Mr. Neighborly

There’s this guy in my neighborhood where I grew up. He always lived alone. Nothing wrong with that. No girlfriend or partner. Nothing wrong with that either.

When we were kids he’d buy lots of Girl Scout cookies and chat us up on the sidewalk if we passed by his house. Still fine.

He had ill advised facial hair and a vanity license plate that said ‘B1G SH0T.’ And just so there was no mistaking, an NRA bumper sticker too. I got the sense that he was different from me politically. It was a little weird when he wanted to debate a teenager using his conservative talking points. Weird, but not a sin. Annoying, but not a crime.

I didn’t think much of him or about him.

I moved off to college, graduated, and got an entry level job. Then I moved back home as one does in this economy.

My grandad died that summer. My parents drove up to Pennsylvania to see him, say goodbye, and take care of things before the funeral. I was left home alone for a while. My brother was staying with our aunt and I was the woman of the house for a few days.

I remember talking to this guy on the sidewalk in front of his house and I can’t remember if he already knew we’d had a death in the family or If I told him. But he got me talking and at some point I revealed that I was home alone and that my parents were out of state.

He asked for my phone number and I thought that was very strange. He seemed to put it in terms of helping me stay safe, but that didn’t make any sense. If he wanted to be available for an emergency he would have given me his phone number. I gave him my number just to settle the matter and escape the conversation. I didn’t think he’d actually use it.

Later that afternoon he knocked on my door. I saw him through the peephole, but I didn’t answer. He must have known I was home from my car parked in front. Not to be discouraged, he called me on the phone and asked if he could take me out for a milkshake or something.

This made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“No, that's okay.”

“It’s no trouble. I’ll drive.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

At this point I was barely an adult and this guy had seen me grow up. He was only slightly younger than my parents.

“It’s just…my parents aren’t home.”

“I know, you’re sad about your Grandad. I’ll cheer you up.”

I locked the door as quietly as possible.

“No, thanks. That’s really nice of you, but I’m okay. Really.”

I tried not to breathe too hard into the phone. I didn’t want to sound scared. I was worried about upsetting him in case he was just being nice.

But would someone just being nice keep pushing after the answer is clearly no? It wasn’t the first time a man had made me feel this way and it wouldn’t be the last.

A few months ago my parents moved away and we bought their old house, the one I grew up in. This guy still lives in the same house down the street. I have been avoiding him, but I’m sure he has seen us around.

Today I ran into him at the store. He didn’t say anything, but we made full eye contact. He looked at my daughter. She had to pee, so I whisked her off to the bathroom.

“Mom, why are you holding my hand so tight?”

Am I sure this guy had bad intentions on that afternoon eighteen years ago? No, I’m not. Is it possible he was just trying to be nice? Yeah, absolutely.

But his actions made me really uncomfortable and I think that’s enough. I don’t want to have any more conversations with him and I don’t want him talking to my daughter.