Stalkers ‘R Us 4 - Why is there a strange powder covering that box?

The mailman came to the door today dressed in a full Hazmat suit and oxygen tank. I wanted to laugh at his appearance until I read the shipping label on the box.

Stalkers ‘R Us.

I ripped the astronaut helmet of the man and slammed the door close. The mail carrier screamed in terror, dropped the box, and ran down the street. Since the package did not explode when it struck the ground, I went ahead and opened it. Inside was a Kleenex box, a bottle of Valium, and an airsickness bag. I picked up the letter they had sent along with the items.

Dear Miss Rudemizerlowitz:

Here are the items you have ordered to fully enjoy the experience of being stalked. It is a pleasure to have you as a client and even now through our binoculars we can see you slacked jawed with shock. Realize that you are doing a great service to us as we practice our wire snipping skills on the telephone lines and cut eye holes into your family photos so we can watch your every movement. Can you imagine what would happen if we did not satisfy our perverted fetishes this way? We would have to become normal citizens of society.

Thank you again for contacting Stalkers ‘R Us with your compliment/complaint. We look forward to the many years of terrorizing you.

I read the words again then shook my head as my feet moved to the backdoor and out into the yard. I spied the many snoopers hanging like fruit in the apple tree and the freaks sitting in the bushes sniffing my clean underwear. With the letter flapping in my hand, I spoke loudly.

"I am NOT Miss Rudemizerlowitz. She is the woman next door. You are stalking the wrong person."

Fifty hands opened address books as they reread the client’s house number. From somewhere above my head on the porch roof, an embarrassed voice whispered, "Sorry. Our bad."

Ropes descended from the trees as the men climbed down. Black vans were packed up with their snooping equipment. They climbed behind steering wheels and drove the five feet down to the next house as they began to set up shop there.

Well, I admire their dedication to their work.

Here is the last stalker on my list: the phoner. Strangely enough, although this is the person who is the most infamous of freaky guys (who of us haven’t seen a scary movie where the woman picks up the phone and hears someone moaning), this post will be the shortest of them all.
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Stalker number 4: Ring-ring! *Beep* We’re sorry, but the phone number you have dialed does not accept harassing calls. Please hang up and do not call again!

Still living in Pittsburgh . . .

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Someone was pounding on my door as I crawled out of bed. The alarm clocked showed it was 3am in red glowing numbers. After slipping on my robe and grabbing my little baseball bat I got as a souvenir from a Pirate’s game, I hurried to the door and peeked out through the peephole.

A shadow stood in the alcove. Unfortunately, the outside light was not in the little entryway but farther out on the house. So there was no way to brighten this man’s face to see who it was.

"Who is it?" I yelled while staring at the triple-locked door. I felt soft fur against my leg as Rabbit came over wanting a rub. I told him to go to the front window and stand guard in case the intruder smashed through the large window. He stared up at me and meowed. Then, with his little stubby tail flicking with excitement, he hopped on back legs into the bedroom. Rabbit curled up on the warm spot on the sheets and went to sleep with a loud purr.

"It’s your neighbor. I need to talk with you, please? It’s really important."

My neighbor? This was strange. He had never come over to my house before. I did not really have any type of relationship with this man. Sure, I have said "Hi" to him whenever I left for work, maybe three times for the two years I lived in the house. It was a completely formal relationship that never strayed beyond the boundaries of when-is-that-damn-neighbor-going-to-cut-his-grass emotions.

By the tone of his voice he sounded agitated, and I had the fear that maybe something had happened. Maybe his house (or mine) had caught on fire and he needed to call for help or get me out to safety. Or perhaps he was involved in a car accident or a shooting and had staggered up to the doorway wanting me to perform a surgical procedure although I did not have the medical degree. I unlocked and opened the door.

The beer fumes hit me first, as I became instantly drunk without having a teaspoon of liquor passing by my lips. He staggered inside with no blood dripping from any visible wound. I did not see any clouds of smoke billowing about outside either.

"What’s wrong?" I asked with my shaky legs about to give out from the intense odor.

*Note: I cleaned up his drunk slur so you can understand his words* "Oh, um, I just got home," he stammered. He did not have to tell me where he was. We both knew that answer. "And, uh, like, I’ve been wanting to talk with you. I’ve been, you know, sort of lonely since my baby’s mama left and I wanted to . . . like yanno, get a kiss from you before I go home."

I swear by the higher powers that this is what he said to me. Cross my heart and hope to kick the bucket. He wanted to get a kiss goodnight from me. This had to be about the cheapest date I’ve ever gone on. The details of it are still a blurry haze in my mind.

My response. "It’s three in the morning and I have to get up for work at six. You have to leave."

"Oh, yeah, right. I can understand that," He mumbled and burped. "But I just want a kiss."

"You have to go, bro. Sorry. Not tonight." I opened the door and shooed him out.

He stood in the alcove, still mumbling. "Okay, can I get a kiss tomorrow?"

I rubbed my forehead in frustration. "I’ll get back to you on that."

"Oh, okay. Goodnight." He stumbled down the steps and across the lawn to his own place.

I shut the door.
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Yes, I know your wondering where the phone part comes in. Well, this persistent man ended up finding out my phone number. He called me at three in the morning every night for about a week wanting to know if it would be all right to get his kiss now. I told him that if he called one more time, then I would contact the police with a claim of harassment. He stopped calling. Unfortunately, a day came when he was sitting in his yard loudly complaining to his friend about what I said as I walked within earshot of his conversation.

His exact words: "I can’t believe she would fuckin’ accuse me of harassment. I’ve never done such a damn thing in my entire life to any woman. What a crazy bitch!"

I might be a crazy bitch, but I am not a cheap date.