Stranger Danger

In late August 1982, I traveled with my parents to visit my grandfather, who was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s and needed long-term care. What was meant to be a long weekend stretched into an extended stay, leaving me to fly home alone to return to work. My mother, anxious about the idea, was relieved when a middle-aged man we met at the airport—a fellow passenger—offered to look out for me. 

I saw him as a father figure. I was mistaken. 

It was a mistake I had made before—and would repeat again over the years. I wanted to believe there were people I could trust. Instead, it often ended in disappointment, another failed relationship or broken connection. 

He introduced himself as a private investigator from Pennsylvania, supposedly returning from a bear hunt. Even then, the story felt thin. He had little luggage, no hunting gear—but he carried a handgun. Back then, open carry of firearms on planes was allowed, though even in that era, it felt intimidating.

At first, I enjoyed our conversations. He seemed worldly and confident, traits I associated with guidance and safety. But it quickly became clear that his interest in me was not fatherly, not mentoring. It was predatory. 

You can guess where this is going. His attention started as flattering but quickly shifted to unsettling. We exchanged phone numbers—my work number, I think. A week later, he called to say he was “in Connecticut for work” and insisted we meet for dinner—in his hotel room. When I declined, he became furious. That was the red flag I couldn’t ignore. 

I never heard from him again. Yet, the encounter left a mark. 

I sometimes wonder: what if I had gone? The noir script writes itself—a seemingly protective man turning into a predator, the comforting façade unraveling into danger. Would I have become another unsolved tragedy, my story reduced to a cold case headline? 

I was barely twenty, still a child in many ways. My mother, perhaps, was even more naïve, her optimism a reflection of a different time. The early 1980s was a still a time ruled by men, where trust was too often misplaced. I struggled to find my footing, to navigate a world that didn’t seem to want me to succeed. 

Looking back, I see a younger version of myself—naïve, hopeful, and vulnerable—staring at the cracks forming beneath her. What surprises me most isn’t the cracks. It’s that I kept stepping forward anyway. 

Cosmopolitan magazine became my lifeline. Helen Gurley Brown, who turned Cosmo into a voice for young, career-driven women, published Having It All in 1982. The book became my guide, though I could never quite measure up to its promises. Instead, I found myself dismissed or misunderstood—treated as a joke rather than someone worthy of being taken seriously. I longed for the "Cosmo" ideal, but reality kept pulling me back into that endless cycle of trying to escape my circumstances. I didn’t think I was asking for much, but the universe seemed to have other plans.

That book is long gone now, likely discarded in frustration. My life felt tangled, dependent on men, and I resented it. I had wanted to be a “Cosmo Girl,” but looking back, it feels almost foolish. Sometimes I wonder if Brown’s ideas were the inspiration for shows like Sex and the City. The glamour and drama were entertaining, but who really lives that way? Endless disposable income, time to lament over life—most of us were just trying to survive.

When I returned home, I had to deal with a jerk of a boss. At the time, I worked as a secretary in a construction sales office. A colleague suggested I join NAWIC—the National Association of Women in Construction. Some of the women there worked on crews, and I envied their grit. I didn’t want to shovel asphalt, but I wanted to make a difference. I didn’t want to be the comic relief. Those were treacherous waters to navigate, and I didn’t know how to swim.

Men in the industry scoffed at the organization, attending events not to network, but to meet women. When I asked my boss to teach me how to read drawings and do cost estimates, he laughed in my face. So, I enrolled in a construction management course at a local college. But my instructor seemed more interested in me than in helping me learn.

I remember one night in particular: February 28, 1983—the night of the M*A*S*H finale. The episode, titled “Goodbye, Farewell and Amen,” feels like a refrain in my life. My relationships have always been a series of goodbyes, leaving me searching for answers from God that never seemed to come.

The instructor canceled class that evening, and we all agreed to watch the finale together at the campus pub. The Devil’s Den was dimly lit, its air thick with cigarette smoke. Smoking wouldn’t be banned until 2003, and with the drinking age still under 21, the place was packed. It was loud and reeked of stale beer—a snapshot of the times. And yes, the pub was really named Devil’s Den, which now seems fitting. Nothing good could come of it.

The following week, I stayed after class, hoping for help with reading construction drawings and learning how to do estimates. Instead, the instructor dismissed me with inappropriate comments. He had made assumptions about my request for extra help. He thought it was an invitation. Another slap in the face. I left class and never returned.

One moment from the M*A*S*H episode stands out: when Charles and Margaret part ways, he lets her keep his treasured copy of Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning—a book that also happens to be one of my favorites. I spent years longing for my soul mate, searching for a connection that always seemed just out of reach. But as life would have it, I never found him—and I certainly wasn’t going to find him in a smoke-filled college campus bar or in the arms of yet another older man in a position of power trying to take advantage of a younger woman. I was disgusted with everything.

That night, I drove home with a flat tire, unwilling to stop on a dark road. The thump-thump-thumping ruined the rim, but I didn’t care. Everything always seemed to spiral into something bigger. We didn’t have cell phones back then, so all I could do was keep driving until I reached safety.

Discouraged and humiliated, I abandoned my ambitions in the construction industry. Helen Gurley Brown’s vision of “having it all” felt unattainable in a world where men delighted in keeping me in my place. I retreated to a life that felt safer, though smaller.

Even now, watching a M*A*S*H rerun takes me back to that pub, to the instructor’s dismissive remarks. It reminds me of the men who came into my life uninvited, each one destroying pieces of me. The brokenness never fully healed. The phantom pains still linger, reminding me of the past and still making me shake my head in disbelief.

I turned to familiar ground, reconnecting with old high school classmates. But they were still stuck in party mode—immature boys, not men—scraping together change for draft beer. I was used to a different world, one of power and money, where men made sure I never had to pay for anything. I didn’t have much to my name, just enough for the bare essentials. That year, I attended two Celtics games in starkly different circumstances. One, through work, with coveted courtside seats. The other, with high school friends, way up in the nosebleed section. The experiences couldn’t have been more different—both in atmosphere and outcome.

The night with the courtside seats left me in yet another precarious situation. My boss decided to leave early with his girlfriend, casually informing me that his client would drive me home. I protested, but he ignored me and left anyway. I caught a fleeting glance from his girlfriend—she knew—but my pleading eyes didn’t change anything.

The drive home was tense. The client, drunk and overly familiar, kept trying to put his hands on me as he drove. When we finally reached the office, where I had left my car, he tried again.

Thankfully, his drunkenness and size slowed him down, giving me just enough time to escape. I bolted from his car, climbed into mine, and sped off, checking my mirrors to make sure he wasn’t following.

I couldn’t reconcile these two worlds—the one where I was treated as a novelty and surrounded by power, and the one where I was just the girl from high school, going to keggers with boys who hadn’t yet grown up. I hated everything.

I didn’t want either world. I wanted something else—something real. Deep conversations, travel, experiences that truly mattered. But everything felt hollow. In a single year, I faced the private investigator, an obnoxious boss, an opportunistic college professor, and a client who treated me like his plaything for the evening. How many times could I run away? I was always looking for an escape, maneuvering to get out of these fragile situations. The former high school crowd offered some relief—they were so naïve and immature—that I didn’t have to fear for my safety or compromise my integrity. But even that didn’t feel like living. 

I often see life through a noir lens. Pollyanna doesn’t exist in my world. There may be goodness, but it’s always overshadowed by dark shadows. Reality isn’t G-rated; it’s for adults only.

Then there was the flasher when I was eleven. He pretended to search for a lost dog, then exposed himself to me in my backyard. I ran inside, and my parents called the cops, but he was never caught. That moment crystallized something in me: the world is full of wolves in sheep’s clothing, always waiting to strike.

The world is a tragic place, filled with broken people pushing their darkness onto others. I don’t have answers for why, but those of us who endure learn to recognize the predators for what they are. I tried, mostly, to do the right thing, yet it still led me into difficult situations. Maybe everything was always just some version of hell I could never escape from? Nothing makes sense.

Did you expect a happy ending? This is noir, after all, but I’m no femme fatale. I’m on a different path now, facing new challenges. But the shadows remain. I’ve learned to live with them. I’ve tried to understand the lessons I should’ve learned, but sometimes it’s just about horrible people doing horrible things—and none of it was my fault. I was just an innocent bystander in my own life. And now, I’m still fighting, this time with Stage 4 cancer. What was all that for? Did I go through all that just to end up here, dealing with a terminal disease?

Some days are good. Some days are bad.

At this point, looking back feels natural. Where did I go wrong? I never figured it out. I just kept moving from one crisis to the next, and here I am again. But I haven’t given up. I’m learning to adapt, once more. So, what’s this life all about? No one seems to have an answer—not even me.