My Sleeping Tom

Last night was a night like many others at the Jersey shore – playing on the computer in my bedroom, drinking wine and wondering why you don’t like me. When suddenly, a sharp knock is heard! My brother, shouts “Beth! Beth!” I finish my last sip of wine (and it was really good bottle of Pinot Grigio, so I take a moment to savor it) and meander to the door. My brother points frantically into my room and says “There’s someone at your window.” And then darts out the front door to chase after the “perp.”

I quickly follow and pretty soon my brother and I are in hot pursuit. It gets very dark here at night and even with streetlights, it’s tough to chase down the assailant. As I tear down the street, I blindly follow the sounds of his crashes and bangs in the neighboring yards. Since he had a 30-second or so head start on us, we don’t stand much a chance. Plus, I guess I got a little lazy. Chasing perps is a lot of work. (I'm kinda happy I got to use the word “perp” again).

As my brother and I walk back to the house, out of breath, I ask him what the hell happened. He said he opened the side door to take out some trash and saw a man, perched on an overturned trashcan, staring in my bedroom window. The guy flew once my brother saw him.

The police came by with dogs and everything. I felt like a real star. It was like Law and Order in my own backyard! They tried to track his scent from the trashcan but lost him after a block or two.

So I had a peeping tom – wow, it so 70s! Is it capitalized? Peeping Tom? I mean, who has Peeping Toms anymore? One has stalkers nowadays. They’re all the rage.

How did I not sense someone staring at me? I mean, how long has this been going on? He could have been staring at me doing nothing for months! Last night, I was particularly uneventful. He saw me get progressively drunk and stare blankly into a screen. Thrills and wonders abound.

Wow. To think I may have bored a Peeping Tom. Perhaps he started dozing off on the trashcan before my brother startled him awake. Maybe I grossed him out a little. I do remember picking my nose once or twice.

Now had he caught me earlier in the day, he might have been privy to a private bedroom performance, which are quite titillating, I believe.

Today I sang a lovely, heartfelt rendition of Barry Manillow’s “Two Ships” – tears and rowing motion and all. That was followed by a rousing duet sung by Barry Gibb and Barbra Streisand – I sang both parts, of course. Interpretive dance followed. So while it might not have been that “peeping tom worthy”, there was some action in my bedroom today! Things do happen here! He just came at the wrong time. (Double entendre unintended.)

I jest about this when I realize there is a level of seriousness to it. By the time you read these words, I may be bite-sized body nuggets in someone’s freezer – a virtual human TV dinner. And of course, I can't help but note the irony of leaving the big, dangerous city to the "safety" of a quiet, seashore town.

I also must confess some sadness as well, because I locked the front door of this house for the first time in decades last night. Creep.

Unfortunately, my only real concern is that this incident might inhibit my natural tendencies to do absolutely nothing in the privacy of my bedroom, which I truly resent. There’s always some jerk infringing on your natural expression.

The little trashcan is still overturned outside my window. I’m keeping it out there today, like some badge of honor or something. Maybe it’s an invitation as well. Do it again, asshole. I’ll bore you to tears next time. I’ll stare blankly into the computer for hours and this time, I won’t even turn it on. My Sleeping Tom will nod off, flaccid dick in hand, wondering why he “came” here in the first place. That's when I'll make my move.