The Village Apartments

I grew up in apartment life and I despised it. We had a multitude of pools and a clubhouse, but I wanted a backyard. There was an abundance of kids from broken homes to play with, but I dreamed of dads grilling burgers and cul-de-sac life.

A cluster of alluring teens ruled the complexes. They floated in groups of 10 or 15 on a good day. The girls resembled extras on shampoo commercials with curly waves and newly-developed chests bouncing in rhythm. The boys were the stuff teen idols are made of — look out Shaun Cassidy. This squad knew how to drink, smoke and make out. If you were too young, or too “uncool” to hang with “The Coolest” (our given nickname for the squad,) you anticipated a sighting with the enthusiasm hunters have seeing deer in spring.

Two of the “The Coolest” knew me by name. Randy and Dale were my babysitters from ages 6–10 and would acknowledge my presence when strolling by. This minuscule amount of attention from “The Coolest” garnered me cult status with other 9-year-olds.

One hot Texas day on an uneven hill, I begged the 9-year-old boys to let me play goalie. The idea wasn’t even slightly entertained until “The Coolest” cruised by, cigarettes in hand.

“Hey,” Dale waved in my direction. Instantly I was ushered into the goalie box and told to “stand my ground.”

“The Coolest” brand changed over the years. First, Randy killed himself when I was 10 and he was 19. I cried for weeks. Then Dale and the “Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific” girls moved away. By the time I was 12, “The Coolest’ had more in common with Clockwork Orange than Rydell High.

Fresh off my speed trip in Kauffman, I figured I was worldly enough to join “The Coolest.” I headed to the middle pool and laid wait. To my dismay the only ones enjoying the enormous fenced area were young moms in hijabs speaking a language I couldn’t understand.

I’m off to check another pool when a golden retriever puppy appears at my feet.

“Who are you?” I ask while embracing this adorable creature.

“That’s Biscuit,” a man replies.

I look up to see a man in his 30’s with extremely curly brown hair squatting eye-level nearby.

“He’s so cute. How old is he?” I inquire.

“He’s nine months old. I just got him. Do you like him?” he asks.

This was the dumbest question I’d ever been asked.

“Yes!” I exclaim as I nuzzle my nose in Biscuit’s fur.

The brown-haired man excitedly talks about Biscuit’s origins and seems to thoroughly enjoy our meet and greet.

I politely nod as he talks, but all of my attention is on Biscuit. No one on earth has been more excited to meet me than Biscuit was that day, we are in our own bubble of giddiness when I hear something odd.

“Do you want me to touch your pussy? You do, don’t you? You little slut,” a low guttural voice inquires.

I turn back and see the brown-haired man smiling jovily.

“Did you say something?” I ask.

“Nope,” he shakes his head.

My gut says run, but my heart says give Biscuit more attention.

“I’m going to stick my dick in your tight pussy you little bitch,” the low voice mutters again.

Now I’m convinced it’s the stranger behind me delivering these unreasonable requests, I turn back and he moves closer to me.

“I have to go, but it’s been great meeting you and Biscuit,” I say half-lying.

Stranger Danger blocks the exit with his body and reaches towards me.

“You can’t go anywhere,” he says plainly. Finally the voice fits the crime. My head and body are keenly aware that I’m in trouble like I’ve never seen before.

I look at the women sitting by the pool and realize they are blissfully unaware of my impending doom.

“That’s my mom calling. I really have to go.” I walk backwards to get away, but Biscuit is biting at my heels hindering a smooth exit.

Time slows and I’m able to assess the situation; I can’t run past him and I’m too far from the other gate, but I am the tiniest 12-year-old in the Southwest and can easily fit between two wrought iron bars. I slide away disarming my would-be abductor and hightail it towards the playground. Biscuit’s owner fumbles with the pool gate’s latch before running after me.

The park is empty and I see “Chester the Molester” is gaining on me.

I run to a parking lot situated between complexes and yell “Fire!” at the top of my lungs.

Nikki once told me that no one responds to “Help” and if I’m ever in need of assistance to yell “Fire” instead.

I scream the warning and less than 20 feet away, “Chester” stares in a frustrated grimace.

People gather on their patios to look for smoke and instead gawk at the odd girl shrieking in the parking lot. Finally, I watch as he heads back towards the pool.

I dash home recounting the entire experience to Nikki. Soon I’m on the phone with the Dallas police giving a description of Biscuit and the White man with a brown afro. The police ask questions about the timing and which direction “Chester” ran. It’s scary and exciting, but three weeks later when “The Coolest” are gathered by the same pool, the incident is far from my mind.

There are three guys and two girls smoking cigarettes and wearing black head to toe. I only recognize Dean, the oldest, skinniest and loudest of the group.

I’ve positioned myself in listening distance and strategically laugh in all the right places. A few teens look my way, but that’s all.

“C’mon,” a greasy teen boy eventually motions me over and I can hardly believe my luck. I sit at the end of Greasy Teen’s plastic lounger and I’m offered a cigarette. Iron Maiden comes on and Dean gives us his best air guitar performance.

Everyone here is older and cooler than me, I surmise as the Clash launches into “Should I Stay or Should I Go.” The song is fitting because the conversation has just turned sexual in nature and I don’t want to wear out my welcome.

“She sucked Tommy’s dick behind 7–11,” Greasy Teen Boy #2 accuses a dark-haired girl with a ShowGirls body.

“Who cares? At least I know how,” the raven-haired vixen points out and unrolls her black acid wash jeans while dipping her feet in the pool.

“I know how,” an equally-developed redheaded girl asserts.

“But who knows how to fuck?” Dean asks while gyrating his hips.

Everyone laughs, but my chuckle extends the appropriate amount of time and soon all eyes are upon me.

“What about you? Are you still a virgin?” Dean asks while looking in the distance.

My face asks my mind how it should contort my mouth and focus my eyes. This awkward pause of muscle coordination allows those watching me to come to one conclusion.

“Of course she hasn’t done it, she’s thirteen,” Redhead surmises.

“I’m twelve,” I nod, and nod, and nod. When will my head stop bobbing up and down, I wonder.

“So, are you?” Greaser #2 asks.

“No”, I lie.

“You’re not a virgin? You know how to fuck?” RavenHead demands an answer.

“Leave her alone,” Greaser #1 says gently, but the fun for everyone has just begun.

“Prove it,” Dean looks in my direction for the first time.

“Okay,” I respond immediately having no idea what this will entail.

“You and Dean go fuck over there. If you’re not a virgin you won’t bleed,” RavenHead states.

“Okay.” What is my mouth doing? I beg my brain to override its abilities.

Dean takes my hand and walks me out of the pool area. When he fumbles with the latch on the gate I’m reminded of Chester the Molester and feel sick to my stomach.

“What’s wrong? Scared?” Dean asks snarkily.

“I like to do it inside, not outside,” I state. I’ve never kissed a man besides my grandfather’s cheek and here I am suggesting I only prefer the pleasure of a man’s company indoors. I thought this addendum would cease and desist my obligation to sleep with an 18-year-old stranger.

“We’re going to the laundry room,” Dean announces to his gang, now my gang, of misfits. We don’t talk on the walk past the playground to our closest laundry room. I turn on the lights and Dean turns them off right behind me. Dean pushes me up against a washer and puts a hand under my top.

“You’ve really done it now,” I think to myself. Looks like you have to fuck this gross man in your apartment’s laundry room.

“I prefer laying down,” I eke out between Dean’s slimy tongue pushing in and out of my mouth.

Dean’s annoyed at my high-maintenance demands. He looks over at a table usually reserved for folding towels and throws out a hand, allowing me to lead the way.

I climb up on the table and wait for him to position himself on top of me.

My body begs my mind to flee the room, but my brain says I will be forever uncool. Better to lose my virginity on a laundry room table than be uncool, I conclude.

Dean curses my skin tight jeans and I laugh finally realizing what Brooke Shields was saying, “Nothing comes between me and my Calvins.”

My stomach flops and the same horrible feeling the day ‘Chester’ cornered me emerges. “I can escape again,” I tell myself as I begin pushing Dean’s hand away from my zipper.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

“I don’t feel like it.” I stand adjusting my clothing.

I don’t know why I walk all the way back to the pool area with him instead of going home, but I do take my comeuppance in stride.

“I told you she was a virgin,” RavenHead offers.

“Oh well kid, your loss,” Dean laughs.

I try to laugh with them, but I feel only relief and no remorse.

The next day two male detectives are seated uncomfortably on my sofa. Each polyester-wearing detective asks about my encounter at the pool three week ago. A 12-year-old boy has been found dead in the dumpster behind Oshman’s Sporting Goods less than a mile away. Apparently his abductor used a puppy to lure him from his home.

“Did he live in a real home? Not an apartment?”, I ask the detectives.

“Yes. He lived off Abrams,” one detective replies.

How do you like that, maybe apartment life saved my life.