Tucker #5: Never Liked The Taste Of Crow, But Baby I Ate It.

First and foremost, huge thanks to Perry Stubbs, the greatest friend in the history of the world, for sharing his beer and his computer while he watches Transformers 3 and snuggles with his 8 pound chihuahua/weenie dog, all so I can continue the Tucker saga this evening. You, sir, are a hero. Friends of the hot, single, female variety: Perry is single. Visit him here: Hi I'm Perry, I'm Hot & Single, And Have A Chiweenie.

The last time we met, I had begun my extensive Tuckerstalking, but kept running into dead end after miserable dead end. Each time I had a flash of genius (which, by the way, was always at the most inconvenient time -- in the middle of the night, during a work meeting, in the shower, etc.), I always wound up right back where I started - perplexed at how inexplainable the extensive Facebook history was. I couldn't figure out exactly HOW Tucker was lying to me, even though I was absolutely certain that he was. I'd ruled out my secretive suitor's identity belonging to William, as the timeline just would not allow it. I'd ruled out both the name AND the photos being stolen property, as both seemed to be entirely traceable on Facebook. I knew that whoever I was communicating with existed, on some level, and was actively communicating with others via Facebook. Despite all the knowledge I did have, I was missing something in this puzzle, and I was as determined as ever to find out exactly what that was.

I continued combing the web for the smallest of clues, praying I'd get lucky and stumble upon something I'd glossed over before, something that would flip the proverbial switch and shed light on the torrid tale I was so indescribably consumed with. I was certain that if I searched long enough, read carefully enough, and Googled cleverly enough, something would present itself and my AHA! moment would finally surface. I was far from that lucky.

One night, in a desperate attempt to catch my lying lad in the act, my best friend and I embarked on a mission. The goal? Eliminate another possible solution to the mystery. Which solution? The one that suggested Tucker existed, as he presented himself, but had a glaring physical difference from the way he appeared online. Maybe he was 5'7, but knew I liked tall guys and claimed to be 6'1. Maybe he had been in a terrible accident, and was missing limbs or was left with burns and scars. This theory suggested he was Tucker, mostly as I knew him, but had a secret that kept him from seeing me in person. On this particular night, Tucker had been texting me, still at around 11pm, claiming to be at work (which, consequently, he would never reveal to me its location). Sara and I hopped in the car, loaded up on french fries and Diet Coke, and camped out in the parking lot of the apartment complex Tucker claimed to live in. His truck was not inconspicuous - a giant black Chevy Silverado, not one that would easily blend in with the rest of the Taurus and Impala crowd in the lot. We drove around the small apartment complex, looking for the vehicle, but had no luck. After driving around, and waiting for Tucker to pull in the drive to no avail, it was clear he was not coming home, and did not, likely, even live in Grand Rapids.

Amidst all the confusion, I backed away from Tucker again, frustrated to the point that I couldn't keep my composure when we talked. He continued to carry on as though nothing was wrong, filling my phone's inbox with pictures, songs he'd recorded, and myriad tales about late work nights and 90 hour work weeks. I was tired of the game, tired of the chase, and tired of playing Inspector Gadget all over the internet. I was fighting every need to keep going, to keep searching for answers, because I was so mentally and emotionally drained from the tornado of lies, excuses, theories, and dead ends. I wasn't ready to give up, but I couldn't keep pursuing this seemingly never-ending circle of deceit with the full throttle determination that I began with. At some point, I had to accept that I'd been had, and let it go. Nearly all of the friends and family I'd told about the Tucker story urged me to walk away, to stop agonizing over the smallest of details, hoping it might be a clue. They advised me to cut all ties, say goodbye to Tucker, whoever he might be, and return that energy to my work and my REAL LIFE relationships.

A week or so passed with little to no communication from Tucker. I was still hoping for my miraculous clue to appear, but was done pursuing it with reckless abandon. The Monday before Halloween, Tucker began texting me - chipper, peppy, and sweet...as though nothing had happened. "Hi baby, I miss you! How's your day?" ....uh....scusemewhat? Remember that time I've been ignoring you for the last week because you're a lying sack of shit? He continues to text me as though the last week of silence had never occurred. I start to wonder if this newfound glee will lead to some sort of slip up, or another clue as to who this tricky texter might be, so I play along. Tucker tells me he's in Georgia for the week, visiting with his family and celebrating his father's birthday the upcoming weekend. I drop the sweet-girl act for a moment, livid that he couldn't find an hour to have coffee with me, yet suddenly his oh-so-crucial new job could be ancient history for a week while he palled around back home with the fam? Curious. Tucker seems happy, explaining how stressed he's been in Michigan with his new job, how the ninety hour work weeks have taken their toll, turning him into a permatired, stressed out, grumpy version of his usual happy go lucky self. He explains he requested this time off before even beginning the job, in order to be with his family for his father's birthday celebration at their lake house, which is why he was working overtime to get everything done before he left. For a millisecond, my mind flashes back to that old "maybe he's being entirely legit and I'm a crazy bitch for freaking out and stalking him" mode...but within seconds, I remember that this guy is a lunatic and my instincts are most definitely right.

Regardless of my belief that I'm still a part of the greatest episode of Punk'd EVER, I agree to making dinner plans with Tucker when he plans to return the following week. We pick a date and time, and a location (HopCat, of course, where ALL my internet first dates take place...sorry, former first dates, you were part of a strict regimen), and talk about how excited we are to see each other. Shock of shocks, that day comes and goes without a peep from Mr. Evans. Since I knew he wouldn't be making an appearance, I'd made alternate dinner/Pinterest crafting plans with a good friend, so in case you were worried, I was not lonely and stood up. Tucker, however, got a different story. I was livid, ranting via text message about the new dress I bought, the haircut I got, the reservations I went to extreme lengths to secure, and the bottle of wine I bought to have ready for him when he arrived. I bemoaned my hours spent drinking an entire bottle of wine while waiting wistfully in the corner booth of the bar, watching other couples come and go, and wishing I weren't so pathetically alone. In reality I was mildly drunk on Chardonnay, watching Trailer Park Boys and hot gluing the shit out of some vases, but of course, he didn't need to know this.

After awhile, T starts to respond with lengthy explanations of an extended stay in Georgia, blah blah blah, By this time, I've returned home, and have crawled into bed, ready to kiss the night, and this conversation goodbye. When he appears in my inbox, I'm so annoyed that I momentarily consider shutting my phone off to avoid snapping at him and ruining the naive, believing guise that I've so carefully crafted. Unfortunately, the remnants of the Chardonnay (and, if we're honest, a bit of PMS), had other plans.

It took three consecutive texts overflowing with bullshit excuses (really, Tuck? you couldn't even shoot me a "hey, by the way, I'm staying in GA and will miss our FIRST DATE text??) for me to completely go over the edge. I demand he call me so we can discuss this "in person", and he feeds me a line about having no service. I was fuming, furiously typing out a response on my phone, palms sweaty and heart racing as I prepared to fully confront Tucker for the very first time. "IYou can text all day and send me cell phone pics, but you don't have enough service for a phone call? My parents get shitty service at their house too, but I know for a fact I can make a phone call WAY before I could send a photo message. It comes down to this Tuck - if you were who you said you were, and you actually wanted to be with me like you keep telling me, you'd find a way. You'd walk to a goddamn payphone to make sure I was 100% without doubt when it comes to you - but clearly you're hiding something, because instead of making it happen, you're making excuses per usual."

We go back and forth a few times - Tucker defending his honor and myself continuing to call him out for deceiving me in some way shape or form.

"I haven't quite pieced together yet, because I've been hoping and praying there was an explanation for the identical Jim/Kara/Tucker/Walker Evans thing, and the fact that you won't meet or speak to me, etc. but since you refuse to tell me the truth about who you are, I'll have to figure it out on my own, lucky for me, I have an arsenal of very smart, very sneaky, and very well connected friends in my corner who will stop at nothing to find out who the hell you are, and stop you from harming anyone else in the midst of your little game. If you're the 22 year old Afghanistan war vet, and you were bored and needed someone to talk to, or something ridiculous like that, then just tell me. For godssakes just tell me. I won't be mad, I just want to know the truth."


Twenty minutes pass by without a peep. I curse myself for lashing out, certain that this will be the last I ever hear from William Tucker Evans. He knew he'd been caught, and like any smart psychopath, he will now vanish into the darkness, never to be seen or heard from again. He'd delete his Facebook, or at least block me from ever finding him. He'd remove the dating profile, or at least change the screen name and location. He'd disappear from my life, and I'd never know who he really was, or what, of all the details I knew about him, was the truth.



Twenty minutes pass by without a peep...and then this.



"Okay, you have the truth. I completely fucked up and I sincerely apologize. I am the one you've read about. I just came home from Afghanistan, and was awarded a Purple Heart, just like you read. My life has been nothing but a horror story since I came back from overseas - I almost lost my life over there. I thank God every morning I wake up that he let me still be here. I got so caught up in all this and tripped over my own two feet, and let it drag me into a deeper and deeper hole each day. I hope you can accept my sincere apology and let us both just move on from this. I know the fucked up mess I caused and I'm horribly wrong for doing it. I was to move on, have peace, and no grief. I wish you the absolute best and this message will be my last. I want to move on my life and let you move on with yours and make this right. I don't want to hurt anyone, ever, especially you because you will make someone SO happy someday. Best of luck to you Kayleigh - goodbye."