when the familiar is more dangerous than the strange

Like any family we had a local eatery that was a go-to place for a weekend breakfast, dinner during the week, or late night coffee and dessert. For us it was a diner in the adjoining town that served typical diner fare, hot coffee and had friendly patrons. This diner would be my first, and last, job as a waitress, because it takes the patience of a saint and the stamina of a marathon runner to waitress in a diner and neither of those qualities are part of my skill set.

While there for artery clogging meals, my parents would chat with the owner and regular customers, finding comfort in the routine of a welcoming place several times a week. My folks befriended this guy named Jim and he’d sit at our table, drink coffee and make small talk. It wasn’t long before Jim started coming around the house for the occasional dinner or Saturday breakfast. My Dad found him affable; they had an affinity for power tools, building techniques and football. Jim claimed to be a contractor, building houses for a developer in the area, and my Dad’s love of woodworking and crafting furniture for our house became their bond. Mom liked to cook, have people to feed and conversation around the house. Most of my teenage friends congregated at our house because the moment anybody mentioned they were hungry, Mom was up preparing munchies for the crew. Jim flattered and charmed her, made her laugh, complimented her cooking and the new curtains she had made. Jim also teased and joked with me, like an older brother; he’d ask me about school, my friends, my hobbies and we’d discuss the books we both read. Yes, I was a book nerd even then, some things are destined.

I started working at the diner after turning 15, handling the morning counter shift on weekends. Walking two miles to work at 5:00 am was no fun task but there was money in my pocket and that meant freedom. Jim would come by either of those days, hang out having coffee and tease me about my uniform, tell me how sexy it looked on me. It was only later that I realized he spent a lot of time either at the diner, or at our house, for someone who claimed to be building houses for a living. Sometimes he’d offer me a drive home at the end of my shift and I would gleefully hop in his truck. After all, he was a family friend by this point, and it was a long walk home.

My stint at the diner ended abruptly after three months the Sunday afternoon I told a customer perhaps he should stay home to eat if he was so particular about how his food was prepared. This was after he’d called me over three times because his lunch platter was not cooked correctly. See? Waitressing and me were never meant to have a long relationship.

After I left the diner, Jim started showing up at my house every so often when my parents had gone off somewhere on weekend days, or afternoons when I was home from school alone. It was always casual, thought your folks were home kind of thing. He’d hang out, have some coffee, tease me some, flirt a little, and compliment me. At 15 I was definitely susceptible to the flattery and attention of older guy who paid attention, focused on and complimented me. If he was around when Mom was in a tirade, he’d wink at me, smile, and there was a shared secret, between us, he got that she was a little off and understood. Awareness. A connection. A trust bond.

After a time his teasing got a little more personal, as did his questions. He’d ask me about my boyfriend, what we did, where we went together. Looking back, I can tell he was subtly trying to find out how intimate I actually was with my boyfriend. His flirting took on a more overtly sexual tone, and in all honesty it was a little intrigued and thrilled to test my teenage sexuality by flirting back, honing my man-killer skills. At that age, during puberty, sporting well developed Ta-Ta’s and a curvy body, the attention of an older man, the gentle teasing and sexual flirtation was the opportunity to flex my own muscles in the attraction game. We sparred verbally, innuendos going back and forth. I was an avid romance reader in those days, so I lifted dialogue right out of the books and felt older, more powerful, more womanly. It felt fun and safe.

Then it got a little weirder. His visits to the house when I was alone, or hanging at home with friends, increased. He’d just be there, at the door, several days a week. I started to get a bit uncomfortable and find reasons to head right out the door when he showed up. I often asked my friend Gina to hang out at the house, fully expecting him to show up but not certain what to do about this new situation I found myself in. He was someone my parents welcomed into the house; his behavior when they were around was exactly as it had been. He even told them he had come by at the times they weren’t home, so there were no secrets. They weren’t around to catch the change in behavior, the difference in the interaction between us.

Several days a week, I would go hiking in the local woods; either by myself or with a couple of friends I nagged into going with me. He began to show up there as well; I’d be heading into the park entrance and his truck would roll in beside me, or he’d already be there waiting. Sometimes I would dash into a trail before he saw me, disappearing from his view as quick as possible. At this point, he was giving me the creeps and my internal radar was screaming, loudly. I made myself scarce when he came over for dinner, or later in the evening for coffee. I’d make arrangement for the weekends, so I either wasn’t alone or would not be home alone for any length of time. There were times when I knew he was at the door and I would ignore the knocks. If he knew I was home, I didn’t care. Once or twice he commented on that and I lied, saying I hadn’t heard the door.

By this time, I knew that he wasn’t just showing up unexpectedly. Even a 15 year old catches on when reality slaps you in the face. I was being stalked. This guy was heading in a direction that made me nervous but I didn’t know what to do. Finally he crossed a boundary that I couldn’t ignore.

I had just gotten home one weekend afternoon, my parents weren’t home and since it was summer, I had left the front door open for the air. The next thing I know he’s at the screen door knocking and smiling. The only way he knew I was home would have been by following me or driving by the house waiting for me. I still don’t know which, nor does it really matter. I let him in but made sure to leave the doors wide open and never let him past the kitchen. We chatted while I made tea and put together some food; I wanted a reason to stay in the front of the house, near the open doors and big picture windows. He was sitting at the kitchen table and I was leaning against the counter. He asked me if I knew what the softest place on a woman’s body was and reached out to stroke the inside of my thigh with his finger, under the hem of my shorts. My skin crawled and I moved hastily away. I have no idea what I said, or did, other than move out of touching distance and not acknowledge what had just happened. It was like my brain shut down. Holy Hell, I was never more relieved to hear my parent’s car pull into the driveway a few moments later. He acted as if nothing untoward had occurred when my folks walked in, and I quickly disappeared from the house. Saved by freak timing, I swear.

I went into major avoidance mode after this happened. There was no time I let myself be at a disadvantage by being alone, at home or around town. My friends were great in helping with this as they had gotten the creep factor much earlier and really disliked him. We discussed what happened at length and realized parental involvement was needed.

It took me a few days to figure out how to approach it, why I needed to strategize about telling them how I felt or about what happened, I really can’t say. Maybe I felt some responsibility for how we had gotten to moment in the kitchen. Hadn’t I flirted back? Didn’t I enjoy the attention? Didn’t I tease and talk the talk? Had I invited it? Totally nonsense, I know, but 15 years old, remember? The world revolved around my actions.

Ultimately I told my Dad I was really uncomfortable when Jim showed up when they weren’t home and could he ask him to stop just dropping by. Dad, always a man of few words, stared at me for a few minutes, didn’t ask any questions and said sure.

And that was that. We never saw him again. I don’t know what my Dad said, or if Dad understood more than I said as we never discussed it. Probably so, but I’ll never know.

I think about this episode as my daughter grows up, this beautiful young girl, this treasure. I worry about what she will encounter on her way through the world, and hope the path of communication always remains open, so that if anyone, or anything, makes her feel uncomfortable, she will not hesitate bringing her concerns to her Dad and me anytime. That she will seek protection where she should most feel safe.

We try so hard to keep our children secure, to protect them from strangers, to let them grow. How do we warn them about the possible dangers of those that are not strangers, from those that should be considered safe? I don’t want to create a sense of fear for my daughter but hope the internal compass I see developing in her will continue to grow and help her find a steady path. That she listens to her instincts about people and remains an independent, strong spirit, one not easily led.