Somebody doesn`t like Sidney. Or maybe it`s his car they don`t like. Well, not the entire car. Just his tires.
Whatever the case, there is a stalker in Sidney`s life.
Stalkers have become a serious criminal problem. Violent men stalk their ex-wives. It`s less common, but some women stalk their ex-husbands or their ex-husbands` girlfriends. Deranged fans stalk celebrities. Fanatics stalk politicians.
But with Sidney, it`s the tires on his car.
It began in June when Sidney, a yuppie bachelor, came out of his Ravenswood apartment and found a flat tire on his sporty Japanese auto.
”Somebody had really slashed the side of the tire,” Sidney said. ”I figured it was some teenage vandals, although we don`t have much of that in this part of the neighborhood.”
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About a week later, it happened again. But more neatly, as if someone jabbed with an ice pick or some other sharp object.
Sidney wondered. Twice in a week? But he dismissed it as coincidence, bad luck, life in the big city. And when it didn`t happen again for three or four weeks, he figured that was it.
But in the middle of July, it started again.
”Six times in July,” Sidney said. ”And that`s when I realized there was a pattern, a premeditated situation.
”After the third or fourth time, I tried parking my car in different places, two or three blocks away. But it happened there too.
”There`s a woman who lives in the neighborhood who has the exact same car as me. Same year, same model, same color. I put a note on her windshield telling her what was going on. I thought that maybe it was someone with a hangup about that kind of car.
”But she got back to me and said she hadn`t had any problems.
”I talked to the police. There`s always some kind of vandalism. But there wasn`t any wave of punctured tires.
”That`s when I realized it was me. Somebody was after me. Or my car.”
August came: Four more stabbed tires.
”What is frightening,” Sidney said, ”is that the person doing it might know where I work.
”I say that because one morning I went to my job, where I park in a small company lot, and everything was OK. But by the time I got to my parents` house that evening, the tire was going flat. With those kind of punctures on the side, it`s a slow leak. So it`s possible he followed me to work and did it there.”
So the logical question, which the cops asked and I asked, is: Who hates you, Sidney?
Sidney, who is in his late 20s and has a responsible job, seems genuinely baffled. He doesn`t know of anyone who hates him or even dislikes him enough to keep stabbing his tires
”I`ve wracked my brains. Who? Why? I`ve gone out with girls, broken up with girls, but never a vicious breakup. I`m dating a girl now, but there`s no ex-boyfriend who might be out there. I don`t have any enemies. I really don`t. I can`t think of anyone.”
Well, I can.
There are about 8 million people in the greater metropolitan area. And at a minimum, a few hundred thousand of them are wackos, weirdos, sadists or nasties of some sort.
This could be documented scientifically, but do your own research. As you drive or walk along, look around. See that wacko there? Or the weirdo over yonder? And that real goofus with the odd look in his eyes?
And it doesn`t have to be someone who looks strange. When some human timebomb finally blows, what do his neighbors say? It`s almost always the same: ”He seemed like a regular guy, kind of quiet, but he was OK, helped me with my storm windows, saluted the flag, was nice to dogs and kitties.”
So who knows? It could have been someone Sidney cut off in traffic or aced out of a parking space. Or maybe someone he got ahead of at a tollbooth or a checkout line at the supermarket.
There are 8 million stories in the big city, and some of them are really sick.
But we do know that the tire slayer is a white man with blond hair. So that narrows it down to a million or two.
We know that because Sidney has been playing detective. The other night, he sat on a neighbor`s porch, holding a baseball bat and watching his car. His plan was to catch the tire slayer in the act. And, if forced to defend himself, bop him with the bat.
At about 11:30, a car stopped next to his car. The driver slid across, opened the passenger door, leaned out, and stabbed Sidney`s tire.
Sidney ran down the porch steps and into the street. But it was too late. The car was pulling away. He didn`t even get a license number because the car had no plate.
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Then he got out the jack and put on the spare. ”I have become an expert at changing tires,” Sidney said. ”That`s the only good to come out of this.”
You`ve probably noticed that I haven`t used Sidney`s full name. In fact, his first name isn`t really Sidney. That`s because the man who hates Sidney`s tires might not know Sidney`s name. And Sidney would prefer that a guy with an ice pick not phone or show up at the front door.
A strange story. Or as Sidney said: ”It`s spooky. It`s intriguing. It`s macabre.”
It sure is. And if the blond man reads this, give me a call. It`s possible that you have a problem and need help. We`ll try to help.
If nothing else, we can arrange to get you a block of ice.