MVWD happened when I was a senior in college. The school was planning to host some valedictorians from area high schools, and I was one of the students who volunteered to show them around.
I was assigned two young men, one of whom was B.
The whole day, as I’m showing the guys around, B is going on about how he doesn’t belong, he’s really not as good as we probably think he is, the other kids at his school make fun of him…like that.
So I tell him we wouldn’t have invited him if we didn’t want him; not everyone who goes to the college was a high-school valedictorian, so even if he doesn’t wind up being the smartest guy on campus, he’d still fit right in; many really intelligent people have trouble in high school…
It seems to mollify him a bit.
A few weeks later, I start getting mail from him. Love letters. Creepy, desperate, love letters.
I call the college staff. How’d he get my full name and address? “Oh, he was so mournful, and so sincere-sounding, and he said he was your friend…I knew we weren’t *supposed* to give out your information, but he’s just a kid…”
I call B (he’s of course included his number in the letters) and tell him sorry if he misinterpreted my actions, but I’m not interested.
The letters continue.
I call him again. I tell him to stop. Writing. Me. Please.
He cries. He begs me to at least be his friend, that I’m the only person who’s ever been nice to him.
I feel sorry for him.
I tell him fine.
By this point it’s summer and I’m home with my family. He asks if we can hang out. I agree. We decide to meet at my house and walk to a local pizzeria…with my brother.
When my mom opens the door for him, he’s got a dozen roses in hand. His parents (who had to drive him—he’s not old enough to drive (or vote. Or drink. Or even see R-rated movies! God!!)) launch themselves at my mom, hugging her and telling her they’re so glad their son met someone, and isn’t it great we’re dating, and aren’t we a cute couple?!?
Dad says um, why don’t you have a seat, we’ll fix you a nice drink and have a niiiice talk.
Believe it or not, that still doesn’t end things.
B keeps calling and writing me when his parents aren’t around. One day I tell him he really has to get out in the world and talk to other people—people his own age. “You have to express yourself,” I tell him.
He says, “Really? Oh! I can do that!” And gleefully lets loose a string of profanity at the top of his lungs, calling me every foul name he can think of, telling me he’d like to do nasty sexual things with me, on and on AS LOUD AS HE CAN.
When he pauses for a breath, I tell him—very quietly—if he ever comes near me or calls again, I will tear him limb from limb and stuff the parts down his throat.
THAT finally ends it.