Reality Check

Some pretty incredible news came out this week– Three women who had been missing for ten years were found alive. They’d been abducted by a man and hidden in his basement– and now it turns out that he managed to kidnap each of them by convincing them to get in his car.

I’m sure many people read that news and thought “They GOT IN HIS CAR? Who would get in a total stranger’s car?!” That’s what I thought too, at first. And then I realized…

I almost did the very same thing. And I almost paid dearly for it.

When I was in college at the University of Georgia, I’d ride the university bus to Milledge Avenue each day, get off the bus at a large apartment complex, and cut through its parking lot to get to a shady residential side street. A five minute walk down that road brought me to my own apartment.  The walk was a bit of a hike, but worth it since parking spots on campus were expensive and scarce. When I got off the bus, a small crowd of students always got off with me– Some lived in the large apartment complex, others parked there and rode the bus to class each day. I took little notice of them; Athens was a pretty safe town.

One spring afternoon, I got off the bus, cut through the parking lot, and began walking down the long street to my apartment. Within seconds, a guy pulled up beside me in his car. I recognized him– He had gotten off the bus with me.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked, smiling. For a moment I hesitated. It was a hot day. I was tired. My books were heavy. And he seemed friendly and good looking. What could possibly go wrong?

“No,” I said, reluctantly. “I’m fine. I live just right down the street.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “It’s no problem.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “Thanks anyway.” I started walking again.

His car moved along beside me. “Get in my car,” he said. I looked over at him, surprised. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“No, that’s okay,” I said. I was confused. Was this some kind of joke? Because if it was, it wasn’t funny.

“Get in the car RIGHT NOW, YOU F*!#ING BITCH!” he shouted.

Quickly, I looked around. No one was in sight. I ran around behind his car and memorized his tag number. Then I panicked. I was alone on the street. I was wearing a long, straight skirt that would make it difficult to run. Unsure of what to do, I started walking quickly down the sidewalk as he drove along beside me, screaming expletives at me and ordering me to get in his car. Should I run to someone’s front door? What if they weren’t home? Should I run in the other direction? WHAT SHOULD I DO?!

After a few seconds of this, he pulled up and into a driveway right in front of me. He started to get out of the car. He was still screaming at me. My heart leaped into my throat.

At that point, another car turned down the road. I ran out into the street and flagged it down. It was another male student.

“Please help me!” I gasped. “I don’t know that guy! He’s trying to force me to get in his car!”

The student looked at the guy, who was still screaming at me, calling me a bitch. “I don’t know,” he said uncertainly. “I’m late to class.”

“I DON’T KNOW HIM!” I said. “PLEASE HELP ME!”

“Okay,” he said at last. “Get in.”

And that is how I ended up in a complete stranger’s car, being driven (I hoped) to safety. Once I was in the car and he understood what was going on, he was very nice and we drove around the block a few times to make sure the guy was gone and not following us before he took me to my apartment.

I got home and I collapsed in fright, sobbing. And then I called the police.

They handled it and I never saw or heard from this guy again, but looking back, my life changed after that incident. I found out from friends that it was not random– The guy was in a fraternity and had been asking my former sorority sisters about me for months. (I desistered after  a year, but stayed on good terms with everyone.) He had been following me that day. And so I never rode the bus home again after that. I spent hundreds of dollars to park on campus. I didn’t go out alone. I constantly watched my back. My safe college town was no longer safe to me.

I have no idea what that guy was planning to do after I got in his car, but I do know it wouldn’t have ended well. And I still think sometimes of that moment when I thought about getting in.

I almost got into his car.

This is exactly the kind of situation, I imagine, that these three women were in. Maybe they got in because the day was hot. Maybe they got in because they recognized Ariel Castro as the father of a girl they knew. Maybe they got in because they were in their own neighborhood, and he seemed like a local. What could possibly go wrong?

What could possibly go wrong?

These are the stories we need to tell our children now. Their lives may depend on it.