If you’ve ever been to Ireland, then you know- the fog is real. It’s cold. And you really do need those thick fisherman’s sweaters that they sell in tiny shops. As I’ve prepared myself to write this story- I’ve had to go back into the fog. I’ve had to get close to something that I would rather keep far. But move in towards it I will, until thick mist finally reveals the outline of two small figures walking. Linda and I were fresh out of High School and backpacking through Europe on a rural Irish road.
No cell phones, my friend. No solid plans. Just two teenage girls knowing not what the fuck. My poor mom. She would tell you that I told her what I was doing and there was no way around it. Because of that, I’ve tried to teach my daughters from a very young age that boundaries are healthy. I’ve tried to lovingly pound into their heads that you can calculate risk, to a certain degree. (In this story at least, one could have- and we should have.) Girls, I tell them, you can color inside the lines and still have an amazing life!
Anyway. It was cold, like I said. And carrying those backpacks must have been tough (no REI ergonomically designed gear in those days.) I only remember we were trying to get to a hostel right on the coast. If I remember correctly, we had decided, or maybe we had been told, that hitchhiking was only safe in Ireland. A family in a van was happy enough to shove us in and take us as far as they could, and then we were walking again. Thumbs up. Until a small beat-up sedan pulled over and in we went.
I took the back, Linda upfront. The driver was a young man, but older than us. He had a speech impediment. Nervous, shy. Not overbearing, in stature or vibe. He was slight, maybe even meek. Short, straight and shaggy brown hair. Scruff around the face? Yes. I think so. And I had an instinctual flash- something felt off. It was in the air. After all, at our most basic level, we are animals: we sense things. Unfortunately at our most complex level, what is sensed can also be denied.
Shortly after our ride began- the man said he had to pull over. And he did, off of the main road and onto a tiny dirt one where there was a grassy area beside us that was brambly, full of trees. He became clearly agitated and possibly even embarrassed as he told us that he had to pee. Okay. We said. It seemed normal enough. Somewhat. But then he informed us he couldn’t do it on his own. He was handicapped, he said and needed our help.
Everything slowed down then. Surrounded by tall wet grass. The world quiet, and still. It was like being ejected into the Twilight Zone. I don’t think Linda or I looked at each other as we got out of the car. It would have been good- just one of us offering a quick head shake to the other communicating: No, we’re not doing this. We could have kicked the ass of this sad little man. Told him plain and simple: We’re not holding your thing, bro. We could have burst out laughing then, grabbed our packs and walked like badasses back to the road.
Would have been nice. But instead we helped him some steps away, into the grass. Both on either side of him, holding him up. Maybe Linda unzipped his pants then. I didn’t know- I was looking away. Linda had more experience than I did with handicapped people. She had dated a boy in High School, for a long time actually, who was in a wheelchair. I figured she knew what to do. She didn’t. We were just two young girls holding up a man in the grass. Two young girls who were supposed to be on a fun adventure and instead were off in the bushes taking orders from a small perv. Time warped, as it does in uncomfortable situations. Then, after what seemed like 40 million years…”I can’t!” he said. He was angry, frustrated, as if things hadn’t gone as planned. One way or another, the pants came up, we all went back to the car, and got back in. I don’t know what I was thinking then. I don’t remember what words were said…something about…he would just get us to where we wanted to go.
The weird incident would be filed as minor in the larger picture of our lives. We wouldn’t think of it much in the following years. I mean, both Linda and I had already endured far worse as far as these types of experiences go. Long before this Irish penis-in-the-grass incident, I had experienced other situations which included men and remote areas. One a storm tunnel, the other a sailboat. One I was twelve, the other fifteen. The offenders in those stories didn’t lose their nerve, they went through with their plans. Because there was no gun to my head, no bruises on my body, I never thought those events deserved the title of abuse. Trauma? Yes. Absolutely. But abuse? No. Somewhere deep inside every mistreated girl there lives a tiny voice that tells her she asked for it.
33 years later, Linda and I sit drinking tea in my back yard. We hike in the mountains behind her house. We sit at long lunches and delve into our past. Back onto a foggy Irish road we go. It’s much better when we go back together. It’s healing. “If person can turn a key in the ignition and steer a car, can they not unzip their own pants?” I ask. It was a simple and sensical observation we could finally make. “He was definitely handicapped to some degree,” said Linda. “So…?” I begin to ask. “And it was completely and totally abuse!” Linda says. The relief I feel is huge. My instinct validated. ”If a person creeps you out, they’re creepy.” she continued. “That’s what I tell my kids. Don’t second guess yourself. You owe this person nothing.”
It’s brilliant. I love it. I tell my daughters later that night: If someone creeps you out, they’re creepy. Listen to your intuition first and sort out the details later. If your intuition is off, who gives a fuck. Because if your intuition is right, as it usually is, you may have just saved yourself years of mental anguish.
Our teenage girls are friends now, Linda’s and mine. Can you believe it? Both 18 years old, about to graduate and planning a Summer trip of their own. They’re far more savvy than we were. They’ve been trained to see the signs. Outfitted with cell phones, mace and the righteousness of the Me Too movement. Is it all enough to ensure their total safety? Of course not, but it’s more than we had.
As for Ireland, I don’t remember how we got to the hostel on the coast that day. All I know is we arrived - soaked through from rain. I remember we tried to process what had happened, bundled up on the metal-framed cots, freezing and wearing every single article of clothing we had brought. We tried to make it better, somehow. But we were in the throes of it, Linda and I. It’s the hardest part of being a kid: you’ve got no experience, no retrospect, no hindsight. Not yet.
Eventually, we made it to Florence and met up with a small group of friends. Linda and I had planned to do the whole six weeks of travel together, but I headed to Greece and Linda, to Sweden. I suspect maybe it was the intensity of what happened that split us up. It’s hard to say why exactly, but we had reached an impasse.
The years passed. Linda moved out of the country and came back for visits. We’d run into each other on the beach, or in the isles of a thrift store. Always hugs. Always smiles. Always love. But always separated again. Until one day when Linda had moved back to town, she sent me an email. Her doctor had recommended she do some strength training and Linda knew I was a personal trainer. Until Linda came back into my life, I didn’t realize how dearly I needed her friendship.
My older daughter came home the other week saying the trip was being planned. She and Linda’s daughter are going car camping for 10 days up the coast of California as soon as school lets out. They wanted to go across State lines into Oregon, but Linda had reminded them; California was big, there was a lot to see, and for a first adventure, it was more than enough.