“Oh my God, you’re disgusting. Get away from me,” I yelped, my voice high-pitched and immature, almost childlike. He stood, frozen for a second, his penis in his hand. In my mind, I’m thinking, “I can’t believe a man has just pulled out his penis and exposed himself to me on the sidewalk outside my home.”
And if the look on his face had been anything other than what it was I might have felt differently. But, in one look, it was as if he caved in on himself and his self-loathing shone like a beacon through his white, translucent face.
Time stood still. I was afraid of which direction his self-hatred would take him. Would he become violent as I turned my back?
Instead he slinked off, putting his penis away, brushing past my perfect, innocent pink English roses as he walked.
I scuttled up my porch stairs, frantic to find my door key. Once inside, I finally found a rush of adrenaline, which propelled me up the stairs.
I took a shower and got ready for bed. I left Cowboy a message to tell him I was home, and mentioned that “something weird” had happened but that I was fine. I didn’t want him to wake up and worry.
So I forgot about it, kind of. My life was too perfect in this apartment, in this neighborhood I love, to even consider what might change if I really let this be true.
But an hour later, I was still awake, when my assistant, Sarah, who was staying with me, walked in and said she had felt like someone was watching her from the yard.
“Oh, my God,” I said, and told her what had happened to me, finishing with “It’s not a big deal, though.”
“Yeah it is. Have you called the cops?”
“No.”
“OK, you’re in shock. This is totally normal. Give me your phone.” And she called and reported what had happened. Why this had never occurred to me, I don’t know. All I can say is that I just wanted it to go away.
Not just the sex offender in my yard — the feeling that my safety was gone. I just didn’t want to feel this.
Cowboy called, and when I told him what had happened, he drove right over. I saw him jump out of his Volvo, back straight, chest out like a rooster, a baseball bat in his hand. He strode through the yard and veered behind the house. It wasn’t for about 15 minutes that he finally came upstairs. His body was shaking with rage.
Sarah and I teased him asking what he would have done if he’d found him, and Cowboy dead-panned, “You don’t want to know.”
What I do know is that Cowboy would be in Warren. He stayed up all night looking out the window, almost hoping the marauder would come back around.
Now we’re looking at big ferocious dogs. But I feel like I’ve lost my sense of ignorant blissful safety that I always felt here in my home, my hill, my city. The cops have shown me a photo line of up dissolute men. And although this makes me feel slightly safer, I also feel weirdly detached like I’m watching an episode of Law and Order: SVU.
I worry that nothing, not even a dog can bring my paradise back to me. My expansive, wild, beautiful yard, my apartment with a 360-degree view of Portland—I’ve thought this was my Eden. And now...
Well, the dog. Yes the dog. Soon.
Email the author
Caitlin Shetterly: bramhallsquare@yahoo.com
