See You Soon

“Do you think you’re ready to tell me about that day?” my therapist asks. We’d been meeting for a couple of months, and I still hadn’t been able to talk about the thing that got me into this chair in the first place. He’s been locked up for one year today, and I felt waking up this morning that today should be commemorated.

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I woke up that morning thirsty for adventure. I decided to go to Huntington City Beach, despite my general distaste for beaches. It was just such a beautiful day, and I wanted to do something out of my comfort zone. I wasn’t adventurous enough to put an actual swimsuit on, but I wore something that showed a little more skin than what I was used to.

After arriving at the beach, I set up my post for the day. I lay under my umbrella for a while before I was interrupted. “Excuse me, could I take your photo?”

“No thank-you. I’m not much of a model,” I replied.

“Really? It doesn’t look that way to me,” he said.

We talked for a little while - he was quite charming. I finally relented and let him take my photograph. He told me he was a fashion photographer, and that I had a look that would help him take his work to the next level and push boundaries. After we took some photos we stayed on the beach talking, and I even helped him recruit some women for photographs. It was getting later in the day, and he offered to drive me home. I packed up my things and headed to his car. He asked if I wanted to go straight home or drive around with him for a bit. He was good company, so I decided I wanted to continue to get to know this mysterious stranger. After all, the plan was to be adventurous that day.

I told him about my love for photography, I actually owned the same camera as him, but I had never been in front of the camera before.

“Not even as a child? Your father never took pictures of his little girl?” he asked.

The answer was no. My father left when I was ten and didn’t even own a camera. If he did, he most likely wouldn’t have taken any pictures of me anyway. He wasn’t the most involved dad.

As it turned out, my mysterious driver also had a rocky past with his father. His dad left when he was eight, and his family also moved around when he was growing up. We figured that was the reason we both haven’t put down roots anywhere. Even though I was 21 at the time, I didn’t expect to stay settled anywhere for very long. We continued talking and driving for over two hours. It was shocking how similar we were in so many ways. I was spending my summer in California in between semesters and was planning to continue working towards my BFA at an arts school in the area.

The curly-haired gentleman expressed his interest in teaching and was thinking of moving somewhere to acquire a teaching job in the arts. Of course, he had a degree in fine arts. The car rolled to a stop at a lookout point, and he killed the engine. We continued to talk some more and camped on the subject of our fathers for a long time. I asked him to take me home, and his face flashed an expression of rage. He stretched his arm to the back seat and grabbed a hammer. I asked him why he was angry.

A glazed look came over his face when he answered, “I’m not angry.”

“Your face said otherwise just a second ago, and now you have a hammer in your hand.” I wasn’t afraid, however. Even though I had only met this man a few hours ago, I knew him. He wasn’t going to harm me. His face looked expectant as if he was waiting for a different reaction. Our eyes locked, and I felt like I saw into his soul. I was intrigued by what I saw; there was a wild unpredictability and mystery that was coated with a sense of darkness. His eyes finally dropped to the hammer in his hand, making me feel as though I had won, and he tossed it back on the seat.

Without a word, he started the engine and drove to the nearest bus stop. I stepped out of the vehicle and onto the sidewalk. I looked back to see him drive away. “See you soon,” he called out of the open window.

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My therapist lets out an audible breath that I can’t detect the emotion behind. “How do you feel recounting that day out loud?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know. There might be a small feeling of guilt.”

“Why do you think that could be?”

“I never told anyone about him. I didn’t say anything because he didn’t actually do anything. What would I say? That he showed me a hammer? Yet there’s a small chance that me saying something could have helped catch him sooner. I came to the conclusion later that day that I was going to be one of the only women that had and would ever leave that car alive. Unfortunately, a gut feeling isn’t enough for the police to arrest him.”

“Do you think you’re going to testify?” she inquires.

“They already asked me to go in for an interview. They concluded I would not be a good witness to put on the stand. I don’t think they thought I could hear them in the next room. They said I wouldn’t be a witness that the jury would sympathize with because there was no sense of fear when I talked about him.”

“Why don’t you think you show fear when you recall your time with him?

After pondering that question for a moment I answer, “Because I’m not afraid of him. I would consider Rodney Alcala a friend.”