Before smartphones and the Internet, I had a life on CB Radio. Yes, it was the go-to gadget of the eighties.
And I could stalk anyone I liked using my CB radio — and my car.
Signal strength. That’s how I did it. I’d drive around in grid patterns across the city to measure the strength of my special caller’s transmission. She’d keep on talking into her microphone, telling me all about herself and I’d keep driving around while watching the signal strength meter on the CB change.
When I got close to her, that needle moved across to the far right. It told me that her car and mine were near to each other. If she remained transmitting long enough, I’d be able to zone into her signal, and then drive up to her with my lights off — and she wouldn’t even know it was me when I finally tapped on her window and pulled her out of the car.
The whole process could’ve taken a couple of hours to do.
Patience isn’t something many people have these days. It’s almost a foreign concept. They want things now and if they can’t get it right away they feel entitled to get upset and angry and then tell the whole world about it.
I don’t do that. I never have. I remain calm. I’m patient. I tell no one anything. I’m a very good listener.
When I drove my car about the suburbs in the eighties, searching for ripe, young ladies with my CB radio, I’d have to wait to find the right one to come along. I’d hear plenty of females on air, but not every one of them was fit to be turned into a victim. I needed to know a few things about her first.
Was she parked at home or did she, like most of us radio geeks, seek out a special place to get away from her parents? Did she do it alone? Few CB chicks ever went out into the night without a companion. But those who did had a special reason for doing so.
This was the girl I was looking for.
I’d then have to spend time talking to her, finding out everything I could — and it took time to gain her trust. Conversations often occurred over many days and weeks. She’d talk, and I’d listen.
I’d listen to her tell me of her triumphs, her woes, her music interests, her best friends and worst enemies while I slow-cruised the suburbs, watching the needle move on my CB radio.
Patience always paid off.
I never knew their names, but I do remember some of their call signs.
White Rabbit
ET
Wonder Woman
Things are a bit different now. I’m all grown up and I have the Internet to feed my desires. Plenty of females can be found online. If a man’s prepared to shut up and listen, there are plenty of them out there ready to talk. And they do like talking.
Keyboard conversations feel safe.
Many of the women are my age. They are experiencing difficult marriages — lonely ladies who’ll tell a nice guy what’s on their mind because they have a burning desire to do so. They want to share their burdens and the Internet is a handy place to do it.
They know I can’t see them. And they believe I could be half a world away — if that’s what I tell them. They also think I can’t find them.
I can.
I do.
Eventually, I will find you.
I’m very patient. That’s part of the game — and it’s such a wonderful game to play.
I’ll wait for her to ask me to send her a poem that she’s become inquisitive about. She’s become inquisitive about it because I may have offhandedly mentioned it days beforehand. She’ll want to read it.
They always do.
I’ll send her a picture of the handwritten message along with some code I embedded into its metafile. It will make her device tell me everything about her that she doesn’t want me to know.
Good victims are those who are keeping secrets from their husbands and families. The best one of all is the one I have right now. She’s even prepared to keep secrets from herself. She, like those who came before her, will die beneath a thunderstorm.
She’ll die tonight.
I’ll return to being an online stalker tomorrow and the process will start all over again.
That’s when I’ll start looking for you.
