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The last time I tried to surveil cars on the road was 1999. It was different then. I, most of the time, was not driving myself, instead either on the school bus or on foot. Even when I got my license and a car, scanning the road was different. I lived in a one-stoplight town, with roads that one had one lane going in each direction, and fairly little traffic. Here, the town is large. They call it a city, but having lived in cities, I wouldn’t go that far. But the town is vast, sprawled over 20 miles, with its myriad of streets, roads, avenues and terraces laid out haphazardly as the organic and capitalistic growth took the development in unforeseen directions from its founding maps.
The car I was frenetically searching for was also easier to find just on its face. A black Ford Taurus, late 90s edition. The very year, or soon after, that Ford changed its models from the rectangular, flat-ish headlights to those strange-looking oval things on the front. They changed the whole body of the car, in fact, from a typical early 90s sedan to a strange hybrid of a Beetle and coup-like sedan. At the time, it was incredibly novel, and he had one before they became ubiquitous. That year I scanned the streets, the car stood out. Not only in its original shape, but also because he had a bike rack on the roof. He raced bicycles. He had bicycles more expensive than my mom’s old car she gave me to drive at 16. He owned a home, had a job—a fancy job where he was upwardly mobile (he got two promotions in the time I was “seeing” him)—he owned two dogs and two parrots. He was a grown up. He was 31.
And I was on the other side of this. I was the one being strung along. I was the one being left, or, at least, ignored until it was convenient. I was the one waiting. I’ve always been the one waiting. I’m used to that role, good at that role. I like that role. I know the rules for that role. I don’t know the rules for when you are the one with the constraints. I’ve only been the young romantic with everything to give. This is the first time I’ve been the person with only a little to give, making it unfair, making it excruciating, for the other. This is the first time I’ve been scanning the streets because of a decision I consciously made.
The car I’m looking for now stands out but not in the same way. You have to see it from the back, truly, to know it’s right. The Honda Civic can look many different ways, but his is a sporty version with angles in the back. Low to the ground, but not in the homey way my old 2005 was. It’s a dark greyish color with black accents. It’s very pretty. I’ve always liked it a lot. The interior is black, when not covered in clothing or paperwork. It’s not easy to pick out from three lanes of traffic in the semi-darkness of dusk. I know because for all my looking, I never saw it in motion just passing by.
Back at the beginning, I would easily spot it in front of his work, or, a little later on, behind his apartment building. Once, coming home from a high school football game, where I was working, I saw him walking to it. The restaurant closed at the precise moment I was driving by. I thought perhaps to stop, but did not. Too weird. Too much. Too coincidental. At the time, it was coincidence. But who could believe that?
Now it would not be a coincidence. I mean, unless it was. But now, sometimes, I look on purpose. Not just driving during my day, but maybe taking paths I think he’ll take. Maybe being in the nearby vicinity of him. As if that locational closeness could somehow make up for it. Could somehow give me some comfort.
In my youth, that often worked. Because of the smallness of the town, I often saw the vehicle I was looking for. I often saw the man inside. It was before window tinting, and I could get a clear view of his beautiful, thick dark brown hair, waving and bouncy like Superman’s. I often saw his face, driving by. A half-smile if he saw me too, a flash of white teeth. A crinkle of the eyes behind his sunglasses. Seeing the car, seeing him, even knowing he could be close, gave me comfort back then. Now, it’s not quite enough.
And I don’t know what would look back at me if we were to pass each other in the street. Anger, maybe. Hatred? Maybe nothing at all. Maybe it was like the few people I told about this said. Maybe it never meant anything. Just a fun—and costly—triste for me. Just a successful scam for him. Or maybe I’d see sadness. Maybe reproach. Maybe disgust. Or maybe hope?
In this new man’s brown eyes, not a crinkle, but an open stare. He only smiles when he means it. He only laughs when he doesn’t. I don’t think he’d do either if he saw me. I spend too much time thinking about his pretend reactions to our pretend meeting. It’s the kind of thing what I’ve done was meant to stop, to avoid altogether. I did not do well.
Sometimes, I do. I can go for at least a few days and just be fine. Better than that, actually, because I feel happy about my lie-less life. I feel relief that I can give my phone to my children at any time. That I’m always where I say I’m going to be. I am a simple person. Lies do not become me. I’m not good at them and I don’t like them.
The teenager I was did like them, though. She found them exciting, but, more than that, she found them necessary. She was in love, after all. And nothing would stand between her and true love. Certainly not 16 years’ age-gap and the fact that she was still, technically, a child. Given those constraints, of course she had to lie. No one would condone it on its face. They just didn’t understand.
That’s when I first learned how to properly stalk someone without bothering them. That’s the key, of course. If you are knocking, or calling, or messaging, or contacting them, you are bothering them. If you are creepy about it, standing outside, staring, causing a nuisance, being seen, you are bothering them. But if you are hidden. If it’s just for you. If you just pass by, and see for one second the back of his head, the curls coming out from under the baseball cap, and you keep going, and you are sated for another few days, maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s not stalking. Written down, it looks like stalking. Written down, I don’t like it. But in my head, it seemed different. And it’s something I’ve done many times over the years. Well, many times in my teens and early 20s. That was the last time this happened to me. The last time this happened to me, I married the man.
I wonder now if that first relationship when I was 16 was when these seeds of chaos were sown in me. If, though they lay dormant for nearly 20 years, they were simply germinating. I’ve certainly been nothing but chaotic in love ever since. Even with my husband. Even when I had everything to give and nothing to leave out, I brought a frenetic, needy pace to the relationship. A codependency so many men thrive on. I’ve grown since then, obviously. Many years of therapy have given me a backbone and an identity. I can ask for and receive what I want and need now. I no longer beg for things that should be freely given, or for forgiveness that was never needed. I’m much healthier now. Much more adult. At least, I thought I was. But here I am. Driving the three-lane streets, straining my old eyes to the point of headache, scanning every car driving by. Because maybe it’s him. Maybe if I just get a glimpse of him through the windshield, that will be enough.
As it turns out, the entire exercise was pointless all those weeks. He’d traded his Honda for a black truck. Of course he did.
The car I was frenetically searching for was also easier to find just on its face. A black Ford Taurus, late 90s edition. The very year, or soon after, that Ford changed its models from the rectangular, flat-ish headlights to those strange-looking oval things on the front. They changed the whole body of the car, in fact, from a typical early 90s sedan to a strange hybrid of a Beetle and coup-like sedan. At the time, it was incredibly novel, and he had one before they became ubiquitous. That year I scanned the streets, the car stood out. Not only in its original shape, but also because he had a bike rack on the roof. He raced bicycles. He had bicycles more expensive than my mom’s old car she gave me to drive at 16. He owned a home, had a job—a fancy job where he was upwardly mobile (he got two promotions in the time I was “seeing” him)—he owned two dogs and two parrots. He was a grown up. He was 31.
And I was on the other side of this. I was the one being strung along. I was the one being left, or, at least, ignored until it was convenient. I was the one waiting. I’ve always been the one waiting. I’m used to that role, good at that role. I like that role. I know the rules for that role. I don’t know the rules for when you are the one with the constraints. I’ve only been the young romantic with everything to give. This is the first time I’ve been the person with only a little to give, making it unfair, making it excruciating, for the other. This is the first time I’ve been scanning the streets because of a decision I consciously made.
The car I’m looking for now stands out but not in the same way. You have to see it from the back, truly, to know it’s right. The Honda Civic can look many different ways, but his is a sporty version with angles in the back. Low to the ground, but not in the homey way my old 2005 was. It’s a dark greyish color with black accents. It’s very pretty. I’ve always liked it a lot. The interior is black, when not covered in clothing or paperwork. It’s not easy to pick out from three lanes of traffic in the semi-darkness of dusk. I know because for all my looking, I never saw it in motion just passing by.
Back at the beginning, I would easily spot it in front of his work, or, a little later on, behind his apartment building. Once, coming home from a high school football game, where I was working, I saw him walking to it. The restaurant closed at the precise moment I was driving by. I thought perhaps to stop, but did not. Too weird. Too much. Too coincidental. At the time, it was coincidence. But who could believe that?
Now it would not be a coincidence. I mean, unless it was. But now, sometimes, I look on purpose. Not just driving during my day, but maybe taking paths I think he’ll take. Maybe being in the nearby vicinity of him. As if that locational closeness could somehow make up for it. Could somehow give me some comfort.
In my youth, that often worked. Because of the smallness of the town, I often saw the vehicle I was looking for. I often saw the man inside. It was before window tinting, and I could get a clear view of his beautiful, thick dark brown hair, waving and bouncy like Superman’s. I often saw his face, driving by. A half-smile if he saw me too, a flash of white teeth. A crinkle of the eyes behind his sunglasses. Seeing the car, seeing him, even knowing he could be close, gave me comfort back then. Now, it’s not quite enough.
And I don’t know what would look back at me if we were to pass each other in the street. Anger, maybe. Hatred? Maybe nothing at all. Maybe it was like the few people I told about this said. Maybe it never meant anything. Just a fun—and costly—triste for me. Just a successful scam for him. Or maybe I’d see sadness. Maybe reproach. Maybe disgust. Or maybe hope?
In this new man’s brown eyes, not a crinkle, but an open stare. He only smiles when he means it. He only laughs when he doesn’t. I don’t think he’d do either if he saw me. I spend too much time thinking about his pretend reactions to our pretend meeting. It’s the kind of thing what I’ve done was meant to stop, to avoid altogether. I did not do well.
Sometimes, I do. I can go for at least a few days and just be fine. Better than that, actually, because I feel happy about my lie-less life. I feel relief that I can give my phone to my children at any time. That I’m always where I say I’m going to be. I am a simple person. Lies do not become me. I’m not good at them and I don’t like them.
The teenager I was did like them, though. She found them exciting, but, more than that, she found them necessary. She was in love, after all. And nothing would stand between her and true love. Certainly not 16 years’ age-gap and the fact that she was still, technically, a child. Given those constraints, of course she had to lie. No one would condone it on its face. They just didn’t understand.
That’s when I first learned how to properly stalk someone without bothering them. That’s the key, of course. If you are knocking, or calling, or messaging, or contacting them, you are bothering them. If you are creepy about it, standing outside, staring, causing a nuisance, being seen, you are bothering them. But if you are hidden. If it’s just for you. If you just pass by, and see for one second the back of his head, the curls coming out from under the baseball cap, and you keep going, and you are sated for another few days, maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s not stalking. Written down, it looks like stalking. Written down, I don’t like it. But in my head, it seemed different. And it’s something I’ve done many times over the years. Well, many times in my teens and early 20s. That was the last time this happened to me. The last time this happened to me, I married the man.
I wonder now if that first relationship when I was 16 was when these seeds of chaos were sown in me. If, though they lay dormant for nearly 20 years, they were simply germinating. I’ve certainly been nothing but chaotic in love ever since. Even with my husband. Even when I had everything to give and nothing to leave out, I brought a frenetic, needy pace to the relationship. A codependency so many men thrive on. I’ve grown since then, obviously. Many years of therapy have given me a backbone and an identity. I can ask for and receive what I want and need now. I no longer beg for things that should be freely given, or for forgiveness that was never needed. I’m much healthier now. Much more adult. At least, I thought I was. But here I am. Driving the three-lane streets, straining my old eyes to the point of headache, scanning every car driving by. Because maybe it’s him. Maybe if I just get a glimpse of him through the windshield, that will be enough.
As it turns out, the entire exercise was pointless all those weeks. He’d traded his Honda for a black truck. Of course he did.
