Standing On A Chair

Telling it like I see it…

The Masturbator Part Four

The hole I discovered in the back wall of the downstairs, stairwell closet was large enough to accommodate a full-grown male human.  A handle had been fashioned out of silver electrical tape on the back of my Frank Zappa poster, to enable that full-grown male human to pull it back into the leaning position as he exited, thus covering the gaping large opening completely.

I was worried out of my mind for my little girl.  Throughout all these nightmarish happenings, she asked many questions.  She was too young to understand why someone would be engaging in such activities like drilling holes in walls and ceilings.  I tried to exude an air of confidence and strength whenever she asked questions, which was really hard to do since inside I was a mewling, frightened fool.  “Not to fret, honey,” I told her.  “The police are protecting us, and nothing bad will happen.”  But on this day, the day of the “Frank Zappa” incident as I came to call it, I phoned my close friends to come and take Farrah to their place while I dealt with this latest blow.

Within minutes of calling the police, I had the detective and two uniforms in my living room.  Det. Morales was on the phone requesting a warrant.  Things started to feel like they were on fast-forward.  Before I could catch a breath, we all stood on the front porch of my next-door-neighbors, waiting for them to respond to the order to open up.

They had no choice but to let us in.

The uniforms took to exploring the apartment and climbing into the attic, while Det. Morales and I sat in the living room facing the couple across the room.  Their son, The Masturbator, was not home.

“We’re pretty sure Jerome has been doing this to your neighbor, as evidenced by what you’ve seen here today, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton,” said Det. Morales.

They said nothing.  They just stared.

“And since Jerome is not yet eighteen,” the detective continued, “We cannot arrest him on suspicion.  We need your cooperation.  You need to hand him over.”

“The hell I will!” Mrs. Hamilton shouted, while her husband still sat mute.  “She must have done all this!” she yelled, pointing her finger at me.  “She’s probably just some whore who gets pleasure out of accusing other people of doing what she herself is doing!  She’s a racist.  You’re all racists!”

“Are you kidding me?” I said.  “Don’t you understand what your son has been doing to me and to my child?”

Det. Morales said, “Mrs. Hamilton, your son is sick.  He needs help.  You need to get him help before he starts doing…”

The detective was interrupted when the uniforms came down from the attic and announced they’d found some interesting items up there.  With gloved hands they bagged a few things like a drill and drill bits, soiled wash cloths, three pairs of what looked like my underwear, please help me God, and pornographic magazines.

Mrs. Hamilton stood abruptly and screamed, “Get out, all of you! Now!”  And her husband still sat there, saying nothing.

Det. Morales stood also, sighing heavily and running his hand through his hair.  “Very well, Mrs. Hamilton.  I think we have everything we need here.”

Back in my apartment, while my poor, beleaguered landlord repaired the closet wall, I asked the detective, “Can you arrest him now?  Can this finally be over?”

My landlord popped out of the closet, his liver-spotted hand gripping a trowel, and said, “I will be starting eviction proceedings on them, but that could take months.”

A few minutes later I walked the detective to his unmarked sedan parked outside my back door, where we stood and talked for what felt like a long time. 

“You want me to make nice with him?” I said.  “Invite him to dinner?  You are suggesting I have a meal with the psychotic pervert who has been stalking me, peeping at me through holes, jerking off on my underwear, and coming into my place when I’m not home?”

“Until he turns eighteen, Jill, it’s all we’ve got.  Get him to confess.  On tape.  We’ll outfit you with a wire.  A couple of plain clothes will sit at a nearby table.  Where they can see you.”

I was so shocked I couldn’t speak.

“It’s either that, Jill, or you take your daughter and you move somewhere else.”

“That is not an option, detective.  He can’t win after all this.  I won’t give him and his insane parents that kind of power.”

“Well then,” said the detective, getting into his car.  “It’s decided.  You’ll do this.  You’ll get his confession on tape.  And we will cuff him as soon as you walk with him out of the restaurant door.”

Stay tuned for Part Five and Epilogue


February 1, 2011 - Posted by | Stalkers | , , ,


  1. Wow, I have certainly enjoyed your blog Jill. Have read ever one. Can’t wait for the rest of this one! I bet you pull it off without a hitch. I can feel how freaked you are! You are a fantastic writer!

    Comment by Gordie Hall | February 1, 2011 | Reply

  2. like I said last week, this is better than any book I ever read. It better be true. evenr though it kinda sucks.

    Comment by Barb | February 2, 2011 | Reply

    • Trust me, Barb. It’s all true. I lived it. And I’ve been living it all over again while writing about it!

      Comment by standingonachair | February 3, 2011 | Reply

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