My kids show me some pretty rotten stuff on the internet.
Like this one via Spanky:
comic by K Beaton.
And this via Blane Jr:
I don’t know who to give credit to for that one, thought maybe Despair, inc., but I couldn’t find it on that site. Must be a DIY poster.
So all this from kids who claim I made them hyper-paranoid about being stolen when they were little.
I was paranoid about that, abduction. Now let’s get serious. What’s coming is a true story, every word. It is hard to believe, I’ve been called a flat out liar about it, so I don’t tell it too often.
Just know that, for me, it is a difficult story to tell.
When I was about ten, I was walking home from school in the rain. Alone. A man in a VW Beetle pulled over and asked me if I knew where a certain girl lived. He used her full name, so obviously he knew her, and I knew the girl, she was a friend of mine. Since he wasn’t offering candy, I figured it was okay to talk to him.
I didn’t know street names at the time, so all I could do was point out the directions. I didn’t get too close to his car and he didn’t try to get me to get in it.
By the end of the conversation, he told me he was looking for my friend for a modeling job, that he was a photographer. He asked if I’d be interested.
He said he’d like to talk to my mother about it. That is when I did a really stupid thing. I gave him my address.
I didn’t see any harm there, this man wasn’t offering candy and he wasn’t offering me a ride home in the rain. He wanted to talk to my mother. Surely he was legit? I was way too young to understand that this creep had calculated no one was probably home, otherwise, they would have picked me up from school on a rainy day.
About a half hour later, the man showed up in his Beetle, parked it in our driveway. We lived in a secluded area, our house to the back of a dead end gravel road. I watched him through the screen door as he sat in his car, as if he was waiting for someone to come out.
I had already changed my mind about the modeling thing. In fact, I was too embarrassed to tell my mom about it. She worked nights back then and was sleeping. I didn’t even wake her. I really just wanted this man to go away.
Finally, the guy got out the car and I met him outside, him in the yard, me on the porch. He was a classic pedo looking guy: Thick black plastic-rimmed glasses, middle aged, chunky, slicked back hair with a side part.
At first he kept his distance, about ten feet from me. He explained his job, who he worked for, and even produced a business card. Then he told me he wanted me to change out into a bathing suit. I told him I wouldn’t do that. So he asked me to go get a bath robe. This was when I realized the man was probably going to try to hurt me.
It hit me that I hadn’t waken my mother, but I should have. He hadn’t asked if anyone was home. He was certain no one was. He crept closer to me. A step at a time. One step toward me, and I’d take a step back, until I was against the wall of the porch.
By now, he was about two feet from me, still talking, and just as he reached for my private parts, a voice from the other side of the screen door asked, “Kitty, who are you talking to?”
The bastard jumped back about ten feet again, “I’m late for my appointment.”
And he was gone.
My mom was only half awake and not dressed, she didn’t come out. I told her he was a photographer for a department store in town and I’d just turned down a modeling job. She didn’t really ask any more questions and I didn’t tell her he tried to touch me. I was too embarrassed.
I regret not calling the police, not then, a couple of years later, when I had the maturity to realize that although the guy did not successfully hurt me, he was going to hurt someone else. I did tell everyone at school to watch out for this guy. Not a single person believed my story. Not one.
Shit like that didn’t happen in our town.
At night, when I was going to sleep, I didn’t worry about him coming back like he was the boogie man. What I thought about was how I would kill him if he did.
And you know what? He did come back. It was many years later, when I was about seventeen years old. This time, I was home alone. I can’t tell you how numb my legs went when I opened that door and saw that man there.
He didn’t recognize me, I don’t think, because he asked me, “Is Kitty home?”
I told him she did not live here anymore and shut the door. I watched through one of the windows as he sat in the car and just waited.
In that little bit of time, I thought he must have hurt someone and got sent to prison for many years. I did not call the police. Never crossed my mind.
I went to the closet and grabbed my dad’s shotgun. Loaded it, and waited by the door for him to return. That was what I had planned out in my mind over the years since I’d first seen him. Kill this man if he ever comes back.
For the first five minutes, I was shaking as I stood behind the door with a loaded shotgun. I broke out in a heavy sweat until I could barely hold the gun. I expected him to kick down the door any minute, this is how the scene played out in mind, that the next time he came, he’d come in like a monster.
Thirty minutes later, he drove off.
After my mom came home, we called the police. He must have been from out of town because the cops weren’t familiar with the car he drove (an orange Nova the second time around) or his description. I’m not even sure they believed me.
Cause shit like that didn’t happen in our town.