Erik Eckel

I was minding my own business. I’d finished my midweek shift delivering Domino’s pizza and returned home without event. My parents were away on some trip so I had the suburban house to myself.

The late July evening was still and humid, if inviting, but I was tired and considering heading to bed. I think a West Coast baseball game was playing on TV as I relaxed with a beer and rocked in a classic overstuffed blue La-Z-Boy. Little did I know my privacy was soon to be invaded.

Now, maybe a week or so before, I’d gone on a first date with an attractive young lady I’d met in a creative writing workshop at the University of Louisville. We seemed to be getting along well, and while I knew I was competing for her attention, I felt comfortable with my standing, although you never feel fully confident in such situations, right? We’d gone out again and seemed to hit it off, and we were due to get together early the next day for lunch. Because she was staying the night at a girl friend’s house, all I had was a phone number to reach her there, no address or other information. Remember, in 1988 we didn’t have cell phones, texting or even GPS maps. You had to do everything, including call up and ask for a date, using old school techniques, stresses today’s younger generations will never understand.

Regardless, at the time I was just trying to relax. Maybe I was a little on edge, as the previous evening the truck’s burglar alarm sounded in the middle of the night. I’d smoked a bowl before heading to bed, so I was at first confused, but when I realized the noise was coming from my alarm—a rare occurrence—I ran outside probably in just my underwear, but to no avail. Nothing was amiss.

Now, understand one thing about me. I’m not the type of guy whose alarm goes off regularly for no reason. While I didn’t boast many possessions, the objects I did collect tended to be of demanding quality. Although I was driving a new Mazda B2200 SE-5 pickup truck—it didn’t possess the same cachet as, say, a C4 Corvette or a late ‘80s Porsche 928—it did have a full-size sunroof, outstanding AC and a true 180-watt car stereo complete with six speakers and a CD player, a rarity in those days.

Had someone been trying to break in? Who knows. But the alarm would let me know whether there was anything to check, so I wasn’t too worried.

Or so I was telling myself when a small white Chevrolet drove by the house. It was traveling entirely too slowly. Because we lived on a cul-de-sac, I expected that was the end of it, but no. Returning from the court the same car slowed noticeably again in front of my house, seemingly stopping to enable staring into the room where I was seated.

I found that odd. But I let it go.

Then, maybe two minutes later, the same car again crawled past the family room window, where little was I aware I was on full display. This time, however, I shot up. I had the front door open, taking care to keep the dog inside, and was standing on the stoop before the car finished passing my yard. There was a perceptible delay as the Chevy and its occupants processed the fact a person was now standing on the front porch.

There was laughter. Then I sensed panic as, the driver realizing I was standing just thirty feet away, now, took off into the court and didn’t slow while circling to flee.

I didn’t recognize the car. And I couldn’t really see inside. But the laughter suggested a few women present.

Back inside I tried to determine who was driving past the house. I had one suspicion, even though I found it difficult to believe anyone exploring a new relationship would be so imprudent as to actually get caught stalking a new flame’s house.

My curiosity got the best of me. Working at Domino’s the staff had access to a Criss+Cross. These reverse directories were popular with delivery firms because they enabled cross referencing a street address against a telephone number. Today there may be legislation protecting against the collection and distribution of such data, but again, this was 1988.

So I called my buddy who was closing that night.

“Hey, can you do me a favor?” I asked.

“Sure bud. What do you need? Hungry?”

“No. Thanks. I need a cross reference on a phone number.”

“Sure. Fire away. Here, I’ve got the book. What’re the digits?”

I read him the telephone number.

I’d been infatuated with this brunette since she’d first walked through the doorway of our creative writing class six months earlier. But I’d only recently managed to take her out. She was stunning. Out of my league. To this day I remember the outfit she was wearing the first time I ever saw her. And the softness of her voice… don’t get me started. A band would later capture in song the sentiment I felt dating this vixen: she was a god and I was not. So, there was no way I’d just caught her scoping my house, right? Could such a thing happen? Because that would have tremendous repercussions. It would mean this intelligent and beautiful woman was more than intrigued with me. She could be out with another suitor but no, she was neglecting other dudes to drive by my place.

The heart can only hope.

My buddy found the number and read the corresponding address over the phone. I wasn’t super familiar with the neighborhood, as it was outside our delivery range, but I confirmed the location on a printed map, then grabbed my shoes and keys. I was rolling within minutes.

The streets near the phantom address, those I knew. I’d delivered hundreds of pizzas throughout the surrounding neighborhoods and was, subsequently, driving with confidence even though it was dark and nearing midnight. My hope was to find this same Chevy in the driveway at the address that matched the phone number I’d been given. Then I’d know, for sure, that my love interest cared enough to stalk me.

Before I could get there, however, while just a mile or so away from my destination driving on a now-deserted two-lane Dorsey Way, I got passed by the same little Chevrolet traveling the opposite direction. What were the odds?

I won’t brag about my skills. Suffice it to say I owned a five-liter Mustang before this truck, which was simply more fuel efficient and reliable, necessities for a college student delivering pizza to pay the bills. So I had some experience driving aggressively and it was no trouble executing a practiced maneuver, often referred to as a Starsky and Hutch (popularized by the eponymous TV show), in which you slide a car abruptly sideways and proceed immediately in the direction from which you just came.

Against better judgment, I also lit the driving lights mounted in my front bumper. These weren’t a cheap factory option but aftermarket lamps that generated a couple hundred thousand candlepower. They were difficult to ignore.

Their pace slowed. Certainly they’d seen me pass and noticed the surprising swing of my headlights. And there was no missing the light show now behind them.

Trying not to be a jerk, and feeling my message was sent, I killed the auxiliary lights and let a comfortable three-second or so gap open between us. When they reached a main thoroughfare, Louisville’s Shelbyville Road, I passed them, albeit it slowly. All three passengers were shielding their faces, recognizing the jig was up, so I turned and went home. No need to rub it in.

But history is written by the victors, and my mother raised no dummy. So maybe two hours later I drove by the street address my Domino’s buddy had read to me. This was the address tied to the phone number my crush provided. You get one guess as to the car parked in the driveway. Yes: a white Chevrolet.

Let’s just say I drove home feeling smug. My confidence felt recharged. I would go to war for this woman, now.

Of course, I don’t remember the details of the rest of that night, but I probably fell asleep with Wish You Were Here playing on a loop. Assuredly, I slept well.

The next morning the girl I’d just begun dating came to my house, as planned. I tried greeting her warmly by giving her an immediate out.

“Interesting night last night?” I asked.

She played it all coy, as women seemingly always do. “No, why?”

And in that instant my confidence crumbled. I hadn’t actually seen inside the car, right? I didn’t know for sure I’d caught her driving past my house, which would certainly have proven a good sign, if so. As I recounted a few details from just hours before, she doubled down. “No, we weren’t out. We had a quiet night.”

And just like that I was back to wondering who drove by my house. Why couldn’t I retain confidence I not only knew who it was but I’d definitively caught her? That’s just how insecurities work, I guess.

It would take almost 40 years to conclusively learn the truth (or finally receive the overdue confession), even though I already knew the facts in my gut. Some 35 years after the driver became our Maid of Honor and that love interest became my bride and proverbial mother of my children, we’d recount the tale and my beloved wife would admit she was absolutely in full-on DENY, DENY, DENY mode that next morning, even though I gave her that gentlemanly “out” upon opening the door to her. In fact, they had been laughing at my manic rocking. Yet, she didn’t think I was so crazy as to not be worth yet another trip by my house.

That’s just how ladies sometimes work, fellas, that’s just how it sometimes goes.

My unsolicited advice? Listen to your gut, and if you can grab a photo in the middle of such shenanigans, maybe do that, too. But don’t ever show her the photo; you keep that for your own sanity, as it may just take 40 years before you receive an actual admission or assurance of guilt, all too late to make any constructive use of growing your relationship.

Deep down, though, I already knew. As did my soul. I could sense it within her energetic embraces and tender affections. I could feel it whenever we were together. This was the one. To that there was and remains no doubt.