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Creepy Dan

There’s a guy Lucy hangs out with named Dan. Shortly after I met him, I took to calling him Creepy Dan because, frankly, he’s creepy. It’s hard to describe specifically why he’s creepy, aside from the fact that he radiates “OMFG CREEPY” vibes that can be felt from here to Kalamazoo.

He has this hunched-over demeanor that screams, “This is normal only if I’m a hunchback,” and the few times I’ve associated with him, all he ever did was sit there and stare at her. No, not stared. Leered. And, as a close personal friend and unofficial sworn protector of Lucy, I’ve often said things to her such as, “Would it be all I right if I pulled Creepy Dan’s lower intestines out via his mouth?”

She often says no.

The reason Creepy Dan always stares at her this: he’s in love with her. He has that faraway, sad, demented sort of love for her that most people get over sometime during the painful transition between junior high and high school. It’s that sort of pining-from-a-far, casually-leering-and-hoping-she-doesn’t-notice-even-though-clearly-she-does love. He puts her on a pedestal high above mere mortals, and being that I know Lucy a little better than he does, I’m gonna go ahead and say she shouldn’t be up there. He does stupid Milhouse things for her, the “If I do anything she says, she’s sure to notice me” method of getting a girl. And it doesn’t work.

In short, he’s me at 14. Except I’m pretty sure he’s 24. Which just makes it sad, as opposed to cute (although I’m positive it was sad at 14, too).

Unfortunately, Lucy has taken it upon herself to aid and abet his puppy-dog love, which she knows all about (him declaring it outright was one of the subtle clues). She has this magical ability to ignore everything she would rather not know about people and still go on associating with them. This is one of those things that I am not only unable to do, but I am also physically incapable of figuring out how the hell anyone can do that.

Of course, according to her, I’m antisocial and am prone to angry outbursts because I only confide things in her, and even then I keep the really bad stuff secret. I inherently distrust people, I’m paranoid, I’m misanthropic, and if either of us believed in a legitimate afterlife, we’d agree I’d probably go to the bad one. Also, even though she never says this, I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m the most boring person on the planet.

But at least I’m not creepy.

Lucy also has the tendency to manipulate and abuse people if she can get away with it. I know this because she used to do it to me until I shouted really awful things at her. Then, she stopped, and I have to believe she respects me more, if only for the creative profanity combos (I learned everything I know from my dad). Now, she does this with Creepy Dan (hence the Milhouse syndrome), and she gets away with it eternally because of his sunshiny, hopeful, unbelievably creepy love for her.

The reason I bring up Creepy Dan is this: we made plans when Bubba Ho-Tep first opened in Chicago to see it, but unfortunately she couldn’t make it in that weekend, so she missed it. As luck would have it, the film is still playing — albeit at a different theatre and only a late-showing — so we agreed to see it on Wednesday night, because I have nothing going on Thursday except for that whole Thanksgiving thing.

As luck would not even remotely have it, it’s closing on Tuesday night, and neither of us can make it. I called Lucy to tell her the disappointing news, and she suggested we go Friday. I got the impression at that point that maybe she was mildly drunk, so I just let it go and said, “Uh…yeah,” assuming I’d correct her later and make her feel stupid.

But then she said, “Is it all right if I invite [Creepy] Dan?”

“Uh…” I said, considering my options. My first instict was to shout, “GodDAMMIT, Lucy!” into the phone, which would imply a negative response. But Lucy is trying to make me a better person, which mostly involves not shouting negative things at people (by “people,” she means her). I couldn’t afford a slip-up like that, so I just said, “Uh…” again and hoped she’d take the hint.

“See, he’s really into Elvis stuff, so I thought he’d get a kick out of it,” she said. Gosh, did someone say “creepy”? Now, I enjoy Elvis. If I were in a Quentin Tarantino movie and therefore required to expound at length on my choice between Elvis and the Beatles, I would choose Elvis. I don’t dislike the Beatles; I’ve just never really found their music all that interesting. Not that I rush out to buy Elvis CDs, either, but his musical progression is much more interesting and appealing to me, personally.

But with that said, I’m not “really into Elvis stuff.” I mean, Jesus, all of a sudden I’m imagining Creepy Dan’s velvet-painting diner-sighting bedroom shrine. I’m imagining him in stained underwear, dancing around his room to “Blue Suede Shoes,” masturbating to the poster from Clambake. This is a mental image I don’t need to have. Ever. And I will never forgive Lucy for this.

Anyway, I grunted a couple of times, but then I hit on a good idea: if I just corrected her misconception about how long the movie is playing, then the point would be moot. So that’s what I did, and she seemed pretty disappointed. I’m not sure if it’s because she wanted to see the movie, or if it’s because she somehow wanted Creepy Dan to ingratiate himself with me.

This, of course, would never happen. I have way too many details about the things he’s said and done to prove his misguided love. Even if I ended up not completely disliking him, I’d still never have any respect for him. And this is me, the guy who trolls parents’ night at the elementary school to get a date.

As a consequence of our plans falling through, it’s unlikely that I’ll see Lucy much more during the Thanksgiving holiday. Last night was uneventful, aside from her smoking in my face long enough to note that not only is she harmful to me mentally and emotionally — she’s finally managed to figure out a way to be physically harmful!

Sigh. Will I never win?

Posted by Stan on November 24, 2003 9:18 PM  | Permalink | Friends: Can’t Live with ‘Em | Digg It