None of Your Business

TW: Character is followed without permission; mention of accidental death of wildlife

It was never my life’s goal to become a stalker. Stalker might be a strong word—boundary-challenged is likely more accurate. It’s fair to say you wouldn’t suspect that I’m a creepy voyeur when you first meet me. You might find me a bit immature or obnoxious, but you’d probably think I’m too self-absorbed to have any interest in stalking.

The problem is, I make questionable choices when I’m bored. Or when I’m trying to avoid figuring out my life. Now that I’ve hit thirty, I’m supposed to be searching for meaning in my life, not falling back on my old habit of chasing the next shiny object. And let me tell you, there are a lot of shiny objects for me to follow.

Some might consider my interest in other people’s realities a coping strategy. I think it started around the time my mom died, this practice of creating intricate life stories for complete strangers, becoming enthralled by some exotic life that couldn’t possibly be as lonely as my own. I gave them families, jobs, girlfriends, husbands, mistresses, boats, dogs. I was amazed by how many alternate realities I could imagine as I spent countless hours in these fictional universes.

I know that a responsible adult shouldn’t waste time on such fruitless pursuits. But knowing what’s right and making sensible decisions are two different things. So, I wasn’t all that surprised to find myself getting a little obsessed with this guy at the gym. And no, it’s not like that. I’m happily engaged to my saint of a boyfriend, Steve, who somehow hasn’t gotten tired of all my antics. I am convinced that he’s the most tolerant man on the planet.

There’s nothing particularly intriguing about this random guy; he’s attractive enough and has the look of someone who could easily be somewhere between thirty and forty. He has a nice, honest face and a short, nondescript haircut. The one thing that stands out about him is the ridiculous tank tops he wears. More like t-shirts he’s cut the sleeves off, in colors that would only exist in the bargain bin at Ross. He must have hundreds of these shirts—I’ve never seen the same one twice.

Even more noticeable than his tank shirts, though, is the fact that no matter what time or day I overcome my laziness to make it to the gym, this guy is there. Every single time. I go at all different times, day and night, depending on whether I’m working at my catering job or at the winery. My hours are crazy unpredictable; some weeks I work out every day, other weeks just once.

But no matter what, rain or shine, this guy is there. My boyfriend, I mean fiancé, and I go to the same gym and have both noticed him. Steve unwittingly partners with me in my unhealthy curiosity when he starts calling him “Tank Top Ted.” Why Ted? Neither of us knows but it does make a nice alliteration. It has become a game of ours to try to predict what color shirt he’ll be wearing the next time we see him, or whether he’ll be on the rowing machine, the elliptical, or the bike. Will he high five the guy with the Flock of Seagulls haircut like he always does? That kind of thing—harmless, good fun.

There will be days that Steve goes to the gym at 9am and reports a Ted sighting, only for me to return that same day at 3pm and guess what? Ted is STILL there. He never looks sweaty or exhausted, but every time either of us sees him, he is truly working out. Apparently, he’s not just there just to look pretty. Which of course he doesn’t because of his hideous shirts.

The guy doesn’t look old enough to be retired, so he must have a job. Right? He could be a trust funder but wouldn’t he be wearing better workout gear? He doesn’t seem like some obsessive workout guy—he doesn’t exactly have guns or a six-pack. He doesn’t seem to be on the prowl, as I’ve literally never seen him flirting with a woman. Or a man.

I got a serendipitous glimpse into his life one day when I heard him telling Flock of Seagulls hair guy that he has a three-year old son. Ted doesn’t wear a wedding band, but then again, lots of dudes don’t wear them when they work out. Or is he divorced? I start to wonder how often he sees his kid, or if he lives with him. I decide it’s possible that he and his partner are together but not married. Are they happy? What does she look like and how did they meet?

It’s hard for me to wrap my head around how a guy with a three-year-old, and probably a job somewhere, has time to be at the gym for so many hours a day. Even if he has a wife or girlfriend taking care of their kid, she must get annoyed by how long he’s gone. At least he’s not out drinking, which makes me wonder if maybe he’s in recovery and this is his way of staying sober. Now do you get the idea of the rabbit holes I go down?

I can’t put my finger on why I am so fascinated by this perfectly normal seeming guy. Maybe I wasn’t completely honest earlier. I do find him attractive, but not in the way that I want to date him. I swear, I love Steve! And I already know this guy wouldn’t nearly measure up to my fiancé. I mean, Ted’s a little scrawny for my taste, even with all the working out he seems to do. And how fun can he be, seeing that he spends all his time at the gym? He clearly needs to diversify his hobbies beyond gym rat. I know, I know, I’m not one to judge if one of my hobbies is imagining other people’s lives.

And then it happens, something I have never witnessed during any of my Ted sightings: he is leaving the gym! Proof that he does in fact have an existence outside of this place. Before I can reign myself in, my curiosity erupts into overdrive: What kind of car does he drive? Where does he live? Where is he going now? Is he going to work, wherever that is? Has he even noticed I’m staring at him? Thankfully, no, he never seems to have looked in my direction. Which normally would piss me off but I’m not surprised since I hide under my hat and glasses whenever I’m at the gym. It’s not like I’m trying to land a husband. I’m engaged, remember?

Fully committed now, I seize my moment and play it off that I just finished my workout at the same time. I am dying to find out his story, maybe I could strike up a conversation with him. I am thinking this as he waves goodbye to the front desk staff. I follow behind, unnoticed, and realize that I don’t want to actually talk to him. I just want to know if his out of gym self matches the life I’ve created for him in my head.

I get into my car and watch him as he makes his way to his, two rows away from mine. Even as I’m crouched in my seat, I have a perfect view of him using an actual key to open the door of a pristinely clean, but far from new BMW. That does not contain a car seat. Hmm…not sure what to make of that. His window is rolled down and I hear a blast of Poison really? as he reverses out of his spot. He seems to be lost in the music as he drives away.

You’ve probably already guessed that I am going to follow him. This is the part where I could be considered a psycho stalker. But this story wouldn’t be nearly as interesting if I demurely got into my car and drove straight home. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to like me, judge me, want to be me, or try to change me in this story, but I'm going with the adventure storyline.

I rationalize that we’re probably heading in the same direction anyway (the road is North/South so there’s a 50 percent chance I’m not stalking). I’ve seen enough movies to know how to keep a safe distance, so I do my thing for a few blocks, just close enough to see his head bobbing to the music. We wait at the light and then he pulls into the Starbucks parking lot.

I follow him and park a few rows away, backing into my spot for a clear view. I see on my phone that Steve is calling me, but I can’t bring myself to tell him what I’m doing. He’ll assume I’m still working out, so I ignore his call. Eventually Ted comes out of Starbucks with the biggest Frappuccino I’ve ever seen, which everyone knows is one of highest calorie drinks you can get. No wonder Ted works out for hours at a time and still hasn’t developed muscles.

Ted rolls his window down and I am once again nearly deafened, this time by Anthrax—what is with this guy? He backs out and is almost out of the parking lot by the time I get my car started. I see him turn onto the wide boulevard as I follow discreetly behind him. This is the point in the story where I should just go home, I know. Clearly, this guy is a regular dude, except for his bad taste in sugary drinks and music. I tell myself this is my route home anyway, so what’s the harm?

We’re rolling along and I’m almost ready to give up my surveillance when I see a small flock of ducks getting ready to march across the road ahead. I’ve seen them do this before, as if they’re waiting at the crosswalk, making sure it’s safe. It’s a wide street, and luckily there isn’t much traffic at this time of day. I quickly calculate how I can conceal the fact that I’m following Ted before I’ll have to stop right behind him to wait for the ducks to cross.

But he isn’t looking, and I see the ducks start to cross at that exact moment, right in front of him. I’m waiting for the squeal of brakes as I reduce my speed to avoid rearending him. My heart is racing as I get ready to honk my horn, but then it dawns on me that he won’t hear me over his earsplitting music.

It’s as if time stands still when I realize there is no way he’ll be able to stop in time. To my horror, Ted’s car maintains its steady pace, seemingly unaware of anything in its path. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say I start bawling when I see that not all those precious ducks made it across.

I am planning to jump out of my car so we can render aid. Ted probably wouldn’t even realize I was following him, he’ll just think it’s a coincidence, right? I start to pull over, trying to stay calm. I assume Ted will be pretty shaken up and I don’t want to make him feel any worse than I’m sure he already does. I’m figuring out how to play this when I look up, confused.

The street feels strangely quiet and Ted’s car is no longer directly in front of me. He was just there, which makes me wonder if I might have semi-blacked out from the shock. I figure he must have pulled off somewhere else. Maybe he pulled a u-turn past the center divider and is on the other side of the road.

I look everywhere but there is no sign of him. The realization hits: Ted is gone.

There is absolutely no way he didn’t know what he had done, not felt the bump even if he hadn’t known what he hit. My jaw drops when I see Ted’s car in the distance, about to get on the freeway. This is not the behavior of the Ted I had envisioned! What kind of person doesn’t at least try to rescue an innocent little duckling?

I park on the shoulder and somehow get myself together enough to call animal control. Another driver shows up to help a few minutes later; she seems half-hearted in her attempts to console me. I realized later that she probably thought I was the one who hit the ducks!

I know it’s not a crime to hit a duck, or ducks, actually—it’s not like Ted did it on purpose. And for all I know, he was in shock. Maybe he came back later, realizing what he had done. I’ll never know. That’s because I hightailed it out of there, wanting to unsee the horror of what wasn’t mine to witness in the first place.

***

A few months later, Steve and I are at the gym, on one of the rare occasions our schedules allow us to work out together. He elbows me when Tank Top Ted walks by, whispering in my ear, “Hey, check out Ted’s latest abomination!” I furtively glance toward Ted, trying to hide my disdain as I read what’s written on his t-shirt.

I suppose I should mention that I never told Steve about my “adventure” on that fateful, traumatic day. The day that burst my bubble of Ted being anything other than a selfish, mean-spirited jerk who spends his free time lowering the wildlife population. I’m not sure if I was trying to keep Steve from trying to get the guy to atone for his sins or if I was too embarrassed to admit my spying. And if I’m honest, the fact that my investigation might have been motivated, for the briefest of moments, by a curiosity about what life with Ted might have been like. I know, I sound like a hormonal teenager, rather than the functional adult I supposedly am. I wish I could be a more inspiring character in this story.

At this point, I know you must be wondering what is wrong with me. I have the best, most tolerant boyfriend on the planet, and yet, sometimes I need reassurance that I’m not missing out on some bigger version of my life. Maybe this type of behavior is what my therapist was referring to when she casually suggested that I might not have reached the apex of my emotional maturity. Or was it that my immature behavior might stem from my self-esteem issues? Or both.

Rest assured, my foray into Ted’s life was the exact reality check I needed. No good can ever come of living in the hypothetical. Not to mention violating someone else’s privacy and right to live their life however they want, as despicable as it may seem to others. As long as they’re not hurting anyone else. Or animals.

Anyway, as Steve pointed out, Ted is sporting a lime green ripped shirt with the cliched, “#1 Dad” boldly emblazoned, for all to see.

Is it possible to be a #1 Dad AND a baby duck killer? I know that human beings are multifaceted, capable of immoral behavior that doesn’t automatically render them evil. I will never know if Ted had truly been unaware of what he did to those poor, innocent ducks. Maybe he was too hopped up on Frappuccino sugar and caffeine, distracted by that hideous death metal he somehow tolerated.

I know it’s time to live in my own reality, to quit wondering about Ted’s true character. To focus on becoming a better person who doesn’t pathetically, invisibly, insert herself into other people’s lives. And I will, I promise! But don’t my, um, charming antics, make this story more engaging? I am still the author of my own life, after all. I’m sure you’d rather I portray myself as someone more likeable, relatable. The thing is, I don’t have the energy to rewrite this entire story, so you’re getting the real me, in all my infuriating glory.

This doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten my aspiration toward maturity and respect for other people's privacy. It just may take me awhile to get there, so in the meantime, I am allowing myself my own private joke and personal f** you to Ted. I’ve been amassing my own graphic gym t-shirt collection, which I know Ted will see because he’s there every freaking day. Naturally, my shirts are in flattering colors and most definitely have not, and never will be, cut into shredded tank tops.

My new semi-mature persona has a particular affinity for irony. Today’s shirt is one of my favorites: “None of Your Business.”