Whoa. I thought I was the only one in the world who'd had this kind of experience, and it's ... spooky ...how similar ours are.
My Strange Dude was named Ken. I met him at the neighborhood bar where my college friends and I hung out, evidently. It must not have been a memorable meeting, because I forgot all about him.
Until a few weeks later, when I came home to my two-room walk-up and discovered that someone else's sheets were on my bed, and his clothes were hung neatly in my closet.
I, needless to say, freaked; I ran out of the apartment and back to campus, where I enlisted the largest male friend I could locate to accompany me back to my place. Where we found Ken, who'd just returned from grocery shopping, making dinner.
He seemed truly baffled over my agitation. He explained, calmly, that he'd been so sure we were soul mates that he couldn't understand why I was upset. After some, er, negotiation, my large male friend and I convinced him to pack up his stuff and leave.
Three months later I got a call from my mom. "Guess who's visiting?" she asked. "Your boyfriend!" It was Ken. Who'd evidently found a letter from my mom, copied down the address and made his way 2,000 miles to her house. It was the early 70s and mom was used providing crash space for her kids' friends, and with one thing and another it had taken her several weeks to get around to calling me.
I told her he not only wasn't my boyfriend, but I didn't actually know him, and that in my considered opinion he was crazy as a loon. Mom being mom - and Ken evidently having done nothing as overtly obnoxious as your Hillard - she let him stay there a few more weeks until he found another place. I never heard of him again, but for years afterward I kept having dreams about him turning up out of the blue ...
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zvi
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-23 03:50 am (UTC)My Strange Dude was named Ken. I met him at the neighborhood bar where my college friends and I hung out, evidently. It must not have been a memorable meeting, because I forgot all about him.
Until a few weeks later, when I came home to my two-room walk-up and discovered that someone else's sheets were on my bed, and his clothes were hung neatly in my closet.
I, needless to say, freaked; I ran out of the apartment and back to campus, where I enlisted the largest male friend I could locate to accompany me back to my place. Where we found Ken, who'd just returned from grocery shopping, making dinner.
He seemed truly baffled over my agitation. He explained, calmly, that he'd been so sure we were soul mates that he couldn't understand why I was upset. After some, er, negotiation, my large male friend and I convinced him to pack up his stuff and leave.
Three months later I got a call from my mom. "Guess who's visiting?" she asked. "Your boyfriend!" It was Ken. Who'd evidently found a letter from my mom, copied down the address and made his way 2,000 miles to her house. It was the early 70s and mom was used providing crash space for her kids' friends, and with one thing and another it had taken her several weeks to get around to calling me.
I told her he not only wasn't my boyfriend, but I didn't actually know him, and that in my considered opinion he was crazy as a loon. Mom being mom - and Ken evidently having done nothing as overtly obnoxious as your Hillard - she let him stay there a few more weeks until he found another place. I never heard of him again, but for years afterward I kept having dreams about him turning up out of the blue ...