I froze at the keyboard, thinking that if I made any noise at 7870 Camrose Avenue that this guy would sense it, and send the Internet police to my house.

“Dude, I thought you were in a meeting with the writers?”

Panicking, I unfroze long enough to log off.

Fuck, I was busted. Maybe it wouldn’t amount to anything.

But it did.

Trying to go cold turkey, I abstained from logging on to Grant’s account, but after waiting a full week, I couldn’t resist. Punching in his screen name and his regular password of “grantkatz” I received this response back: “Invalid password, please re-enter.”

Maybe I’d entered a typo. I punched in the password again.

No luck. My window into the fabulous and perverted life of Grant Katz was closed. Going cold turkey from Grant’s e-mail was a million times harder than just not getting a call for another date with that guy who worked at Paramount and hated his mother.

I had come to rely on Grant’s e-mails for some excitement; the voyeuristic charge I got would keep me going for days. And now, nothing. It was like a breakup.

I started driving by Dave’s every night after work. I had it down to a very well thought-out route. I would stop at the corner stop sign and see if his car was in his parking slot. Because I usually finished up late from work, the cover of darkness helped me blend in. I’d let my car pause at the stop sign and suss out whether he was home.

Seeing his car there was a reward. It made me feel good to know he was not out at some club or bar. I didn’t see the cherry red Mercedes again. Whoever he was dating didn’t seem to drive. I never spotted a new car in the driveway. I preferred to think of the mystery girl-friend as not driving; I didn’t want to dwell on the notion of Dave’s always picking her up and bringing her back to his place just to be nice.

A couple of times I pulled past his driveway and saw the reflection of the TV through the top of his window. I knew if I stayed long enough I’d be able to make out what he was watching, but I wasn’t that interested, and lurking like that seemed a little desperate. If Dave’s car wasn’t there, I’d punch the gas all the way back to my place.