Convertibles

I was never very impressed by cars, and it may have saved my life.

At the age of 13, my family lived in the Santa Cruz mountains. It was a half hour drive to the nearest town, and I loved to take that drive with my mom every Saturday when she worked at a local kitchen ware store. I’d spend the day in town, window shopping, going to the library, and best of all, going to the Bumbleberry restaurant to get a hot fudge sundae and 7-Up. What I didn’t know was somebody was watching me and tracking my every move.

One Saturday, wearing my typical garb of a t-shirt and overalls, I was approached by a man I’d guess was in his late 20s. He started chatting me up, telling me how foxy I was (“foxy” was a term in the 70s that meant “sexy”) and how cool it must be to be 13 and going to high school soon. I was immediately suspicious, as I knew I wasn’t foxy or anything close to it. I had braces, glasses, and an abundance of acne. I also had a full figure, although I wasn’t really aware how dangerous that could be on a 13-year-old.

After a few minutes of his sweet talking, he pointed to a convertible that was parked in the street and asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I said no and marveled at the thought that he believed I’d be stupid enough to take a ride with a stranger just because it was a convertible.

People walking by had noticed him talking to me, and they were suspicious of the situation. A small crowd had gathered, and when this man saw them, he bolted for his car. I thought that was the end of it.

I headed for the library, and as I was walking up the hill towards the front doors, I saw another man, about the same age as the first, running to me, asking me if I knew what time it was. While I was wearing a watch, I said “no” as loudly as a I could and ran for the safety of the library. Something in me told me to hide. It should have told me to go to the librarian and tell her what was going on, but I didn’t know that was an option. I headed downstairs for a deserted part of the stacks, where I saw a small bathroom. I dashed in there and waited. For hours.

At one point a woman came in. I was sitting on the floor in the furthest stall, which she opened and then took a good look at me. I didn’t say a word. She used the restroom and when she left, I heard her say, “no, she’s not in there.” I didn’t know what to make of that, so I waited another hour. When I left, I knew my mom would be closing up the store and looking for me, so I ran all the way. It was about a quarter of a mile, and I wasn’t used to running, but I made it safely back.

I didn’t tell my mom what had happened. Our relationship wasn’t that good, and I didn’t want to hear what she might have to say on the subject.

I never went into town with my mom again, something she attributed to the fickleness of teenagers.

Over the years I’ve thought about that day. Initially I knew it was not a good situation, but it wasn’t until I was a few years older that I more fully understood just how much danger I’d been in. I send a silent thanks to the woman in the restroom, who may have saved my life, and to the crowd of people who had gathered around me when I was talking to the first man. They, too, played a part in my safety.

I’m just glad I wasn’t interested in convertibles.

Image Credits: Convertible © IG Digital Arts–stock.adobe.com; Hot Fudge Sundae © SuperPixel Inc–stock.adobe.com; Small Crowd © JuanM–stock.adobe.com.