I am fifteen years old, on the road to my own portable Hell. I got so angry at my father I left after he let-into me, for forgetting to lock the stupid bathroom door! His screaming with that much disgust (me with my pants down) made me feel disgusted with him.
Me a whore? I ran upstairs and threw my clothes into a paper bag and split. Walked a mile out to the highway and stuck out my thumb. The bag ripped and my clothes went flying across the highway. Goodbye, identity!
I’ve stood at that ramp in Hartford for up to three hours before. When people did stop I’d size them up before I’d get in any car. Single men in beat up cars had stopped, but I could usually just tell when it was not right to get in. Sometimes it was the beer cans, whisky bottles or trash.... Other times it was the roughness--voices or faces—sometimes it was a
glazed look.
I’d say, "Never mind, go ahead."
They’d go through changes. "Are you sure?"
"Yup. Go ahead."
But today I screwed up. Maybe it was because of the heat or my anger or fatigue. Or maybe Dad did make me feel that worthless that I'd ride with anyone….When the white pickup pulled over to the curb, I just got in.
The guy didn't say much. Suited me.
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
A few minutes later when I open them I notice we're getting off the highway. And he revs up fast, turning down a side road.
Trying to sound calm, I ask where he's going.
Says, "Do you like art? I thought we’d make a stop for awhile in the woods. I’m going to take some pictures." Then grimaces at me, all sly. Then this glare that stops me from speaking
But I do: I squeeze out a kinda defiant, "What are you talking about?" tight, controlled voice.
" You like nature? I’m going to photograph you; real natural."
I freeze. He drives. But, trapped there, I find that all I can do is just notice him, as if to find an entry into the part of him which is humane.
I see he enjoys this... smiles, says, "You scared? You don’t have to be scared. I tell you what. You do everything nice, exactly like I want it and maybe you don’t get hurt. O.K?"
I’m, like, emotionally anesthetized by it all. I'm a chess piece, a prop in a sport of terrorism-- he wants the power rush; to see my reaction, gloat as he sees me squirm there.
But that makes me feel the same anger that led to running from Dad. I refuse to give him that satisfaction, even if he "does me", he won't get to enjoy that scent of fear, the thing he preys upon.
Suddenly, it's like I can see into him. What I see is that I am not real to him, which makes what he's saying sound hollow to me, as if he's rehearsing a script or reciting something he saw on TV; trying it on for fit. This is clearly his game, not mine.
Then something happens: I feel like I'm in a trance I'm getting so calm, some control even, and the amazing thing is that this feeling (all I can think of is, "Grace") is totally dissolving any fear in me.
I know that if I'm going to get f----d, I'd rather get it nicely, and not with a knife at my throat. And there's something else I feel in this state of mind: a part of me is actually feeling really bad for him. I can sense how incredibly bored he is, numb, so miserable. "Neglected" and "lonely" don't even come close.
All at once, I just know what I have to do: I move closer to him. I reach, real gradually, extend my arm around him. And I am not even myself, but more like someone sleepwalking: I’m speaking softly, soothingly and the words are just passing through my mouth. "Look, I know you feel lonely. But you don’t have to scare me to get what you want. If what you want is someone to give you love, I can do that."
The guy turns red. He slams on the breaks. He reaches over me and pushes open the door. In tears he starts screaming, "Get out, GET OUT!" He pushes me. "Get the f--k OUT of here!"
And by the time he slams closed the door after me, he’s actually sobbing.
I’m back on the road as he tears away. I hear twittering in the trees. I keep saying, "Thank you," as I straighten my clothing, breathe in the spring breezes and think to myself how good it is to be alone with God.
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