The other night I was telling Joe about my most memorable summer. I was 12 (and looked 16), and we lived in some condos on what seemed like the edge of town. I want to write more about it when I have more time, so I won’t start that now. But I do want to write about the flasher.
I was walking from the swimming pool back to our condo, and a guy in a car waved me over. I was a cop’s daughter, so I knew enough not to get too close. But I did go a little closer, and looked in at him (from some distance) through the passenger side window. He asked me for directions to somewhere, and I saw that he had his pants undone and was playing with himself.
I gave him the directions he asked for, made up a story about meeting my boyfriend, and then started to slowly walk off. As he drove off, I looked at his license plate and memorized it. I then raced upstairs, wrote down the plate number so I wouldn’t forget it it, and then frantically called my mom.
I got the excitement of looking through books of mug shots, and proudly pointed at the guy who had flashed me. It turned out that the car was registered to the brother of the man that I’d identified.
My mom then took me home before heading back to work. When she arrived back home that evening, she and my dad presented me with a hot fudge sundae with a little U.S. flag sticking out of it.
Two thoughts: When I saw that guy’s wanker, it looked like a nasty mealworm. I wanted to throw up. Ugh!!!!
And that license plate number? Yeah, I still remember it.