Continuing on the same thread of former psychos, who may or may not continue to be psycho — fortunately, it’s been so long since I’ve seen any of them, I have no idea if they’re still psycho or if they’ve been heavily medicated and rehabilitated — there was another really good one who showed real promise in the Art of Screwing Up Guys Lives.
     It’s going to be a little difficult to write about her given that I’ve promised not to reveal enough information that would make someone easily identifiable.  Unfortunately, in this case it’s difficult, and I’ve debated heavily about writing about her at all.  But the story, oh the story, is just too good.
     We’ll call her “Alexis.”

     One night several years ago, while sitting at a coffee shop, I stumbled into a conversation with an absolutely gorgeous brunette.  We ended up trading phones numbers, and decided to get together that weekend, as she was house-sitting for a friend.
     I was at a point in my life where things were working out well.  I’d helped start an extremely successful company, and had been working a lot of long hours.  If I was going to get involved with this woman, I knew it was best to take it slow.  We ended up staying up late talking, and eventually fell asleep together.  The next morning, we talked more, I made breakfast, and all was good.

     Alexis and I spent a lot of time together over the next few weeks, watching movies, going to clubs, relaxing by the lake and messing around with jewelry-making stuff.  Both of us were into silvercrafting, and I was enjoying the creative side of that given that my job was always so technical and process-driven.
     After about a month, I was talking to a few of my friends about her, saying, “She’s a really cool person.  I totally enjoy hanging out with, and I could certainly see myself getting involved with her.”  Everyone was happy.  They’d met her, everyone liked her, and she just kept hanging out.
     We ended up talking about relationships, past relationships, whether or not we were friends with our ex’s, how things ended, and all of the normal things you discuss with someone you’re interested in.  She had nothing bad to say about any of her ex’s, was still friends with most of them, and seemed relatively stable.

     Through the course of having said very successful business, we’d ended up hiring several off-duty Police officers in the shop due to the amount of cash we were dealing with on a daily basis.  When you’re selling pagers and cellphones, there’s a disproportionate number of drug dealers and other criminals who hang around.
     It just so happened that one of those criminals knew Alexis quite well.  He detailed a story of how she, being involved in the Legal profession, had played both ends of his defense case, gotten money out of both sides, and ended leaving them both screwed.
     I didn’t take much stock in this criminal-turned-rapper’s story, given that every criminal says he’s innocent, and if their defense team loses, they always claim conspiracy.  I ignored it.

     I had a very late night at work that night.  All I wanted to do was go and unwind.  I went to one of the clubs I frequented, and was met by several of my friends.
     “Alexis was in here earlier, and man, you need to talk to her!” they said frantically.
     “Why, what’s up?” I asked.
     “Man, she’s going around telling everyone in here that you’re an undercover police officer, and that your business is nothing more than a gigantic sting op!”
     It was so preposterous, I laughed.
     “Dude, we’re serious!  You need to get to the bottom of this!”
     Fortunately, her brother was sitting at the bar.  We’ll call him “Joe.”  I asked him what was going on, and why was everyone acting so weird.
     “Man, I think you’d get a lot further with Alexis if you didn’t drink so much.”
     “What are you talking about?” I asked.  It was a confusing statement, given that I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in over a year.
     “She says every time you guys go out, you get wasted and she ends up taking care of you.  I dunno, I thought it was weird, because I’ve never seen you drink, but that’s what she says.”
     I took a step back, and wondered what the Hell was going on.  “Man, I don’t drink.  Like, at all.  And she’s certainly never had to ‘take care of’ me.”
     “Yeah, it didn’t make any sense to me, either.”

     It was late, and I didn’t want to call her.  I ignored it all, hoping to try and figure out what was going on the next night.

     Around 8PM, I closed up the shop and headed downtown again to try and unwind.  I gave her a call, and left a message for her to give me a call back when she got a chance.
     Around 9:30PM, she showed up, acting completely normal.  She described this undercover Police Officer she said was stalking her.  It turns out, I actually knew the guy, and yes, he actually was a Narcotics Officer.
     “Was that the guy you were talking about last night?” I question.  “Because everyone seemed to think you were talking about me.”
     “Yeah,” she answered, matter-of-factly.  “I met him as a witness in this case I’ve been working on, and now he’s following me everywhere and I’m worried he has phone tapped!”
     I gave her his boss’s number, since he was a customer.  I casually asked her about what her brother had said, about me drinking too much.
     “My brother drinks too much,” she said.  “He doesn’t know what world he’s in half the time.  I’m sorry he said that, but he and I had a long conversation about alcoholism last night.  He was probably drunk by the time you saw him.”
     Everything had a simple, logical answer.  She answered questions without skipping a beat.  She was a very accomplished liar.

     A few days later, I was accosted outside my apartment by several customer-criminals.  They asked if there any truth to the rumour that I was an undercover Narcotics Officer.  After pointing out that they’d been customers for over a year, and that they knew the police officers who worked in the shop, they were finally satisfied with that answer.
     They began telling a complex tale about Alexis, and she had approached them and told them that they needed to take their business elsewhere.  They detailed a twisted plot which involved my getting together the names and addresses of local area drug dealers, and that I was working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation on a long-term sting operation. 
     They also told me that she said I had been stalking her, but found it difficult to believe, since I worked at the shop from 7AM to at least 8PM every day, and hung out downtown until midnight most every night.
     They knew that it all sounded farfetched, but wanted to approach me and assure themselves that it was nothing more than fantasy.  Even more strange was that fact that she had been involved with all of their defense cases, some for minor incidents, and each one of them had a story similar to the one a customer in the shop told me.

     I was understandably shaken by the incident.  What if they’d believed her, and not questioned me about it?  I could have been killed.  Or worse…
     I began to reflect on all that had gone on over the course of the week.  Allegations that I was undercover cop involved in a sting.  But there was a real undercover cop hanging around her.  Allegations that I drank too much.  But her brother was an alcoholic.  Allegations that I was stalking her.  But she told me the undercover cop was stalking her.
     It pressed on me the entire day, and I couldn’t wait to confront her with some of this.  Alas, I ended up working until after midnight, and deferred all my angst to the next day.

     Bright and early at the shop, the undercover cop showed up.
     “You know Alexis and I are seeing each other, right?” he asked.
     “Uhhh, no,” I replied.  I wondered whether or not to mention that she said he’d been stalking her.
     “For about six months.  She also says you’re stalking her.”
     “What?!” I exclaimed.  “Look, she told me you were stalking her!  When the Hell do I have time to stalk her?  In my sleep?”
     “Don’t worry,” he said.  “I know you haven’t been stalking her, because I’ve been with her most of the time.”
     “She said you’re an undercover cop that’s been screwing with her since she met you on a case.”
     “She told you that?” he laughed.  “Man, she’s been in ‘the program’ for ten years.  Pot calling the kettle black, as far as I’m concerned.”
     The hair stood up on the back of my neck.  She was an undercover agent.  That revelation suddenly started making all of those customers’ stories about her make perfect sense.  And what of my business?  Had she mentioned it in order to gain some trust and steal client information?  Regardless, I’d never had her in the shop, but she’d certainly offered to come over on several of the nights I worked late.

     That night, two of the cops who worked in the shop went with me to gather my belongings from her truck.

     She disappeared soon after that.  I thought the worst, of course.

     Three years ago, in a Target store near Washington, DC, I turned a corner, and there she was.

     Glad she didn’t see me.