Night of the hunted

After I graduated from college I landed a job covering sports for the paper in Belleville, a suburb of St. Louis on the Illinois side.

I had an assignment to cover a state football playoff game about 90 miles cross state in a small rural town near the Indiana line. My old red Vega wasn’t up for it so I got a car from Rent-a-Wreck and hoped for the best. I made it to my destination with hours to spare, leaving way early just in case.

I pulled into a hamburger joint and came inside. There was only me and one other fellow, a burly guy in his upper 30s, maybe early 40s, sitting a few tables apart but facing me.

We begin to chat and before long I tell him what I’m there for and he says that since we had time to kill, why don’t we got for a ride in his truck, “call up a few of my buddies and we can fuck around.”

A cold feeling came over me. Real cold. “I didn’t come here to fuck around,” I said without a hint of emotion.

That ended the conversation, but he doesn’t leave. It was then I noticed he hadn’t ordered any food. He was just sitting there sizing up the potential prey as they walked through the door. I sat there, too, not daring to leave, fearing that he’d follow me and use that CB to call those buddies of his.

Terrible, awkward minutes go by. He eventually gets up and leaves, but sits in his truck for another uncomfortable length of time. I’m wondering, “How am I gonna get out of this?” My heart pounds.

He drives off, but the fear stays. This guy knows what I look like. He knows the car I’m driving. He knows where I’m going. He knows.

My mind is racing. Is he going to hunt me now or hunt me after the game is over and everyone is gone — when he can call his buddies or maybe a cop pal to pull me over and fuck around.

I cover the game. It’s an easy, one-sided affair. The whole time I scan the crowd. I check the parking lot. Nothing. After the game I get the coach to answer a few more questions, escorting me to my car.

Safe, so far. But I’m in this shitty car on this shitty night. I dread starting this stupid cheap car. I dread pulling out of the parking lot, I dread being the only one along the main road of the deserted town. And then the car for miles.

But nothing happens.

A few months later I’ve taken a better job and am working the news desk at a paper in the northwest Chicago suburbs one afternoon when shit hits the fan. Bodies have been discovered in the crawl space of a home near there. The newsroom air is charged with phones ringing and reporters, photographers and editors racing around, shouting back and forth.

Breaking news comes over the TV set. A photo appears of the suspected killer. I turned to look. It was John Wayne Gacy. It was the same man.

My heart started pounding. It’s pounding even now. The terror of that night and what could have been has been imprisoned in my mind. A life sentence.

This was first brought back for me during the “Me, too, movement” when all these women after years of waiting came forward with their tales of terror and violation by predatory men. Why didn’t they speak up at the time? Why didn’t I? For crying out loud I was in the middle of a newsroom hot on the case. I could have told everybody.

I told nobody. Nobody. I didn’t want to deal with those looks, however imperceptible, that said, “Oh, you’re that guy.” I didn’t have to see those looks. I could feel them. I didn’t want that. Who would? And it wouldn’t have been just there. I’d have had to deal with being that guy maybe forever.

So when women wait decades to tell anyone about what happened to them, things far worse than what I went through, I get it. I’ll have the chills for days just from this writing. Thoughts creep in that haunt parts of my day, and definitely at night.

Still, nothing happened. And I’ve never forgotten it.