The Super Superior Stalker

By Andrea Martinez

(The following has been brought to you by the fine folks at SBC - Going beyond the call.)

It all began about a year-and-a-half ago. I was going through a transition. My life was about to transform due to a drastic career change; this story is not about that.

This story is about something much simpler. Something that took me about 16-and-a-half months to actually figure out the truth of what was the driving force of my insanity, the God of my nightmares.[1] It must be remembered: It’s always much simpler then it seems. But isn't it human nature to dramatize, to complicate things? I suppose life would be less exciting if we didn't. Ah, human nature.

About 18 months ago I changed jobs. I had been living in Los Angeles for 10 months, but still moonlighting as a Michigander; what people from Michigan call themselves. Hey, I didn't make it up. I was carrying a Michigan driver’s license, vehicle registration, car insurance, and cell phone number – good old trusty (517) 202-1472.[2] Before my new job began, my employer said to me post-hire/pre-start, “You had better change your number because I'm not calling you long distance all the time.” I was so elated about my new job that I forgot to tell her: “Please, don’t call me on my cell, especially all the time.” I switched my phone number to a local, new (323) that very night.

Two weeks later, I started my new job. This also marked the beginning of infinite questioning and mild insanity due to a rash of interesting phone calls. They were hang-ups mostly, with the occasional person asking for an individual that did not exist at the other end of the line, my end of the line.

I couldn’t understand what was happening, who was calling me so consistently, every day? My best friends and family don’t even call me everyday. Many times I'd answer the phone with a “Who are you?” which resulted in a hang up for an answer. There were 2-3 calls a day, every day. I saved the three most consistent phone numbers as “Stalker Home”, “Stalker Home 2”, and “Stalker Work”.[3] The calls kept coming and coming.

I stopped answering. At times I would receive voicemails like “PHHFFFTTTTTT!!!” You know, when someone makes a farting sound with their mouth? I’d also get messages like, “Hi Andrea, what are you doing?” or “Hi Andrea, just wanted to see what's up.”

I racked my brain, in an effort to identify my stalker. In my mind, I kept coming back to one name. A guy I used to work with and the only one I thought capable of such torture, of such a stalker attitude. He was the one guy just creepy enough to call 3 times a day, JUST to hear my voice on my outgoing message.

“Jason!” (His name has been changed to protect his identity. Or has it? What the fuck was his name?) “Jason” and I worked together at the job (nameless to protect my dignity)[4] that I left for my “moving on up” position. We sat next to each other in training, a first-day-of-training fluke that I thought may haunt the rest of my life.

With our two-week intensive training completed[5], we were assigned to our personal office space, a.k.a. cubicle. And who do you think got to sit next to me? You guessed it; the one, the only, “Jason”.

Now as everyone and I mean everyone, who knows me can tell you, I'm a nice, decent, person. I’m friendly to the friendless and a smiling face for the poor sad souls that surround our everyday lives.[6] I treated my new cubicle buddy with the same respect I treated everyone. I treated “Jason” as a person.

Soon after we started our cubicle relationship “Jason” started saying things to me about his loneliness; how he “didn't have any friends, can we please hang out, you’re so pretty, if you’d only go on one date with me, wah-wah, whine-whine, I'm so depressed, wah-wah-blah-blah-blah”.

I remained friendly.[7] I tried to give him good advice. I insisted I had a boyfriend. I gently reminded him it would never work between us, and I tried really, REALLY hard not to make fun of him behind his back.

He made me a CD – maybe it was a love CD, I'll never know because it was so bad I couldn't listen to it – that came with the explanation that these are “obscure bands” I might not be familiar with. You know, like Evanescence. “Jason” decorated his cubicle with posters of Amy Lee (lead singer of said band) and Avril Levigne, courtesy of Teen Beat - no fuckin’ joke. (Did I mention he’s a year older than me?)[8]

Now and then I passed along a smile, a joke, kept it light, and tried not to make fun of him to his face; especially when he proposed the idea that he, I, and another co-worker attend the Renaissance Festival that weekend, dressed as knights and wenches. (I know what you're thinking. Yes, I have incredible self-control.) It wasn't until creepy comments like, “You know she's concentrating when she crosses her ankles under her chair like that.” directed to another cubicle pal, that I finally started ignoring him, I mean who notices shit like that?

All niceties ceased when he sent me an email – even though he sat directly next to me – with a picture. He took it with his camera phone, and it was a picture of yours truly. I was disturbed and flattered, but mostly disturbed. I said to Mr. Take Creepy Pictures When You're Not Looking and Jerk Off to Them At Home Guy, “Please, don't ever do that again. It makes me very uncomfortable.”

I was almost completely convinced my stalker was “Jason”. Now any (actually, probably every) person reading this is probably wondering, “Why didn't that crazy bitch just call the number back and find out who was on the other end?”[9]

For your information, this crazy bitch did call the number back. Each time I called, the phone was answered with a quick, heavily-accented response. And those who know me should know that I have an incredible inability to understand accents.[10] My brain came without that processing function. But hey, you can't have it all.

Let’s move forward a few months.

After enough joking about my stalker (calls at 7am, 7pm, anytime in between) I called the number back and insisted that the answering lady repeat what nonsense she was saying into the phone (twice I think) so my slow brain could understand her “friendly greeting.” The answer to this mystery was “Superior Super Warehouse.”

Superior Super/Super Superior; isn't that saying the same thing twice? Super, Super Super here. What if all kinds of businesses, organizations and incorporates pulled this kind of bullshit? Super Superior Astro Burger, Super Superior Dry Cleaners, Super Superior Vons, Super, Super, Duper Superior Barnes & Noble, Super Superior Le Sexxe Shoppe. It just seemed a tad redundant to me.[11]

The super superior greeting at the Superior Super Warehouse called for a super superior web search on super superior Google. The answer took me to a whole slew of Superior Super Warehouses in the greater Los Angeles area. If this warehouse was so super superior, why had I never heard of it before?[12]

With a little more superior super sleuth action, I learned that the Superior Super Warehouse that was saved in my mobile phone as “Stalker Home”, “Stalker Home 2” and “Stalker Work” was located in a city called Montebello, in East LA.

I started the brain racking all over again. Rack-rack-rack-rack-rack. Who was in Montebello? Had I even met anyone from Montebello? Did I meet someone at a bar whose name, face, and situation I couldn't remember, but gave my phone number to? What pain those drunken nights have given me![13] Did “Jason” quit one mindless job to work at a superior super mindless job? Did he really think that the Superior Super Warehouse could heal the hole he felt in his heart after I left his next door cubicle, with only Avril's 15-year-old centerfold to console him? I had no idea I'd made such an impression. Wow.

So as it goes, I decided it was finally time; the stars were aligned right and the curiosity driving me nuts.

I decided to stalk my stalker.[14]

What was the plan? To find the warehouse that was far superior over all other warehouses – excluding, of course, the others in the same chain that are just as super and just as superior and … and … and … that was it. That was the plan: Go to Montebello and find the warehouse that kept calling me. I found a friend who was up for the adventure and we headed east – east of my neighborhood, east of downtown – to the real East Los Angeles; Montebello.

Montebello is about 20 minutes away and unlike any part of L.A. I'd yet to experience. In fact it reminded me more of Chavez, a small town in Mexico I’ve often visited. There were lots of people on the streets; lots of music playing loudly. Store signs written in Spanish, neon Spanish. (Note to self: Go back to Montebello for culture).

We found Superior Super Warehouse, only to realize it was a grocery store. We pulled up, my stomach in knots. Nerves? Anxiety? Breakfast? I didn't know. What or who would I find lurking behind the aisles? Whose familiar face would I cross, followed by finger pointing, confrontations, and probably some tears?

After many deep breaths and a hit of acid (No acid really, but that would have made for a better story)[15] we went in. Faces blurred by my head turning right, then left, then right again. Trying to catch someone running away because they were caught red handed – game over; stalkee stalking stalker. Right, left, right, left; eyes darting everywhere. Who? Where are you?

I didn't find a creepy looking person anywhere. Mostly I found families, some teens and not a single familiar face. Not even a long-lost cousin anywhere. We stopped for a shot of coffee and a dose of Splenda, which tasted like shit. I told myself to keep walking. Don't let the free samples distract you from the mission at hand.

We traveled up and down the aisles, looking at people and products. After 10 minutes, we were bored of the manhunt, which was guaranteed to be fruitless. We bought some sugar in the form of Wonka Nerds and Sweet Tarts; a nice reward, following a hard day’s work of stalking.

At the checkout I found myself still scanning the crowds, wondering if “Jason” could, in fact, work here. I didn't think he knew Spanish. I thought he lived in West LA.[16]

We took our candy and headed east towards the ocean, back to the comforts of white, I mean West LA.

Eventually, I learned to live with my stalker in harmony. Knowing that someone was calling to be soothed by my voice in my outgoing message, it was oddly comforting.

And then, it all changed; again.

Pretty soon calls were coming through with any (323) prefix. Not “Stalker Home”, “Stalker Home 2” or “Stalker Work”, but just random (323) numbers. Hang ups and people asking for unknown names in an unknown world, my world. More random numbers and names, it was too much!

But one fateful night all the pieces fell together:[17]

Me: Hello?
Her: How late are you open?
Me: What? I think you have the wrong number.
Her: Is this (323) ___-____ (I'm not giving it out here, in case there are more stalkers after the soothing-ness of my outgoing message)
Me: Yes …?
Her: Your number is listed in the phone book for Superior Super Warehouse.

Other Superior Super Warehouses For Your Super Superior Needs:

10211 South Avalon Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90003
(323) 241-6789

7316 S. Compton Ave.
Los Angeles, CA 90001
(323) 589-6411

8811 S. Western Ave.
Los Angeles, CA 90047
(323) 725-1575

3600 Cesar E. Chavez Ave.
Los Angeles, CA 90063
(323) 269-1790

http://www.superiorsuperwarehouse.com/

[1]

Kind of like editing this fucking story.
back up

[2]

You have probably seen it on many bathroom stalls accompanied by “does anal” in black marker.
back up

[3]

Clearly the author is deprived of human companionship. She has a cat after all.
back up

[4]

Hooters.
back up

[5]

Pole-dancing for her, bar-backing for him.
back up

[6]

I’m calling bullshit here. She crapped on a sleeping homeless person once.
back up

[7]

Meaning she pity fucked him 12 times.
back up

[8]

What’s wrong with Avril? I masturbate to her pictures at least 4 times a day.
back up

[9]

Actually, I feel asleep at this part.
back up

[10]

Racist bitch.
back up

[11]

Kind of like this paragraph?
back up

[12]

Cause you ain’t super?
back up

[13]

Next time you see her, ask her about that time she performed an at-home abortion and ate the fetus.
back up

[14]

Someone was VERY bored.
back up

[15]

Hell yeah!
back up

[16]

Does this imply that all Westsiders don’t speak Spanish? Are they more Eurotrash? Probably.
back up

[17]

The suspense is killing me.
back up


back to the top