Firefighter's Virgin

“Hi, it’s me,” I said when she answered. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“I was just grading some papers, so no, you’re not interrupting anything. I was thinking of giving you a call at some point, though. Would you like to go out and get coffee this weekend?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I think that’d be good. We didn’t exactly end things on such a good note the last time, and you know that I don’t like it when things happen like that.”

“I know.” There was no point in getting into an argument with her, in pointing out the fact that most of the time, the reason things ended the way they did between us was because of her. “But, actually . . . I was calling because I was thinking I might like to talk to your colleague after all.”

“My colleague?”

I knew she knew exactly who I was talking about, but she wanted to hear me say it. “Yes, your colleague. The one who’s writing the book about the quarter-life crisis. You said that he was doing case studies and interviewing people.”

“Oh, Carl! Right. Yes, he’s still diligently at work on it. And he’d be more than happy to talk to you—I think it’ll be a good thing. I’m so happy that you changed your mind!” She really did sound happy, and for a moment, it seemed as though maybe I was doing the right thing. Maybe this was what I needed; it would give me some perspective, help me get started down a different path where I made better choices all around. “I’ll send his information over to you once we get off the phone,” my mother continued. “And that way you’ll have it if you don’t get around to calling him right away. What brought this sudden change of heart?”

I had been hoping to get the information without having to divulge too much, but that obviously wasn’t going to be the case.

“Is that . . . person still following you? The one you thought was stalking you?”

“Yes, he is. He’s rather persistent.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting? I’m not sure if that’s the term I would use. Isn’t there some sort of . . . I don’t know . . . psychological treatment he could undergo?”

“It would have to be something that he wanted to do. Unless it was court mandated, that is. But it doesn’t sound like he’s done anything dangerous, or anything to break the law yet.”

I sighed. “And you’re not at all concerned that there’s this psycho following your daughter around?”

“You know,” my mother said, “I had someone who you might be able to call a stalker.” I wondered if she had even heard my question. “This was a long time ago, back in college.”

“You never told me that.”

“It never really came up. But he’d hang around my dorm, or he’d coincidentally be there right as I was getting out of class. He knew which classes I had, and when, and at first I tried to be nice to him because I didn’t want to come across as rude, but then it started to get annoying. So I eventually had to tell him in no uncertain terms that I was not going to be fucked with and he better leave me alone. And he did.”

It was weird to hear my mom say “fuck.” And I had a feeling that there was more to the story, that this person hadn’t been as into her as she was claiming, because it didn’t seem like it would be so simple to just tell someone to leave you alone and have them do it.

“You weren’t afraid at all?”

“No, I wasn’t. And while I understand that fear is a perfectly natural reaction to have in a situation like this, from the sounds of it, you don’t really have anything to fear, either. What this sounds like is you’re dealing with someone who has low self-esteem, who you’ve possibly led on with your actions or what you’ve said—”

“I didn’t lead him on! If saying hi to someone and trying to be a decent human is leading them on, well . . . that’s just ridiculous!”

“I’m not saying you did that, or that you consciously did it. Sometimes we do things we’re not aware of, and people can be sensitive to that. Especially if this is someone who doesn’t feel very good about himself to begin with. Perhaps you should talk to Carl about this, too. It might be worth mentioning.”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with a quarter-life crisis.”

“Well, in your case it might.”

“I’m not even necessarily saying that I think it’s something I’m going through . . . I just . . . I don’t know. I feel confused about some stuff.”

“That’s perfectly understandable. But you do realize this isn’t going to be a talk therapy session, right? That’s not what this is. This is someone who is trying to collect data for a book.”

“Yes, Mom,” I said, sighing. “If it starts to border on a talk therapy session, I’ll tell him to start billing me, okay?” There had been times when I’d wondered if I should be expecting a bill in the mail from her. It honestly wouldn’t have surprised me.

“Well, I’ll get his contact info over to you, and then the ball’s in your court. But Carl is very nice, and he takes his work seriously.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later. We can figure out a good time to get together for coffee or something in the next couple of days.”