At 16, I bought my first car, and although I didn’t worship the car itself, owning it meant freedom, independence, a self-awarded badge in an unmarked right of passage that signaled the often uncelebrated transition from girl to young woman. My car became a sanctuary, escape pod, chariot, taxi cab, status symbol, proof that I was someone on my way somewhere to destinations impossibly real and too good to be true. I’d wake up knowing I could get in my car and drive until one of us broke down or we hit an ocean - and I worked 6 days a week to own that knowledge, that possibility. People complain about work all the time but rarely do I hear anyone wish they’d spent their childhood working days doing something else, or lament the small but sweet spoils of success. There’s nothing quite like going to see a movie with a $5 dollar bill you earned delivery papers.
When I wasn’t working, I was driving. I preferred the backroads; quiet, dusty, and rarely traveled. I’d listen to music, think about things, and drive as far away from my little town as I could go before I hit the point where one mile further meant I wouldn’t go back. Sometimes I’d drive to the beach, walk in the dunes, onto the pier, or watch the sunset from the inside of my car parked at the top of a cliff. Other times I’d head to the local college town to browse the bookstores, stare at the cute guy at the record shop, watch kids play in a stream, and listen to the day’s free concert in the outdoor amphitheater by the library. Maybe I’d grab a cup of coffee at Linea’s or an ice cream cone at SLOMade. It didn’t really matter. I had my car, and if I didn’t do it that day, I could come back.
I was usually alone but rarely lonely. Or so my stubborn teenage heart liked to tell me…
One day I met a man. In his mid-to-late 40’s, he dressed casually, had a friendly smile, and looked me straight in the eye when I was talking as if he were really listening. He found me in the used philosophy section (isn’t it all used?), and noticing I was holding a novel by Sartre, made some disparaging remark. I laughed - who makes jokes about Sartre? And who gets them? That was his in. We started talking. Immediately, thoughtlessly at ease with the stranger, I listened with rapt attention. Fascinated by his knowledge and quick wit, I found myself agreeing to leave the bookstore with him and go to a local cafe for coffee.
The teenage girl left with the stranger because he made a joke about Sartre.
Saturday in a college town café is a noisy ballet of cups and saucers, spoons and forks, tables and chairs, “Excuse mes” and “I’m sorrys”, and “Is anyone sitting heres?” Surreptitiously scanning faces of the older students, I felt a sense a pride that for the first time, I too, would sit at one of these tables and talk about important things, rather than alone with my face hidden by a book. I felt giddy, alive, and visible. In retrospect, there’s no doubt in my mind I was visible, even when I didn’t want to be.
We continued our conversation, oblivious to the noise, only stopping to order. We talked about god, religion, the meaning of existence, poetry, music, what I wanted to do with my life, what were my dreams. At first, I was excited, happy, light-headed, and a million other feelings I didn’t recognize because I was 16-years-old, and unaware that what I needed and wanted more than anything was a friend. (Getting a boyfriend didn’t seem to be a hassle. Teenage boys will listen to you talk about anything as long as you take your bra off.) It felt wonderful to be listened to, heard, and understood. And by someone with a sense of humor I could relate to, with a fascinating life. Things were going so well…
And then something inside of him shifted, a sleight of hand not deft enough to miss, and every good feeling vanished and was replaced by a single thought, “It’s time to go.” I grew silent as he began telling me about a female novelist he’d been obsessed his whole life and how much I reminded him of her. The novelist died many years before and yet, there I was, a living embodiment of all he valued in her. As he spoke, he began to tremble, then weep. His tears seemed out of place because as he cried, his smile grew, and his eyes shone bright with joy. “What luck!,” he said. “I’ve found you. I’ve found you.”
He’d been living in his van for the last 10 years, searching for something, although he didn’t know what. Her, I thought, though only peripherally as I cleared my head of all other things except mapping out the area between the café and where I parked, estimating the time it would take to get there by walking or running various routes. My car was at the top of a parking lot with stairs, an elevator, and no security; a 5 minute walk from where I sat. I thought about which streets had dark alley ways or vacant storefronts, which would be crowded or deserted, picked the best route, and began my escape.
But from what? This broken man crumbling in front of me, snot running over his mouth as he spoke, sometimes loudly, sometimes in a hush bent close as if sharing a secret with a friend. His mania was all-consuming and it frightened me. He frightened me. When I said I had to leave he looked panicked and ready to pounce.
I tried reasoning with him, making up excuses. “My parents are expecting me home soon.” “My boyfriend is coming over for dinner.” “I have to work in the morning.” He became visibly agitated and, on impulse, in reaction to it, I stood up, thanked him for the coffee and pleasant conversation, and began walking away. He followed. I continued listing excuses, making small talk, trying to appear casual but I could hear the tension in my voice and know he sensed it too.
He begged me to stay. He kept saying, can’t believe you’re leaving like this! How could you do this to me? How could you do this to us?” Increasing my pace, I looked at the faces around me, trying to make eye contact with people on the street and in the stores we passed, hoping someone would see something in mine that registered as panic and they would intervene, or if I vanished, give them something to remember to tell the police. When we got to the street corner he grabbed my arm.
Until that moment I wasn’t sure if I was truly in danger or just a nervous girl overreacting to an overzealous suitor much too old for me. His fierce grip on my arm told me my instincts were right on.
“How could you do this to me? We’re meant to be together! I can’t believe this is happening.” I listened politely, aware that he teetered on the edge of control, and our situation could go either way. This was not my first experience with a crazy or violent man. His eyes were wild as he spoke and stared at me with the same intensity as before but now I understood its meaning. Terrified, apologizing to every accusation, I dropped my bag, hoping he would release my arm so I could retrieve it. He did. I did not turn my back on him nor bend down to pick it up but squatted so I could easily jump up if he tried to grab me again. He watched me closely but didn’t move.
“I’m sorry,” I said and meant it. “I don’t mean to hurt you. I need to go home. My parents will be worried about me and I have to meet my boyfriend for dinner. It’s getting late. I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry.”
He calmed down, and didn’t try to grab me again after I said whispered a goodbye, and walked away.
When we left the café, I didn’t head to where my car was parked, but in the opposite direction. If he followed me, I wanted him to think I parked in another lot, far away from the real one. I walked toward the false lot, down a crowded street and ducked into a store I knew had a back entrance, then doubled back, stepping inside shops every few minutes to see if he was following. The worst part was the staircase in the parking lot and not knowing what I’d find when I opened the door. To my relief, I found nothing but my car - a promise kept, a way to safety and, again, my freedom.
The irony that my car is what delivered me into the hands of danger is not lost on me, however, if I lived in this little college town, I could have easily bicycled or walked my way to the bookstore that day.
My parents aren’t going to like reading this. Like most teenagers who made a narrow escape from a dangerous situation of their own making, I never told them. This is significant because I had no qualms about telling them everything else. I had this weird philosophy; if I did something, it was because I believed there was nothing wrong with it, and therefore nothing I should be ashamed of. This included sex and drugs. What happened that day shamed me and so I kept it a secret.
Why did I leave the bookstore with him? Strangers weren’t nicer people in 1991, nor were teenage girls encouraged to wander off with them. I wasn’t naive, innocently unaware of what the big bad world was like, or too dumb to know better. I was lonely. I didn’t know how to relate to kids my own age and anyone older than I willing to hang out with a 16-year-old wasn’t interested in swapping philosophies. Of course, I didn’t know it then, and it always surprised and disappointed me when that “really nice man” who came to visit me at the bookshop where I worked suddenly propositioned me. Much to my mother’s dismay, I shopped in thrift stores and dressed like a vagabond, but it wasn’t much of a deterrent when the girl inside the rags is willing to listen to anyone with an interesting story to tell. I needed something, someone, anything to believe in. And, even though I knew better, I went with the stranger because, at that moment, my need for companionship outweighed concerns for my own safety.
A kid trapped in a situation I didn’t fully comprehend, beset by feelings of embarrassment, guilt, empathy, sorrow, fear, panic, and terror; I trusted him because I needed to believe in someone and when he turned on me, my need for what he made me feel shamed me, and I stopped wanting to feel those things. I just wanted to be left alone. It a devil’s lesson, the knowledge that nothing in life is free, and the price is worth more than the reward. And the hardest thing about this particular lesson is unlearning it.
Trust is tricky. I often hear others talk about having difficulty “trusting people” and, admittedly I too have said the same at one time or another, but when I think back to this day and remember the joy I felt and subsequent shame, I know that the person I trust the least is myself. My needs and desires betray my vulnerability. I open myself up to potential pain and suffering because there are things I cannot be without. The trick to trust is finding a balance, learning the difference between want and need, befriending people with similar values, knowing when “it’s time to go” if you’ve made a poor decision, and forgiving yourself for being human and needing whatever it was that motivated you to make that choice.
“Follow me,” the wise man said
but he walked behind.
~Leonard Cohen
I didn’t stop visiting the little college town or wandering aimlessly in search of myself. I didn’t stop listening to old men tell me stories or keep searching for someone or something to believe in. I stopped believing I would find it. Eventually, I met a girl as weird as I was, and had someone to wander aimlessly with. I wasn’t so lonely then. And she laughed at jokes about Sartre, too.
Praise and Blame