First Contact

Juxtaposition.  The fact of two things being seen or placed close together with contrasting effect.  Or so says Google. 

It’s 1982. Imagine a girl riding her bike in the surburbs. She’s sporting long blonde hair, a pair of 1970’s athletic shorts with white piping and those blue striped, knee high athletic socks.  Maybe she’s a bit developed for her age. Maybe, even at the tender age of 14, she could pass as 16, or even 18, and with a wink and a nod, be able to get in to see her favorite heavy metal band (molly hatchet) at some local dive.

Tooling around on my bike was a favorite pastime. Hanging out at my girlfriends house, making up dances to Queen’s “Another One Bites The Dust” – getting in jealous girlfriend fights, sneaking out at night, making out with the most popular boy in the hideout – these are things, the good things that I remember. 

Memories that are only marred by a white van pulling up beside me one late afternoon.  One guy in the passenger seat that had rolled down his window, wondering if he could ask me a question.

I agreed. With caution.

The big side door opened suddenly, and inside sat an older lanky fellow. Not too much older, mind you. He had longish auburn hair, and a prominent nose.  He wore the brightest, perfect smile, and a pair of shorts that were so short, his rather mature, hairless sack of balls were hanging out.  Not my imagination, and only accentuated by him lifting and spreading his legs so that his foot could rest on some random crate sitting in the back.

The passenger guy started asking me a question about “Where could he find…?”

I could only stare at the saggy testicles.

It was probably 20 seconds before I realized something really, really bad could happen here.  I think I was confused by the welcoming smile, and the obviously pedopheliac gesture. The contrast rattled me.  I looked up at the passenger and began to engage his conversation, before suddenly darting off on my bike.

Without finishing my sentence.


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