Date Night with Jupiter
By Topper Barnes
I need to make it extremely clear, one-hundred percent obvious, that there is nothing wrong with being a stalker, a snoop, a spy, or whatever else people want to call it. I admit, for anyone who wants to listen, that I am all of these things. I am an exception though, I understand that, because I never get violent, never spray paint houses, slash tires, send letters, or any of that crazy stuff that some stalkers do that give us honorable, noble stalkers a bad name. I am not crazy. I am just interested in people, want to observe them, and there is no better way to do that than when they are at home alone. I mean, what I am trying to say is that stalking is not so odd as people make it out to be. Everyone is a stalker nowadays, but the difference is that most people use a screen to spy on people.
There are cameras all over the place in the store. On every aisle, in every corner. I guess they do not want anyone to steal anything. The thought comes to my mind as I cut through the bathroom supplies towards stationery that being behind those cameras would be a rather fine job for me. Really, I think I might even love doing it. Hell, I would probably even pay to do it. Sitting there all day, in a secluded little room watching people as they shopped. Now that is a job worth having.
Every notebook is the wrong color. I probably should have waited until Sunday, that is when they restock, but no, I could not have come on Sunday. I need to get my supplies today. It frustrates me because I know they probably have the color I want somewhere in the backroom but they do not want to put more notebooks out until these ones sell. There is a big stack of them still: all black or green. These people working here have no understanding of colors. It is impossible for them to grasp the concept that black or green might not work for some people. Some people like purple, pink or orange. I could go ask, maybe they would check for me, but they could just say that black and green is all they have and I would look like an idiot. These big stores, these chains, get away with a variety of atrocities against their customers and we never think twice about it. Something should be done about this. Otherwise the chains are going to keep walking all over us and one day, probably not very far in the future, we will be chained to two colors, with no other options available. It is sickening. I pick up five notebooks, black because I detest green, and head over to the school supplies.
There needs to be someone ready to stand up to these sorts of things. I could be that person. Lead protests. Fight for change. Get the constitution amended. I could be the one in the history books who goes down for making it a universal human right for all people to have access to every color in the rainbow.
It is getting late, almost closing time, and I need to hurry if I want to make it to the cash register. That is the hard part: the cash register. But I will deal with that when the time comes.
Luckily, they have everything I need in the school supplies section. They even have the pen packs that I like, the ones that have those clickers to change the color of the pen, everyone knows the ones. I take twenty packs of multi-color pens and browse the products they have for science projects. Last time I tried balloons and it did not work out very well. I do not know, there is just something about balloons I do not like. It is not because my mom never used to buy them for me, in fact, she bought them for me all the time. Most likely, if I really think about it, I do not like them because they are full of air. No substance inside. Just air. What good is a circle, an oval, or any round object if it is hollow in the middle? Nothing. It is good for nothing.
“Hi there, need any help?” A rosy cheeked woman with curly hair says. I am jolted by her words and jump back like a frightened cat who has been caught rummaging through trash. She has a tiny, little plastic block in her ear that is blinking, one of those phone things, and I stand for a second staring at her, unsure as to whether she is talking to me or the phone. This happened to me before and I replied too hastily. Turned out the person was talking to the block in their ear, so now I always give it a good minute or two before I reply. She repeats herself, this time with a hint of annoyance in her voice and I know it is me she is talking to. I look at her badge, doing my best to put on an indignant face so that she will know to leave me alone. Becky, her name is Becky. Well, to tell you the truth, Becky, the stationery section needs to be restocked, the employees here could undergo a bit more customer service training, and, by the way, can I get a job application for whatever the name is of the position for the person who sits behind those cameras? As usual, I am unable to say anything. I just stare at her, thoughts zipping through my mind, and she grunts in disapproval.
“We close in ten, sir,” she says before walking away. Next time, Becky, next time.
I find exactly what I need. The perfect object for my endeavors. A perfectly round, almost beautiful due to its perfectness, Styrofoam ball. It is one of those balls that kids use to make diagram models of the solar system. I bet the one I pick would be Jupiter. I wonder if Jupiter likes Salisbury steak. All I have is Salisbury steak and her name is Jupiter.
The man at the cash register is scrolling through his phone and barely notices me. The faces zip by, faces upon faces he has never met before, and he smiles at them as if they were his best friends. He taps the screen, liking pictures, liking people, throwing hearts at pseudo celebrities. Throughout our whole transaction he does not look up once from the screen and I am ecstatic to get through the purchase without having to say anything. I hand him exact change, pulling the coins from a small leather baggie I keep in my pocket at all times. I do not enjoy talking to these people. They never understand what I am trying to say and usually yell at me to speak up louder. It is not that I am afraid of them; I just do not like having to interact with them. I have tried their ways, tried out their platforms and hearts and likes and comments, but it did not make any sense to me. Without that, they have nothing to say to each other, and I have nothing to say to them because I am without that.
As I am exiting the store, Becky, of all people it has to be Becky, my tormentor, the scourge of my existence, fucking Becky, walks up behind me and says in a plastically cheerful voice: “Goodnight.” Then she slams the sliding doors shut barbarically, with no regard for human life or comfort. There is a reason I come to the store at this hour, it is not because it is the only time I can come, but because I like to be able to shop without a pack of people scavenging through the store. I like to have my privacy, to be able to shop through clear aisles, and it is people like Becky who get some sort of sadistic joy out of stealing that from me. It is not like she really wishes me a good night. She just wants to mess with me, and I know that.
At the bus stop, a horrible, hideously open place where anyone can look at me and judge, I begin worrying about the time. The last bus on the schedule leaves at 11 p.m. but it is 11:02 right now and if I missed the last bus that means I will have to walk three miles. There is another person at the bus stop and that gives me hope and dread at the same time. He is wearing earphones and listening to something. The song seems to be, as far as I can judge, quite joyful because he is bobbing his head and swaying his hips to a beat I cannot hear. The world beyond his headphones is completely nonexistent, and he alone knows the answer to the dilemma of the bus that I am now facing. He was already here when I arrived, must know when the bus is coming, but I am afraid to ask him. I mean, for all I know he could be waiting to get picked up by a friend or an Uber and is not waiting for the bus at all. Everything in my body tells me to ask him, but when I try to step forward my knees lock. What if he screams? What if he denies talking to me? If only he did not have those shitty earphones in and maybe I could find the courage to ask. But no. I simply cannot ask. If anything, I cannot believe he has the audacity to listen to music as if there is nothing else around him. He really should learn to be more conscious of his surroundings. He has not even glanced at me, and has no idea what I look like. What if I was a vicious thief? Or a murderer? What then? It would not take much effort on my part to sneak up behind him and slit his throat. I doubt anyone would ever find out. It would be easy actually, quite easy. I could teach him a little lesson about listening to music nonchalantly in open spaces at night. Tiptoe right up behind him, wrap my hands around his throat, and just like that: gone.
The bus pulls up and I am shamed by the sight of it. I begin grinding my teeth, hoping they may crumble in the process, and I wait a few seconds for him to board the bus before getting on. I am scum. I am the worst there is that humankind has to offer. One late bus and I am considering murder. I chastise myself for the whole ride. Before I know it, right about the time I commit myself to a monastery, it is my stop and I get off with my bundle of supplies tucked under my arm.
I really hope Jupiter likes Salisbury steak. We have Salisbury steak every night and even a human would be tired of it by now. But Jupiter is not like other people. Jupiter does not care about pretty pictures that gather hearts.
Now I know what I said, but I have to admit there is a little something wrong with spying on people. Well, anyways, if not wrong than I know it is a bit strange at least. It is not the norm and I realize that. Although, if everyone was out here snooping around there would be no room for me. So, I am actually quite happy that this affair of mine is not normal. Normal people stay at home and snoop. Normal people are lazy when it comes to stalking.
I have learned a lot about being stealthy during my adventures. I know it is strictly forbidden to do this type of thing before 10 o’clock at night. I have also memorized the way to walk, where to walk, how to jump fences quietly, and so on and so forth. Mainly, I have learned that stealth is of the upmost importance. Without it, a person has no chance of being a stalker.
I bend down low, my arms almost kissing the cement, and scuttle across a front lawn. With caution flooding my mind, I hop over a side fence, and slide across the back wall. It is important to slide along the wall and not simply walk down the path: walking down the path risks detection and no stalker wants to be detected. Another important thing that I have pinned to memory is to pick a different neighborhood every night. If I stick to one neighborhood for too long, I am bound to get caught. It is as if people can sense eyes on them, even if they do not know somebody is looking. I cycle through my subscriptions every week. One week I scroll through my A subscriptions, the next B, and so on and so forth. This week I am on D.
A light is on. It is still on! Angie45. The name I gave her is Angie45 and she is still awake. There is no interest to be found in a house that has no lights on. I drop down to all fours and begin crawling. I sit beneath the window for a moment, popping my head up too quickly could prove to be fatal, no one wants to see a head in their window, and I take out a notebook along with one of my multi-colored pens. Pink. I think pink will do just fine for the occasion. I slowly peek my head up and begin to write.
Angie45 is sitting in an armchair.
Her baby is fussing in her arms.
She gently pets the baby’s head.
The baby falls asleep and Angie45 looks relieved.
Angie45 is tired and wants to go to bed.
People are so beautiful when they are alone. They are everything they should be when they are in company. I wish I could meet someone that acted alone around me, then maybe I would not have to do this. I gather my things and sneak into the next backyard. I repeat my previous actions to a T and make no mistakes. I have grown to be a professional in the art of stalking. Sometimes I think the government should hire me, but I do not like that kind of job anyways. I prefer to see normal people, simple people, living their normal, simple lives.
Burtster is covered in wrinkles.
He is crying.
There is a cellphone in his hand and he is looking at something.
I wonder what it is?
I am the only person who cares. The only person who takes interest in these insignificant people’s lives. I go around, night after night, and add a little piece of them to myself. If only they knew how much they meant to me, then I would not need Jupiter. Then they would let me into their homes as a friend. I leave Burtster, knowing I will never see what he is looking at, and hit my last house.
Grimeyes has a bottle in his hand.
Always a bottle.
His eyes are glossy and he is drunk.
He is watching television.
A child runs into the room smiling.
The child is innocent and beautiful.
Grimeyes slaps the child and the child cries.
That is enough. I collect my supplies and make my way home. Jupiter. I walk through the deserted streets elated, full from the shards of other people’s broken existences, and barely notice the time it takes me to get to my apartment. I pass a couple of kids loitering out front of my complex. They must have snuck out. I glance at them slyly. The kids are staring down at their phones, periodically grunting to one another, and suddenly one begins laughing at something he sees on the screen. Hearts for the faces they do not know. Hearts for Jupiter. And hearts for Salisbury steak.
At home I quickly set the table and prepare everything. I am shaking with excitement, my hands are barely able to stick the T.V. dinners into the microwave, and my mind is hot with good thoughts from the night. Besides Becky it was a wonderful night. I was able, which is not always the case, to get some great notes. Also, I got the perfect Styrofoam ball. The perfect one. Finally. I take a roll of duct tape from the junk drawer and an old dirty mop from the corner. I tape, with the utmost care, the mop to a chair and stick the Styrofoam ball to the end of the mop so the dirty tassels hang over the ball’s crown. The microwave rings. It is time. I fetch the two dinners and place them down on the table: one in front of me and one in front of Jupiter. I almost forgot. How could I? I take a multi-colored pen and draw a crude face on Jupiter. Real simple. I am not a talented artist but there needs to be something. Jupiter smiles at me compassionately as I sit down. Perfect.
“Well, I hope you do not mind Salisbury steak again. The taters are good though, I know you like those,” I say.
“Not at all. I could eat Salisbury steak every night for the rest of my life.” We laugh in unison, both of us knowing it is true. “So, how was your day?”
“Can’t wait to tell you! I got so many little pieces of peoples’ lives. Maybe I can show you.”
Topper Barnes is an American expat currently living in Russia. After a few years of rough patches, five rehabs later, and twenty thousand dollars of student debt, he decided to say goodbye to the homeland and try his hand somewhere else. That somewhere else changes quite frequently: at times Moscow, at others Crimea. He earns his wages teaching ESL students and editing translations. When not writing or working he spends his time with his girlfriend hunting for street cats to take care of.