Billy Jean is Not My Lover
By: M. H. Rubin
Tags: Life Lessons, Sex, Men, Shame, Sexual Assault

When I moved to San Rafael after college, I got a small apartment above the Mayflower Pub on 4th Street. The pub was a local hub for Marin county Brits — there were darts and trivia nights and on every weekend the sound of rowdy singing would radiate through the floor. The stink of the kidney pies wafted up through my windows in the evenings. There were four apartments up a single wide stairway that came up from the street, I was in the back.

From Google Maps

I rarely saw the folks in the other apartments, but over time, I became friendly with the old guy in #1. Stan was a photographer, bottle-thick glasses and a brushy grey mustache. He had a darkroom in his flat and he invited me to use it, but I was reluctant. The rest of his space was packed floor to ceiling with books and junk… he was a hoarder, and his place always had an unpleasant dankness: a mixture of cigarettes, developer, and musty papers. But he liked that I worked at Lucasfilm and appreciated photography and he’d show me his latest photos from time to time. He’d ask for my opinion; I traded being honest for being neighborly.

One afternoon after returning from work on Kerner, I got to the top of the steps and discovered a woman there, sitting propped up against Stan’s door. She was in her twenties, just a little older than me, and while the term didn’t exist at the time, I’d say she was goth: jet black hair, some sort of neck collar, strange unmatching clothes. I asked her what was up and she said she was waiting for Stan, I think she said she was his niece. I didn’t know if that was code. She asked if I had seen him, which I hadn’t in weeks, and she lit a cigarette and said she’d wait.

I went down the hall to my apartment and went in, leaving the door ajar. I felt unfriendly just locking my door and leaving her in the hallway.

At this point, I have to say I thought she was cute, albeit sketchy, and I went about my getting-home routine still a little distracted. A little bit later I checked on her. She was still just sitting there, reading.

“If you want to wait over here, that’s fine. We can put a note on Stan’s door to come get you when he gets home.”

She happily gathered her belongings — an oversized purse-bag and books — and came into my apartment and made herself at home on the sofa. We chatted briefly, she said she was a student at the local college, and needed to get some things she had left in Stan’s apartment. Her books seemed legit: dog-eared copies of American literature. I recognized the Henry James, Joan Didion. I didn’t think she was homeless. I went about my business in the kitchen and she kept to herself in the living room. I dropped in my new Philip Glass CD. I offered her a snack. She’d poke her head into the hall from time to time to see if anything had changed. It hadn’t.

As evening rolled around, I was getting concerned — I wasn’t sure of my responsibility here; Stan hadn’t returned and I was finding her increasingly unpleasant to be around, just odd mannered, skittish and distractable; at the same time she was making herself at home. Which made matters worse. Now it was me checking the hall every time I heard a sound, hoping Stan was coming in, but it never was. I began hinting at my need to be alone, but she just insisted she’d be quiet on her own and I could just go about my business. She assured me Stan would be home soon, she was certain. By midnight I was too tired argue, and while I didn’t ask her to leave, I did tell her I needed to crash and she was on her own. I didn’t like that she was unattended. I thought she might steal something, although in hindsight, there was really little of value — a new Mac SE… some Star Wars movie posters… a Sony Trinitron.

I closed my door and got in bed. The apartment was quiet and I finally dozed off.