Standing On A Chair

Telling it like I see it…

The Masturbator Part Three

“What do you mean, there are no detectives available?” I said to Officer Somebody on my phone in the kitchen.  “There’s a blade coming at me through the back wall of my bedroom closet, for God’s sake!”

“Lady, calm down.  [Sigh]  What did you say your name was again?”

It was 9:30 pm Saturday night.  I’d slept about fifteen minutes in the last thirty-six hours.  I had to recap the whole story again.  Officer Dick Wad finally located my paperwork.

“You’d find an available detective if this were a homicide, by God, which this certainly could turn out to be, sir!”

“Mrs. Miller, please, I’ve got an officer on the way to take another report.  You’ll get your detective on Monday.”

“I asked you before not to call me ‘Mrs. Miller.’  I divorced that man a long time ago!”

I heard myself going off the deep end.

“So sorry, sir,” I quickly told the officer. 

He said he understood, we ended the conversation and within minutes there was a knock at the door.  A new and different pair of cops this time.  So much for continuity.  They took a picture of the gash in the closet, took down some information, assured me I wasn’t being threatened by a homicidal maniac, and left, after which my poor belabored landlord, whom I had awakened from his sleep, came over to plug up the gash in the closet.

The rest of the weekend went on without incident.  Farrah was at the age where I could take naps on the couch while she played on the living room floor.  By Monday morning I felt almost normal enough to take Farrah to school and then go to work. 

My story was the topic at the office.

“You need to move,” said most of my co-workers.

“What,” I protested, “and allow the pervert to win?  You know how much it costs to move?”

“He might be more than just a perv, Jill,” they told me.

“I’m meeting with a detective after work.  I’ll see what he says.”

That evening, I sat in my living room with Detective Morales of the LAPD.  I probably shouldn’t mention this, but he was hot.  About mid-thirties, average height, lots of thick, black hair.  He wore a custom gray suit, cut in just right at the waste, a white shirt and maroon tie.  How he afforded to dress like that was a mystery to me.

“Jill,” he began (thank God somebody got that I didn’t want to be called ‘Mrs. Miller’); “I paid a little visit to your next-door neighbors before coming here.”

A feeling of relief washed over me.  Finally, someone was going to be proactive.

“I have to say, Jill, this is not going to be easy.  They wouldn’t let me in, first of all.  Declined to let me see the young man, uh, Jerome.  Denied he could have anything to do with what’s going on.  I explained about the common wall you both share, top to bottom.  But no go.”

“No go? No go? You can’t just flash your badge and walk in?  Arrest him?”

“Jill, he’s only seventeen.  He’s a minor.  If his parents don’t cooperate, we can’t touch him.”

“I don’t believe what I am hearing.”

“In addition, they’re accusing us of harassing them because they’re black.”

At that point I started crying.  No open sobs, though.  How embarrassing that would have been.

The detective leaned forward and placed his hand on my shoulder.  “I’m so sorry.  But we’re not going to abandon you.  I’ll have patrols come around to check on you every day.  At the very least the presence of cops will deter Jerome from making any further assaults on your apartment.  You of course will call us if there are.  In the meantime I’ll go back to the station and do some research.  Maybe I can come up with something.”

All I could really do was just nod my head.  He gave me his card and told me to call him personally if I needed to.  That was pretty kind, I thought.

He did what he said he would do.  Police cars pulled right up to my back door through the parking area on a daily basis and for the next few weeks things kind of felt back to normal.  I didn’t see anything of Jerome, which was a blessing. 

The whole thing caused me to go into a cleaning frenzy.  Guess it made me feel somehow in control.  I even got down on all fours and scrubbed baseboards.  I never scrub baseboards.

So on a Saturday morning a few weeks later, I tackled the downstairs storage closet in the stair well.  It had been a mess forever and really needed a good gutting.  After clearing most of the stuff off the closet floor, I found the old Frank Zappa poster I’d bought back in 1969, leaning up against the back wall.  It was the one of him sitting on the toilet with his pants gathered around his ankles.  I remembered thinking this was such a hoot, and I actually used to have it hanging in my living room in San Francisco.  Guess I’d outgrown it. 

I was smiling as I pulled the old poster toward me.  But when I saw what was behind it, my amusement was replaced by the blow of stunned terror.

Stay tuned for Part Four.


January 25, 2011 - Posted by | Stalkers | , , ,


  1. I sort of know what happen. But you know what statement means, I forgot. So keep going girl this is great stuff. Missy

    Comment by Pam Smith | January 25, 2011 | Reply

  2. This is better than the last mystery novel I read…..

    Comment by Barb | January 27, 2011 | Reply

  3. Pins and needles here waiting on the next chapters! I can feel your fear! You are an excellant writer!

    Comment by Gordie Hall | February 1, 2011 | Reply

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