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Wednesday, May 19 2004

Doormen and Stalkers

meperformingps122.jpg Me. Performing last night at PS 122. It was amazing. Not me. The whole thing. I was good too though.

Okay. Switching gears. Do you see the skidmarks?

Is it normal that at midnight the doorman of the building I am currently cat sitting in asked me if he could buy me a beer, or the drink of my choice, while he was on duty, just so we could talk? I think I know the answer, which is of course YES, but as I am about to write that I realize that most doormen are a little left of center, and I’m not talking about their political views.

Doormen love me. In fact, in my first apartment in New York, one of my doormen brought me back a present when he returned from his home in Senegal. It was a really pretty glass picture that I, eventually and by accident, smashed.

Then in the second building I lived, I had this doorman that I would still vote for in my high school yearbook as most likely to go “batty on your ass”. I know I told some close family and friends that if I ever died in an apartment shooting, it would be because Albert finally snapped.

Then there was Norman. Same building, different shift. A Jehovah’s Witness who hadn’t had sex in years, or so he said, he was fascinated with me and my line of work, which at the time was Internet radio. I worked late hours, and he worked overnights, so we saw each other on a more frequent basis than a lot of the other residents. He would walk me to the elevator and try to push my buttons. Of course I sometimes instigated naughty conversation. Anytime I brought someone home late I would tell him that I was just taking them upstairs to fuck them, just to get a reaction out of him. Even if he thought my lifestyle (which was mainly hyperbole) was disgusting, he never once gave me a Lighthouse Magazine - apparently the magazine of choice for Jehovah’s Witnesses. But everyone else in the building, even visitors, got at least one copy. I like to think that’s because Norman liked me more.

I haven’t lived in a doorman building in over a year. BUT….

I must have a pheromone that attracts doormen. Because I think they like me more than they like most other residents. This guy last night was more intense. He really didn’t want me to leave him downstairs. He would have followed me upstairs probably, but luckily some lady came in and he had laundry for her. I dead bolted my door last night, because I know he has keys. I don’t need a stalker.

I had a stalker once. Back when I lived in Bucyrus, Ohio. He followed me out of the supermarket one day and noticed the NY Plates on my car. We met a few days prior to his stalking me, when we exchanged trivial conversation on the checkout line at the local grocery store. Later that week, I was driving home from work - which meant it was around 1AM -and when I got to my apartment, there he was, parked smack-dab in front of my door.

I was so dumb. I actually got out of the car and went towards my door. In retrospect, the town was so small that unless I drove to a larger city, which meant at least 30 minutes of driving, he could have followed me to a more deserted road and raped or killed me. Going into my apartment seemed like the safest thing to do. But as I turned the key to enter, he ascended from his car and started talking to me.

Keep in mind its way too late for this to have been a chance meeting.
“We met at the supermarket the other day.” he said
“Yeah,” I said. “So, what are you doing here?”
“I have a friend who lives in this area. I noticed your car, y’know the NY plates, when I was visiting him the other day. His name is Kevin White. He lives in the complex over there.”

Believable enough, perhaps, but still very, very weird.

Eventually, I got him to leave. But only after I agreed to meet him for a drink. I gave him a fake number, and unbeknownst to him, I was moving out the next day. Which wasn’t soon enough, but it was pretty soon. I knew I would never see him again.

So, I escaped a stalker because I was conveniently scheduled to leave town around the same time he decided to stalk me. It turns out, the guy he mentioned hadn’t lived in my complex for over a year - I asked the super - which meant that he really did follow me home.

And then I came to NY. And I met the doormen.

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