The girls on campus were scared, but still felt comforted by the tranquility of our a quaint, private campus tucked away in a poor town in the Appalachian Mountains. There was a "Peeping Tom" reported to be prowling the halls of the all-girls dormitory. A brief description of the predator was posted on the bulletin boards in all campus buildings. Female students were told to stay in groups.
I knew the warnings, but oppressive deadlines from my local newspaper editor took precedence of a possible run-in with a guy looking for quick thrills by peeking into the girls' locker room. Seeking an extra jolt of energy that would be great for staying up late to write about township sewers and city ordinances, I headed straight from the cafeteria to gym on a Friday evening. Other than my regular aerobic class and occasional walk around the mezzanine with my roommate, the gym was a foreign land for me. A land that was not particularly pretty or interesting. Stationary bike. Boring. Treadmill. Out of breath, exhausted and perplexed by the concept of running really fast to nowhere (a.k.a. growing up in a small town). Arm machines. Too complex, too much work, muscles too hopeless. Three cups of black tea and nine Kit Kats would be equivalent to a mile run, so why bother smearing my mascara, frizzing out my hair and risking a blister by using my sneakers as more than a fashion accessory? I was moving towards the gym exit until the leg machine caught my attention.
My look of determined interest and sincere ignorance evoked pity from a tall, skinny athletic man in rayon short-shorts. He had neatly trimmed brown hair and closely shaved, clean skin. The thin lines around his eyes and lips indicated that he was not a typical college student and did not go to school with me since he wore navy blue Franklin Marshall soccer jacket, which is in a different state. Since "townies" crawled all over campus, seeing a stranger in the gym was not that unusual.
He asked, "Do want some help?" I declined his offer, but he approached machine the anyway. We were the only two people in the gym. He adjusted some of the levers saying that would provide extra resistance. I thanked him, trying to make minimal eye contact, concentrating on my exercises and watching the door for someone else to arrive. Leaving abruptly didn't seem like an option. He watched my every leg lift, moved closer, and put his hand on the top of my thigh, telling me to kick with calf forward. I followed his instructions and his hand moved towards my inner thigh. As he squatted to get closer to my thighs, I could see that he wasn't wearing underwear. Startled, I continued to flash a congenial smile while I came up with a plan, which never fully developed. Finally, two soccer players, who I knew, came into the gym. I shot them a distressed look. They didn't read my message and just started using the equipment. Their presence made the man uncomfortable. He said: "Do you want to go to the bigger gym with the mats to work on sit-ups?" I said: "Sure." We started to walk to the gym together. I suddenly pivoted towards Tim and Frank. I whispered: "Call security. That's the pervert." The man left the room and disappeared into the hallways. Tim asked me if I was okay, and left me to chase the guy. Frank headed to the security office.
Alone. Something about my solitude ignited my feet. I ran through the hallway, out the door, down the sidewalk, up concrete steps, through the dormitory door, up four flights of stairs until I was on my floor. I stepped about a third of the way into the door, breathing heavy. With my body stopped but mind still playing out all the scenarios that I just escaped, I yelled: "Help me." Then, collapsed to the floor. My roommate, Beth, and our dorm neighbors, Tia and Debbie, came running down the hall to rescue me. As they lifted me up, the door opened. Black boots crossed the door way. The top of the boots were covered by camouflaged pants, which lead up to his Army green coat with a stiff collar and some name and rank badges on the pocket. A rounded camouflage cap sat on top his bald head, and intensified the green speckles in his hazel eyes. His mustache framed his down turned lips as he asked: "What's wrong?" I hugged him and wept like he just returned from war.
"Why are you here, Dad?"
"I came to drop off some money on the my way home from my National Guard meeting," he said, "Tell me what's going on."
He stayed with me until all the crying stopped, tucked me in bed, kissed my forehead, and left $60 on my desk. Then, drove 53 miles back home.
