Friday, February 14, 2014

Danger In Detroit...

It was a dark and stormy night…

Okay, it really wasn’t, but that’s how my brain remembers it because it was a horrifying experience. I was sixteen. I lived in a nice, safe, middle-class suburb of Detroit, Michigan. My city had this founder’s day festival every year that was a lot of fun. I went with a group of my girlfriends that year and while we were there we met this group of guys our age that didn’t go to our school. Before we left the festival, one of the guys said he wanted to take me out some time and asked for my number. I wasn’t in the habit of giving out my number to strangers, but we’d hung out for a while, he was nice, flirty, and cute. Nothing seemed too weird. I figured why not? He’d probably never call anyway.

A few days later he did call and asked me out for that weekend. I was kind of nervous because I didn’t really know him but I was kind of excited too. He came to my house and picked me up and at first everything seemed fine. When we drove off I asked what we were going to do and he said he couldn’t really afford to do a lot so he just wanted to take me to hang out at his friend’s house. I was okay with that. Money’s never been a big deal to me and I’m really easy going. I love just hanging out with friends so I said that was cool.

He then proceeded to drive me to his friend’s house in one of the worst parts of downtown Detroit. Detroit has a reputation for being a really rough city for a reason. It’s bad. Really, really bad. There are certain parts of the city that you just shouldn’t go. (Especially not if you’re a sort of clueless, upper middle class, sixteen-year-old white girl in a short skirt, and especially not with a guy you didn’t really know!)

As my surroundings got worse and worse I started to get scared, but what could I do? I was in his car. He was driving. I had no cell phone. (This was the nineties, and most teenagers didn’t have cell phones then…) I wanted to ask him to just please take me home, but I also didn’t want to insult him and make him mad. I didn’t want him to think I was some spoiled rich snob or racist. (He wasn’t white.) He was still acting normal, though, and he was nice at least, so I told myself I was over reacting and kept my mouth shut.

This guy took me to a ghetto crack house! Straight up like you see in the movies! I was terrified! When we got there I was afraid to get out of the car, but I was even more afraid not to. I was not in the kind of neighborhood where anyone was safe outside on the street after dark, much less, someone like me.

When he took me inside there were three other guys there and no girls. I recognized two of the guys from the festival but the last guy was new. When I was introduced to him he told me that he couldn’t go to the festival because he was under house arrest and was on a tether! (That is a small electronic device that criminals on a certain kind of probation have to wear around their ankle that will alert the cops if they leave their house.) If he walked any further than his driveway the cops would show up and throw him in jail.


So it was me and four guys in a crack house in ghetto Detroit and one of them was a criminal. I was afraid that these “friends” of my date were his gang brothers and that he’d brought me to be their entertainment for the night or as some sort of initiation thing. This was Detroit. It happened all the time. I watched the news. I wasn’t stupid. I knew I was in a bad situation. I honestly feared for my life. I was waiting for them to do unspeakable things to me and then ditch my body somewhere when they were done.

I was lucky. Or I had angels with me or something. I think I did end up being their entertainment that night, but they didn’t touch me. I think they knew I was scared and they found it amusing. I’m also pretty sure that the guy who asked me out only did so for bragging rights. (Ha, ha, look at the hot little rich white girl I got with me…) He probably lied to all his buddies later that he hooked up with me even though he didn’t.

It was not cool. But when he took me home (after I’d refused all of the alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs they’d offered) I was just grateful to be alive and untouched. I practically ran for my door. He didn’t try to kiss me good night and didn’t say he’d call again, and I considered that an answer to my prayers.

Worst. Date. Ever!

So that's my dating horror story. I'll post the finalists for the Dating Horror Story contest in just a little bit, so stay tuned!