I dreamt of that stupid piece of shit for weeks. There was no peace, whether asleep or awake from the goddamn Honda that was haunting me. I had chuckled over the absurdity of the situation a couple of times - who knew that out of everything, I was afraid a Honda Accord was gonna mow me down? In the dreams, I was walking across a street, or going straight through an intersection, or sitting in my driveway when out of nowhere - car. Flatline. Wake up. Repeat.
Amanda was still supportive, but it took its toll on her too. She took an extension on her work project away from home; she still called me every night but I could tell she was rattled. My mom called frantically at least twice a week and my dad texted more than often. It had become a whole family affair. I saw my friends less, my work performance decreased, my life was a wreck because of a fucking piece of shit fucking Honda.
The police were incredulous at best, dismissive and uninterested at worst. They, understandably, thought most of the details were a coincidence at best, but the fact that the car was following me was undeniable. Camera footage and car details were requested from the local tow company, and the recording from my camera was mysteriously blank, but the loud knocks were clear as day.
After I was released from the prison - even though I wasn’t behind bars, it felt like I was being detained - I was informed that the cops would stay in touch, and to relay any information or sightings to the non-emergency line, situation depending. I felt like I was being watched constantly, and I got on a couple waiting lines for therapists, though I dreaded the reaction of introduction.
Julie Jensen came over one afternoon, dinner and muffins in hand. She offered her support and concern as well, and quickly made her way home afterwards. Every time I saw her after that, all I got was a quick wave and nervous, tight-lipped smile. Her husband even started to wave, though he did it with a sad look in his eyes.
I hated my life. What could I even do? The Honda and its mystery driver had seemingly disappeared into thin air, existing only in my dream realm, and I was losing most of the things I loved obsessing about it.
I tracked spam callers like a hawk, listening to hear the voice or the message. Too-good-to-be-true home renovations seemed to be in vogue. I ripped open every letter I received, from credit card offers to dental notices. Nothing appeared for Stan Lewis or Nick Palmer, at least not from a car company. Even my car insurance went digital, leaving no trace of anything for me.
In a moment of desperation, I even called the number back. Justifiably, I got an earful from the fed-up woman on the other end of the phone.
“I don’t care about your car’s warranty, I’m not selling solar panels, and don’t tell me about your political beliefs! What’s your name, anyway? I want to keep track of who’s calling me.”
‘It’s uh, it’s Stanley Lewis.”
“Stanley…” she thought for a second, and then said quietly, “don’t call this number ever again.”
The last line felt like a glimmer of hope, but I felt that if I called the number again, she would track me down and kill me herself. Out of curiosity, I looked up the number, wondering why I hadn’t before.
I found the woman who had apparently been tormented by wayward spam victims. Her name was Kelly Willards, and she lived in Oklahoma. She had three dogs, a goat, and a daughter, according to her Facebook. For a 67 year old woman, she was incredibly active. I wondered if her area code had any significance. Or maybe it was a proxy? They always used that word on crime shows.
Hey love. How’s it going?
I checked my phone. Amanda’s text was from over an hour and a half ago. Even before everything, I was never the best texter, and it certainly didn’t help.
Sorry, was working. It’s good, not much going on. How about you?
Not winning conversationalist of the year, but we would catch up better on the call anyways. I started looking for spam scandals in the great state of Oklahoma. I contemplated getting on both state’s do-not-call list, but I wanted correspondence. Something to acknowledge the threat, to know if danger still lurked.
Naturally, it came 72 hours later. Another taunt via the mail.
FURTHER ACTION REQUIRED
Stanley Lewis
1461 Chestnut Pl, Lakewood MO 63342
They still used my alias, which was a good sign. The last envelope came with a letter that said, essentially, car warranty null and void, but this packet felt thicker, so I had hope. I gave myself a paper cut opening the seal. “Fuck,” I hissed, ripping it open.
Hello Mr. Lewis,
We are writing to warn you about some issues in your recent cancellation of services. If any crimes are committed in the vehicle, any usage of services is immediately rendered null and void. We need your acknowledgement of the services canceled to insure proper coverage. If you accept these terms, services will no longer be issued and we will not contact the police unless action escalates. For further information, please refer to the items attached, or call our representative line at + 1 (800) 538 - 9063.
Thank you
It felt like my heart was doing backflips in my chest. I couldn’t believe that they would just give me a phone number. After goddamned months of searching, they just fed it to me. Hurriedly, I texted Amanda a photo of the letter, and opened my number pad, typing each digit in.
Wait what if it’s a trap?
Seconds before I hit the call icon, Amanda’s response came in. I pondered it momentarily, and texted back:
Trap for what? They already know everything
After a couple seconds, she was quick to respond.
Ur phone number?
That was a bridge I had long since crossed.
Babe they called me first
Longer this time, but she was still fast.
What if ur name is connected?
Good call, but I had a trick up my sleeve. I typed in an extra digit to obscure my number, using a middle school prank hack.
It’s ok i’ll do it anonymously
Don’t worry
Confidentally, I hit call. I had reached my limit, far and long ago. Listening to the ringing filled me with dread and rage, amping me up to confront someone. After seconds that felt like days, I heard a familiar voice.
“Hello, how may we help you today?”
“This is Stanley Lewis. Leave me alone!” I had hoped something more impactful would come out, but I barely prepared what I would say. I didn’t think this would actually happen.
“Ah Mr. Lewis, we’ve been having some difficulty with your account recently. You’ve undergone quite the voice change, too. It sounds like you’re speaking in falsetto.” I couldn’t believe she had the nerve to say that after everything they had put me through. It was an interesting statement, with several implications, but I took a moment to feel insulted.
“What complications?”
“Sir, you contacted us the last several times about the damage you committed. A minor fender bender is one thing, but what you’ve done cannot be covered under our policy.”
What had the man in the car done? Was he not one of their lackeys? I was more confused now than ever, and increasingly concerned.
“I haven’t done anything, that was an imposter. And I sold that piece of junk.”
Her voice sounded disapproving now. “An imposter. That’s a bold claim, Mr. Lewis. Just like the claims you tried to cover under your warranty.”
She was just full of jokes tonight. As horrified as I was of whatever the man had committed, I was also briefly incensed on his behalf.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, ma’am. What is your name, anyways?”
I took a page out of Kelly’s book, tapping into my anger.
“If you would like to send us some identification, Mr. Lewis, I would be happy to dispute those claims,” she replied, dodging the question.
“No, I don’t think I will. I don’t own the car, I don’t need the warranty. Maybe the car I sold it to is fucking around with it, but that’s not my issue. Stanley Palmer’s account is done.”
My blood ran cold once I realized what I said. They knew my address, anyway, but giving away my last name felt like a fatal blow.
“Palmer, sir?”
“That’s my middle name,” I said. Real good answer.
“Stanley Palmer Lewis.” She sounded like she was awaiting a punchline, but this was not a duet comedy routine.
“Put that in your files when you cancel my account. I don’t want to see that car any more now, especially if it’s involved in shady business.” Even though I reminded myself of my father, Stanley Lewis would surely be a middle aged man.
“Gladly, sir. Are you able to make a one-time cancellation payment?”
“Lady, I don’t think that’s how warranties work. What kind of business is this, anyway? And what is your name?”
“Sir, the payment is necessary for the final termination of your account. You can either let it expire in seven years, or pay seventy five dollars.”
I wasn’t particularly fond of the sound of “final termination.” Briefly, I worried about the ramifications of faking an identity to get a bank account before I remembered that cash exists. Seventy five dollars was a low price to free myself from the hell of whatever had been happening to me.
“Sure, sure. What’s the address?”
“Just use the return envelope we sent you, sir. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Just one question. What’s your name?”
The line went dead. Shocked, I sat with newfound information. I started rifling through the papers included and found a small envelope. There was no address in the corner, so I had no idea how this transaction would work. After checking my wallet, I grabbed my keys, eager to get to the ATM. Just before I was about to leave, I heard a knock on the door.
Looking out my peep hole, I saw an older, middle aged man with salt and pepper hair, dressed smartly in a suit. Shaking, my hand reached slowly for the knob. I opened it, and the man looked me up and down.
“Hello,” he said, reaching out his hand. “We’ve been trying to reach you.”