A Summer With Stephen

This is an essay for my English class. All events are factual, and based on my summer from May 2004-August 2004.

A Summer With Stephen

His name was Stephen.

I suppose my first impression upon meeting him was somewhat tainted; after all, Liz had openly called him psychotic and swore he needed therapy. He walked into my apartment without knocking, bellowing as he went.

“Bethany! Hey Beth!--” he stopped short seeing me in the bathroom just off the hallway. Because I hadn’t met any of my roommates in Portland yet I decided to get dressed before getting ready, something I never do. Otherwise, Stephen would’ve caught an eyeful.

“Can I help you?” I queried tentatively.

“You must be the new tech,” he posited, looking me over carefully. His gaze was disquieting. The scruff on his face was too long to suggest over-night growth. His coarse, dark hair was wild and frenzied just like his eyes. Oh Lord! I left Cinci for this? Orlin, Nichole, Crystal, Matthew, Annie—even David!—them for this leering ogre whose eyes spent too little time on my face? The burning behind my eyes, a pain that was quickly becoming familiar, threatened my just-finished make-up. Instead I was saved by the nymph-like waif that stumbled from the bedroom at the end of the hall.

“Steve! How many times do I have to tell you, you aren’t allowed down the hall and you need to knock!” her voice was clogged with sleep, but her displeasure was no less evident. Other than her shock of Christina Aguilara hair, everything about Beth was petite and perfect. Barely over five feet tall she couldn’t have been a size zero on her fattest day. She shopped in the kids’ section for clothing that fit.

“Sorry!” he cast back flippantly, and started for the door. Sighing, she called after him.

“Wait, Steve. What did you want?”

“I can’t remember. You yelling at me made me forget.” I couldn’t be sure, after all, I had barely met the guy, but he seemed genuinely angry at her reprimand. Before the two could continue a quick knock followed by a hello came.

“Hey Adam, come in,” Beth called. A sleepy-eyed guy popped his head around the corner, his short hair belying his recent slumber as he peeked down the hall.

“Just comin’ to see if you’re plannin’ on church today.”

“Yeah,” came Beth’s reply. She then turned to Stephen. “See? Adam knocks!” He rolled his eyes and left, mumbling under his breath. Adam looked from Stephen to Beth in question, but she had already turned back to the bedroom from which she had appeared. He shook his head and left.

My breath quivered as I inhaled deeply through my nose and exhaled slowly out the mouth. My hands and lips trembled as I reached for my flat iron while pushing back the memories of the last three weeks. I was able to hold the tears for only a moment as the rest came rushing back.

David and I had made the drive from central Utah to Cincinnati, Ohio in just under 28 hours, only stopping for a four-hour nap in a Kansas hotel parking lot and gas. After a two-hour detour on a belt route that dipped into Kentucky we made it to our apartment complex. At that point I didn’t care if I never saw David again. His body odor and breath were so bad by the time we made it across the Illinois-Ohio border I rolled down my window for fresh air in spite of the sprinkling rain. He complained that it was cold. I ignored him. Matthew and Annie, our manager and his wife, greeted us warmly. Our co-workers, and roommates, were at work and would be until late that evening. Nichole and Crystal were hilarious. I liked them immediately. The only other person in the office was Orlin. I met him for the first time two days later in the office. His neck was mottled with hickies. Nichole and Crystal informed me Sarah was a girl “filling her canteen” before serving a mission for her church. His swagger reminded me of the cocky wrestlers from high school; it came as no surprise when I later found him to have been one.

We were all there working for the summer selling Orkin Pest Control door-to-door. The pay was strictly commission. If one sold well, the income promised to be good. I had gone hoping to make enough to cover my expenses for a semester in Russia. Each of my trainers had bolstered my confidence, swearing I would be great—possibly one of the best. A moderately-successful salesperson could get three sales a day. Three weeks later in Cincinnati, sweating to save my life, I had four sales to my name. That’s when Matthew suggested I consider being a tech instead. My mom said she would pay for my flight if I’d go to Portland, Oregon. I purchased the ticket at five pm Friday. I flew out nine am Saturday. I packed my essentials—bedding, alarm clock, personal supplies, and two changes of clothes—into a single black suitcase.

I cried as my plane lifted into the clouds. Cincinnati to Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh to New York, New York to Atlanta, Atlanta to Portland. It was 11 pm in Portland when my plane touched down. I cried quietly in the backseat as Jared and Liz chattered incessantly the whole drive to the apartment. I plugged in my clock, made my bed, and cried myself to sleep.

Adam, Amee, and JT were nice enough. Beth had some issues. Her favorite topic was reminiscing about getting high. Stephen proved to be weirder than Liz had given him credit for. I had to deal with him every morning for the first several weeks. I’m not sure what Stephen did during the day, but each morning when I opened the door empty slurpee cups, cartons with dried nacho cheese, paperwork, and other loose objects spilled into the parking lot. In the beginning I sat amidst the trash. It wasn’t long before I tired of this practice. I made him clean out the garbage before I would get in. One day I had had enough. I refused to get in until Stephen removed every scrap of paper and losing lottery ticket. At first he wouldn’t do it. He threatened to leave me, I told him to go ahead. He radioed the office, informing Pat—our manager at Orkin—that I wouldn’t get in. Pat asked why. Grudgingly Stephen told him. That was the day I planted the seed of hatred in his heart.

I nurtured that seed into a sprout the day I found a vase of my favorite flowers with a note that read, “You’re the reason I wake up in the morning. Love, Stephen” and I responded with,

“I think I’m going to throw up.” It took deep root when he asked me on a date and I told him I didn’t date coworkers. A few days later I went to the movies with Bethany, Adam, and Justin, a guy from church who had asked Beth on a date. He was none too happy when I wasn’t thrilled about going to Seaside for the Fourth of July either.

The grotesque briar bloomed only a few short days before Beth and I were to begin our trek back to Utah. I had been off work on doctor’s orders. An untreated case of sinusitis had landed me a late-night trip to the ER and a few weeks worth of Vicodin. Just as I came back to work Stephen was in an accident. He had been rear-ended while going to an appointment. When I returned to the apartment complex that evening Liz had Stephen and me meet with her to discuss what would be done. I felt sorry for the oaf. To be honest, I had always pitied Stephen. If ever there was a broken home he came from it. Most of his youth had been spent bouncing between unwilling parents and grandparents. He wasn’t smart, and he looked downright creepy. His half-grin that slipped easily onto his face seeming to drip from his greazy hair. The way he slid his eyes away from my face too often in conversation; his whole demeanor was unsettling.

I followed him down the stairs carefully. Liz had warned me he wasn’t very steady on his feet. I carried his paperwork with me. I would take care of it the next day at the office. Stephen’s apartment was next door to mine. I bid him a good evening then started for my own door. A triumphant shout burst behind the door I just left followed by,

“I sure pulled that one off!”

“Oh hell no!” I cursed under my breath, marching back to his door. This smelly, socially inept, over-grown child was not about to get away with this. I pounded my fist against the door, practically shouting his name. The fool didn’t answer. In a fury I went back to Liz’s apartment. I told her what I heard. I set Stephen’s paperwork on her desk and told her he could do it. On my way back to my apartment I saw him going downstairs. He had “friends” down there who didn’t mind supplying an 18-year-old with a few beers every now and then.

“Steve!” I called out. He looked back at my door in a panic, then toward me. Guilty bastard, I thought. He knew I had seen him walk down the first few steps with no trouble. “Liz has your paperwork. I told her you would do it when you go to work tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to work. We just talked about this…” he trailed off, confused.

“I live next door, Steve. I’m not deaf. Next time you want to celebrate, maybe you’ll remember that.” Dumfounded he responded with an open-mouthed stare. “I heard you, Steve. I know you’re lying.” With that I walked past him into my apartment. I hardly had time to set my keys on the kitchen counter when there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” I said without moving.

“What did you tell Liz?” His eyes had narrowed; his stiffness belied his agitated state. I related to him what I had heard, and said. “You think I’m lying?” he growled.

“I know you are.” At that he rushed toward me. He came within inches of my face. Instinctively, I dropped into a defensive stance I had learned in my Rape Aggression Defense class.

“You’ve hated me since the day you came here!” He was yelling now. His face was beyond red, almost purple. “Now,” he momentarily lost his words in his anger, “now you’re trying to get me fired!” His leaps in logic triggered my memory. He continued yelling while my mind raced back to Criminology. We had studied serial killers. They all had common threads. Single-parent families, usually abused as children, social outcasts, then a combination of drugs, alcohol, or both, coupled with some event triggering the psychotic break that lead to extensive killings. The only thing lacking in Stephen’s case was that event. Looking into his desperate eyes I realized this job was the only thing he had going for him. This event just might be the one. In a moment of pride I pushed his buttons anyway.

“You’re getting yourself fired.” I saw his fists clench, his eyes told me he was thinking hard. “Thinking about hitting me, Stephen? That’s a good idea,” I taunted. I hardly knew what happened when he hammered his fist against the countertop.

“Gaaaaaaaa! You stupid bitch! Just stay the hell away from me!” With that he stormed out, banging the door closed behind him. I think I breathed for the first time in five minutes. My heart was drumming in my throat. I tried to listen for him, to see if he came back. I closed the blinds and locked the door. The blood pulsing through my head drown out all outside noise, locking in the wild thoughts beating around my brain.

I saw Stephen twice after that. I didn’t speak to him either time, nor him me. I know I never gave him my address, but with the information age allowing access to anyone with an internet connection I wonder sometimes. The car that takes a little too long slowing down at the crosswalk, the calls where I can hear someone breathing on the other end yet no one answers when I pick up, the humanly sounds outside my basement window. And yet, I don’t think I would change things even if I could. Live, learn, and move on. Yeah…move on.