped.

“What does she do for a living? Does she have some kind of sex phone line, or something?” Roland asked.

“No. She's a private detective.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. And she owns a gun.”

Alan could see them absorbing this information.

“So she's a professional stalker …” Roland mused. “What a perfect match for you. How did you meet her?”

Alan hesitated, and finally confessed, “I was coming out of an SA meeting … that stands for Stalkaholics Anonymous … and she was coming out of her meeting in the next room, and we met in the hallway.”

“What kind of meeting was hers?”

Alan was reluctant to disclose so much to these problematic people. But finally, he did, because he was not entirely ashamed of the information. “Sex Addicts Anonymous.”

Roland's eyes were like Ping-Pong balls released underwater. “She's a sex addict?”

“Was.”

“Aren't you afraid she'll cheat on you?”

“No. She's doing much better now. Just as I am.”

“She must be pretty freaked out by your rat.”

Alan frowned and shook his head. “No, women with guns don't usually mind rats.”

“You mean because they can shoot them?”

“No, it's just a gutsier category of women.”

They asked him more questions about his life, and they began sounding to Alan as if they were trying to guess the answer to a riddle. And it was clear to Alan that the riddle was: What, in Alan's life, still sucks? They were having such a hard time coming up with the answer that Alan decided to give them a hint, in the form of another riddle. He clasped his hands on the table, and said, “What is greater than God, more evil than the Devil, the rich need it, and the poor have it?”

“I've got no clue,” Roland said.

“That was the clue,” Alan said.

“What was the clue?”

“The riddle I just told you.”

“The clue to what?”

“To the larger riddle.”

“What larger riddle?”

“The one you have both been trying to guess since we sat down.”

“And what is this larger riddle?”

“I don't need to tell you. We all three know what it is,” Alan said.

“Well what's the answer to it?” Roland asked.

“The same as the answer to this smaller riddle. I'll let you figure it out. Supposedly, third-graders more often guess this little riddle than do graduate students.”

On the drive back to the country, Roland was in a bad mood trying to guess the riddle. He was repeating it to himself out loud while driving. Lynn was looking out her window quietly, lost in thought. Softly, she finally said, “It's nothing.”

“What?” he said, turning toward her angrily. “What are you saying? Speak up!”

“Nothing.”

“You said something. Have the courtesy to tell me this thing which you impolitely mumbled,
nom de merde
!”

“Nothing, that's—”

He raised his hand to hit her. She raised her arm to shield her face. The car swerved. She screamed. Horns honked. He pulled over on the side of the road.