THIS IS A TRUE STORY, written 12 February 2019
I checked the locks twice in the house this morning before I left. I didn’t know why I felt the need to do that, but I did. Front door, back door, garage door.
Check, check, check.
When we got to the park, I unloaded my dog, situated the little gym bag where I keep our respective water bottles onto my back, zipped up my jacket, and popped one side of my earbuds in before hitting play on the book I was listening to.
I watched my dog as we crossed the parking lot toward the entrance to the park, listening intently to diatribe in the psychoanalysis of the victims of a sociopath on my book.
I was aware of you before we got close. I am pretty much always aware of men when I’m alone.
Because, you see, I’m a woman, so…
I was aware, but I wasn’t wary. You were walking away from the park, so I didn’t pay you much attention, but my dog did. He’s unfailingly friendly.
I heard you talking to me, so I turned toward you, saw you approaching. I pulled out the earbud so I could hear you more clearly.
“You’re dog is so cute!” You said.
“Yea, he is. Thanks.” I wasn’t looking at you. I had my eyes focused on him, but I could sense you moving toward us.
“Can I pet him?”
This is a question I’m used to. You’re right, my dog is very cute. Everyone loves him.
“Sure.” I inched forward and let my dog shove his head into your welcoming hand as you kneeled in front of him. You stuck your cigarette between your teeth and half heartedly gave him a pat.
I was still watching his reaction as he sniffed you, but I knew you were looking at me, and I shoved down this sense that it made me uncomfortable.
“Thanks,” you said, standing. “Don’t wanna get to close, you know, because of -“ You indicated the cigarette.
“That’s all right.” I was already walking away toward the park, shoving the earbud back in my ear.
But you were still talking to me.
“Sorry?” I pulled the earbud out again, but I only turned my head. My dog had already moved on, ready to explore the park, so my body was angled away from you, the way people do when they’re trying to communicate that they’re no longer committed to the conversation.
“I said ‘You’re incredibly beautiful!” You were holding your hands on either side of your mouth, like you were yodeling in a canyon. You smiled.
But my heart dropped.
Because you see, I’m a woman. So.
“Thanks,” I called back, pulling my sleeves up to reveal my wedding ring, and resting the earbud in my ear canal once more, turning my back completely away from you, and stepping quickly toward the park.
I was hyper aware of my surroundings now. Aware of how tall you are, how far away, how many steps. I searched for another human being in the park, an older woman in a teal jogging set, and immediately attached to her, reaching out to her, wishing she would look our way.
I wasn’t listening to my book anymore, so I heard your next words very clearly, and they turned my mouth to sand.
“Hey! Looks like we’re going the same way!”
But we weren’t. You were headed out of the park when I walked up.
The woman approaching was still too far to hear what he said, and I could tell she had on headphones, and seemed to be talking. She was on the phone.
I slowed in front of the maintenance building, letting my dog sniff the bushes, letting you catch up to me and pass me as I watched this woman approach, willing her with my eyes to sense my discomfort.
So far, that’s all it was though – discomfort. I didn’t know you meant to harm me – I had no proof or evidence of that. Conversations like ours are probably acceptable in some circumstances.
You’re being paranoid, I told myself, trying to relax the muscles that had tensed in my body as you slowly walked past me, so devastatingly slowly strolling. I wanted you to pass me and go your own way, so I could go the opposite. It’s a beautiful early spring day, and they’re calling for rain the rest of the week. This is the only chance I’ll get for a peaceful walk through the park.
The one-way only, not very populated at this time of day path through trees and wilderness.
But you didn’t keep walking. You stopped, perched yourself on a picnic table, not facing me, but still in plain view of me.
The woman slowed as she passed me and we remarked together on the bald eagle soaring above. “If we’re lucky, we’ll see it again!” She smiled excitedly and forged her way fearlessly down that solitary pathway into the protected lands.
But I hesitated.
Because what was going through my mind at that moment was 1 in 5.
I could still see you in my periphery, and I knew, I felt, that you knew exactly where I was. I pulled the earbud out of my ear, hearing now completely unsullied, and slowly trekked down the path.
I tried to think about something else. The rare bald eagle sighting now forgotten, I tried to occupy my mind with how sad it is that I felt as on edge as I did, that I felt so guarded because of that one interaction. I thought about how, perhaps, later you would consider that exchange and realize how uncomfortable that must make women feel when they’re out alone in a fairly secluded area, being approached by a strange man and being told they’re attractive. How silly you’ll feel, and then you’ll never do it again, because there are good people in this world. And I try to believe the good in people before all else.
I could not stop being hyper aware, though. The fact that the sun was shining through the branches, that the stream was flowing peacefully, and birds were chippering away at each other – things that usually soothe me, instead felt hauntingly loud, distracting me from possibly hearing someone approach from behind.
Why would he call me beautiful? I’m in my shapeless gym shorts, a jacket, a ball cap. I’m wearing zero make up. I haven’t even showered today. Can a person never just be invisible?
I breathed. I told myself it’s nothing. I stuck to the side that’s closest to a neighborhood. That way, if I screamed, there was a chance someone might hear me.
That’s how I have to think sometimes.
Because, you see, I’m a woman. So.
And then he stopped. My dog. He didn’t want to go any further. My usually ecstatic little sniffer, pulling with all his might to track all the wild things in this expanse of underbrush, sat his butt down, looked forlornly behind us, and then at me. He refused to budge.
That was enough for me. I decided that if I must insist on mistrusting myself, I would at least trust him.
We’d been on the path for about twenty minutes at that point, but it only took us ten to walk out of the trees and into the clearing between the park and the picnic benches.
There you were, still angled just so, still perched on that bench, even after thirty minutes had passed. You stood, and I veered, taking the long way around the clearing.
I could tell my breathing was getting faltered, and my dog was staying closer to me, not challenging the length of his lead like he normally does, as though he could sense my trepidation.
Calm down, I told myself, still convinced I was overreacting. Better safe, though, I thought, as I fished out my phone and formulated a plan. I always do this in these types of situations – form a plan. I have to. It’s second nature.
Because, you see, I’m a woman. And 20% of us didn’t get to have a plan.
I called my mom as I skimmed the outskirts of the clearing, met up with the road that leads to the parking lot, and explained to her what was happening. Just a couple blocks away is the police department. I walked past my car, through the parking lot where you first played interference. I walked to the police department, and went inside. I told the woman at the front desk that I felt like a man was following me, and, when she called an officer in, described you and what had happened.
I also explained that I might just be paranoid, but you never know, because, you see, I’m a woman, so…
They both assured me I was right to report it. The police officer left to look around and I waited for him to come back to escort me to my car.
He didn’t find you, so, when I got to my car, I took some shuddered breaths, assured my dog everything was ok, then started the engine.
I don’t know why, but I couldn’t go home. I almost did. I took the first two turns, then, at the last minute, decided to double back and get my dog some biscuits at the pet store.
I wiped my face to erase the evidence that I’d been crying while soothing my perfectly calm beagle. Then he and I went shopping.
I talked to him more than I normally do, showing him various treats and asking him which ones smell good to him. I settled on some peanut butter and some apple and pumpkin. I turned to inspect the collars, hoping they’d updated their selection since my last visit a week prior. A visit I’d made after walking at the park with my beagle.
It was then that I heard a young man enter. I recognized the voice before I looked, and I was right. It was you.
I will not panic.
I moved to a back room, the one stacked with giant bags of food, the one that I thought led to the rear exit (it doesn’t), away from the register where you were asking for a job application.
Don’t panic.
Another plan. Ditch the treats, Get out. Get out, get out, get out.
Because if I checked out, I’d be doing exactly what you wanted. I’d have to stand next to you, and pull out my wallet, and hand the cashier my credit card. With my name on it.
I put the treats away where I found them, quietly, and tried to slip out the door behind you. But you looked up. You smiled, and said “Oh! Hey!” Like you were surprised to see me. It sounded hollow though, like a bad actor on second-rate prime time that’s just a little bit too loud, with just a little too much inflection.
Like it had been rehearsed.
I didn’t respond. I kept my head down, and rushed out, not even acknowledging the cashier, who watched, bewildered. Get out. Get out, get out, get out.
Because you see, I’m a woman, so…
No time for tears. Buckle in the dog. Get in the car. Breathe. Start the car. Don’t text while driving. Shift into gear. Breathe. Faster to drive to the police than to call. Can’t stay here.
Minutes later, I was waiting at the front desk again, behind a lawyer requesting paperwork.
“Which judge is it today?… Oh, yes, he’s nice, he’ll do.” I waited behind her, inching away from the glass of the front window, and then mentally kicking myself. It was tinted. No one could see in.
Still…
The woman behind the desk glanced at me, then quickly showed the lawyer some kind of “remarks” section on some kind of form, and shooed her away, turning her attention to me. Her eyebrows raised, her lips pursed – she already knew what I was going to say.
“He’s still following me.”
She showed me inside the precinct, to a cushy red leather sofa. A plastic cup of ice water was in my hand, and a styrofoam bowl of water was provided for my dog, who was now whining while he circled me.
The same police officer came out, took my statement, filled out some forms, chatted with me before he went over my statement again.
“I’m always a little more wary when my husband’s gone – he’s military. He’s gone a lot.”
“It just seems too convenient.”
“I just moved here, I don’t know anyone.”
“Yes, I come to the park almost every day. Yes, almost always the same time.”
“No, I don’t remember ever seeing him before.”
“I haven’t noticed any vehicles tailing me.”
“Everyone loves {my dog}.”
When I left, I finally let the tears come. I called my mom back, like I’d promised.
“Oh my God… come to our house. Stay here for a few days.”
I relayed the plan that I’d tried to form, and told her I need to get control of my emotions before making a decision. And, more than anything, I wanted to talk to my husband.
Instead of driving home, I drove down a little known street to post, a thirty minute commute, thinking that anyone on this road would probably be military and would hopefully come to my aid if need be. And it was unlikely that you would have an ID to get on post, at least not without jumping through a hoop or two. Then I’d drive around post a bit, make a couple stops, send an e-mail requesting access to my husband for a phone call, and come back through a different gate, on a different route.
I imagined different scenarios, checking on my dog frequently in the rearview mirror. He hadn’t had much water at the station. When was the last time he’d peed?
Maybe this is all a creepy coincidence.
Or maybe he’s a wanted felon that could hurt someone else.
I got the phone call I’d been waiting for on my way back to my house. I could tell right away that he was still at work. He had his uniform voice on.
My husband. Always cool, always calm, always collected. It drives me crazy sometimes. When I’m at an emotional high, I mostly just want him to slip a little something into his voice, into his collected demeanor. But these still waters are military tried and tested.
And this time, it was his quiet, deliberate, controlled command presence that was exactly what I needed.
“I’m going to stay on the phone with you until you get home and get inside.”
He calmly asserted approval of my decision to drive to post and take a different route home, to pass our neighborhood, circle, and double back, just to be sure no one was following me. Quickly, we checked off a list of security items that needed to be cleared before I left the house again.
“I’ll call you again tonight.”
My husband, all military all the time. The uniform that frazzles the radio waves of intimacy and affection, detaching for emotional surety when he needs to be at work.
“Babe, I’m really really glad you’re ok. I wish I could be there with you.”
Or not.
Choke down the tears. I can do this alone. I have to. I’ve been through worse alone. I again assure my dog everything is going to be ok, and we enter our home.
As I drove out of the city, I tried to take notes on the cars around me.
Red compact crossover acura. Mid 2000s.
Silver Jetta, new, tons of bumper stickers.
White F-150, chrome grill, a piece of it is gone.
Each mile melted away a little more of my unease.
I got a phone call three hours into my drive. After I left the station, the police officer put out my description of you and my address as well as a description of my vehicle, so the unit could patrol my neighborhood and step in if they saw you approach me again. He went to the pet store and compared their surveillance tape to the security footage of the park’s parking lot. He found you. He figured out who you are. He gave your photo to his patrol unit.
He ran a background check on you too. Turns out, you have priors. Small ones, nonviolent, but considering you’ve accrued several in only two years of adulthood, its still enough to convince him that I was right to speak up, that you didn’t have good intentions for me. That you meant to harm me.
Because I’m a woman, so…
