The Night that I Almost Shot Somebody.

     Have you ever been stalked?  It can be an unsettling experience!  And it does not matter if you know the perpetrator of these fucked up activities, because you still know that some unstable person is invading your space. 

     In 1994 an ex-girlfriend of mine decided that being around me was a good idea.  But between then and the time of our brief interaction, she had spent some time doing drugs on a sort of commune in New York.  And she had come to the conclusion that her ultra 'white bread' family lead a miserable existence, especially her mother.  But her family apparently read Laura's diary and concluded from her remarks about their being put out of their misery that they should have her committed.  The time she spent strapped to a bed in the mental hospital, being forced to receive injections, did not help her to feel more at peace with her family.

     I didn't know what to do for her; it's a job not just for a professional, but for professionals that really care and know what they are doing.  The chances of her getting what she needs from the system, or her family, seem nonexistent.  Eventually I got tired of seeing her cross my path a few times or more every day, and the phone calls, and the occasional knock on my second story window, so I asked her to stop.  Perhaps she did not know that she could stop.

     She let up for a while, but I still felt apprehension.  I just didn't know what to do for her and didn't want to call the police for fear that she would endure more at the mental hospital. 

     A friend of mine suggested that I house sit in his apartment while he visited relatives in Spain.  It was a good arrangement for him because he would not have to leave his things unattended, and a good arrangement for me because I could hide out there.

      I went back and forth between places, and Laura seemed to disappear after a while.  Perhaps she felt frustrated that I had apparently left?

      One night, however, I noticed a homeless person asleep across the entrance to our building.  It was after the time that the bars closed, and I felt concerned for the young, attractive single women in our building that might encounter this person.  So I slammed the door to the apartment, which was near the entrance to the building, hoping that by letting him know that I knew he was there, that he would just go away.

     But it did not work out that way.  My previous experiences with desperate homeless people should have told me that.  Some seem to feel like they have nothing to lose and it can be very dangerous to confront people who feel great desperation.

     The response, to my amazement, a knock on the wooden partition between the window panels by the front door.  Then louder knocking, which I found shocking.  When knocking became pounding I decided to cut the lights and call the police.

     But as the pounding became louder, I could not find the phone. All I could find was Nicholas' 357 and it was loaded. He had taken me to Wade's Gun Shop to teach me how to shoot the thing, and now I could barely hold it because of my copious perspiration.

     As the wall shook, I expected the homeless person to burst through at any moment and try to hurt or kill me, so I pointed the gun toward him. It took a great effort of will to retain control of my bladder and bowels -- I was at the point of literally being scared shitless! Facing charges for murder was a less frightening prospect than pulling the trigger.

     And then it stopped.

     After a couple of minutes, when my heart slowed to something almost bearable, I snuck to the window, to see Laura riding away on her bicycle.