Is it a bad idea to have this first date at the same park where I’ve had four previous bad first dates? I mull over this question as I pull into the small parking lot of Noble Woods Park in Hillsboro, OR. Noble Woods is an enchanting verdant world, 38 acres pulled straight out of a Disney film yet in the heart of suburbia, it’s a mix of wild growth and permitted existence. Beautiful but prescient. A second home with a life of its own and numerous visitors that walk its trails. Stick to the paths, my instincts tell me. I hear the birds—the wood’s messengers—chirp in agreement.

            Thirty nerve-wracking minutes have passed since the time my date chose for us to meet, flashes of my previous horrific encounters run through my mind, as he clambers up alongside me. He is a towering 6’4” with a mop of bronze hair, sunken eyes ringed with obsidian fatigue, a five o’clock shadow, pale skin, and a wide build. He looks like he could have played football, but I couldn’t tell you what position. I’m markedly unathletic and disinterested in sports so he could have been a goalie on a rugby team for all I knew. I anticipated these aspects of my date based on his Tinder profile. However, concern burbles inside me as there’s a lot that doesn’t match the picture. His profile said he is twenty-seven years old. This is pushing right at the edge of my age range as a twenty-year-old; this man appears to be in his mid-thirties. He is disheveled, wearing a green shirt with holes and pit stains. 

“It’s dirty,” he says. Not “hello” or “how are you?” This man leads with, “it’s dirty.” 

Great, so he’s thirty minutes late to our date and he couldn’t even find a clean shirt. In stark contrast, I’m in my version of business casual since I have a speech and debate competition this afternoon. I’m wearing a blindingly bright white button-up, a royal purple tie, black slacks, and glossy white tennis shoes. I sigh a shallow breath, afraid I’ll breathe in the Axe Body Spray he’s using to mask the musk coming from his recycled gym shirt. This is going to be a long date.

As someone who's been to this park a handful of times on previous dates, I have the routes mapped out in my head. My date, who I’ll call “Kevin,” and I begin our journey on the North Loop Trail. As we walk, I comb through what I know about my forest home. Noble Woods Park consists of three loops representing a Venn diagram. However, these loops are territorial and don’t overlap; no common interests or pleasantries are allowed within their domain. In fact, my favorite spot in the park is actually off the paved roads. It requires a hop over a dilapidated wood fence and descent down a steep hill to reach the stoner’s respite at the bottom. There’s always graffiti, beer cans, and stubbed-out joints littered about, but it’s perfect though. The stoners have good taste because the fallen tree in this part of the woods is incredible. A person can sit on it and look down at the nebulous-viridescent water and just breathe. Take in the freedom or another drag of the calming leafage. Savor the moment. Then, come back to reality, and remember that the world outside the park has drawn its boundaries. The green contained in the prison walls of zoning; this a secret of my home never to be shared.

           “I’m bisexual by the way.” Kevin looks down at me with critical eyes. Is this a test? He didn’t mention being bisexual on his profile. In fact, he had listed himself as gay. What a weird thing to lie about? Although, he lied about his age too so I shrug it off.

I nod and proceed toward the first stopping point of the trail: A bridge. This bridge has no name that I know of so I call it, “Rustic Bridge.” It may be shabby but it has a nice overview of the water below and should be a pleasant place to chat with Kevin. The animals chitter, the birds sing, and the bugs hum as they zoom across the water's surface. I smile as I get lost in the moment, forgetting that Kevin is here.

           “I just got out of a years-long relationship with a woman,” Kevin interrupts. I look up from the water. He is hovering behind me. I feel his breath hot against the back of my neck. I get the urge to scratch my arms and legs like a million microorganisms are attacking my body. “We were high school sweethearts.”

           “That’s… nice,” I mumble. Who brings up their ex as a starting point for a conversation? My body tenses as I turn to face him. Looking up at Kevin, I can see his piercing blue eyes staring straight through me. The irony of anything straight going through me is not enough to shake this chilling, searing vulnerability spread across my body. He’s too close. I fake a smile, stepping back, as he proceeds to ramble on about his ex. Dissociating, I focus on my Noble Woods hideaway. For a moment, I take a deep breath.

           “You see, it’s like this…,” Kevin insists, making large gestures with his body to capture the magnitude of what he is about to say. “Relationships are about give and take. Women do all of the taking and men do all of the giving. Men are the treasure seekers and women are treasure chests waiting to be explored. That’s why I’m excited to date men. So, it’s hopefully more of an equal balance, you know?”

           What the fuck, Kevin. We just started this long-ass journey through the woods and he’s coming in with misogyny full force. Jesus Christ! So, he’s late, dirty, invades personal space, and doesn’t respect women. The visceral fear that was coursing through my body, despite my calm demeanor is unmistakable, Kevin is worse than just a bad Tinder date. There is an immutable menace to him that is all too familiar when weighed against the accounts of survivors of serial killers I’d watched on 60 Minutes and Forensic Files growing up. Kevin is dangerous. At least Jeffery Dahmer had more of a pickup game than Kevin and looked his age. Run! Just run, you idiot! Kevin’s going to pull you off the main path, filet you, and string you up from a tree. You’ll be like Drew Barrymore in Scream but with none of the star power. “Um, okay,” I choke out. 

           As Rustic Bridge fades into the distance, I try to fill the silence between us with small talk. The only thing worse than walking next to someone you’re convinced is going to hate crime you, chop you up, or convert you into a radical right-wing extremist is letting the silence speak volumes of worry into your mind, my oddly judgy mind. Yeah, I’m judgy, you fucking idiot. How about you come up with an escape plan instead of seducing the serial killer?

          “I don’t want to talk about what you want to talk about!” Kevin snaps. He stops walking and faces me. Kevin’s brutish arms are crossed across his chest and he almost resembles a toddler throwing a tantrum. I suppress a laugh, fearing I’ll pick a fight I know I can’t win.

           “Okay then, what do you like to talk about?”

           “Math and philosophy!” Kevin snorts. Well, get to it then. Regale him with your extensive knowledge of math, you “multi-talented” English major. I dig my nails into my palms. Out of all things in the world, he had to say math. I don’t even know how to do basic addition half the time. Kevin grows impatient. He’s twitching inside his skin with indiscernible energy. I furrow my brows as I rush to think over what I know about philosophy. I channel the most pretentious person I know, one of my school’s English department professors–Professor Bovi. WWBS: What would Bovi say?

           “Would you agree that capitalism is the biggest threat facing humans in the Anthropocene?” His ears perk up and douchey, holier-than-thou sentences spill out of him. I smile. I’ve regained control of this horrendous situation. Thanks, Bovi. I guess those criticism and theory classes really paid off. Yet, I’m not in the clear. Kevin’s arm works itself around my back, guiding me away from the path. Toward the woods, painted with nightshade and its waters abundant with western water hemlock, poisonous in small doses, I hear the birds shriek from the trees. My heart pounds in my chest.

           To our onlookers, they see an off-brand Hulk dragging away what appears to be a savvy Mormon missionary in his Sunday best. This man drags me through dewy grass in my white shoes. Try to get out those stains, my mind retorts. As he leads me toward some logs to sit on and “chat.” He sits close. Too close. I see his hands twitch in his lap like he’s plotting his next move. If they go for his pockets, you’ll have to fight. My face is unmoved, stoic as I stare this brute dead in the eyes. He may be able to sense my fear, see the trembling of my fingers, but my face refuses to show it. Bovi will no longer do, I channel a new voice for guidance on how to survive this encounter: Sidney Prescott from Scream.

           Sidney Prescott is a slasher movie icon. Neve Campbell played the role brilliantly in a franchise that single-handedly breathed life back into the slasher genre while redefining and calling out the rules of horror. Sidney has been faced with incredible loss and powerful serial killers, but she always found a way to succeed. She spoke to me today. Whether it was Neve Campbell, the spirit of the character, or my inner voice wising up, I got a plan.

           To outwit a serial killer, you must first understand their modus operandi–the things that make them tick. For Kevin, it was clear that he preferred hearing his voice and opinions over anyone else's, he always views himself in the right, and that showboating his knowledge of subjects was more addictive than the cigarettes he smoked (as his foul campfire breath and burn holes in his shirt made apparent). To keep him distracted, I play his game. I nod dutifully and flash fake smiles as he delves down the rabbit hole of problematic philosophy. Thankfully, he “dumbs it down” for me so it takes him longer to explain things as I slowly pick up my pace, guiding him up the East Loop Trail back toward the parking lot.

           “You’re not my type,” Kevin abruptly declares. No, shit I’m not your type. I may feel like Schrödinger's cat but I’m not your garden variety of corpses I’m sure you’d prefer to fuck, you psychopath. I’d be dead for sure if Kevin could hear my thoughts. He could crush my neck between his fingers: I’d be just like Curley's Wife in Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. Just another statistic, my mind affirms.

           “Why’s that?”

           “Well, you’re too nerdy for my liking.” At this point, this spoiled, pretentious, narcissistic STEManic has just ranted about philosophy for what feels like half an hour and I’m too nerdy? “You see, I could imagine you with… Actually, I don’t know how I was going to finish that sentence,” Kevin chuckles. I stare at him deadpan. I imagine my pocket knife in my hand. I’d lodge the blade right into the flesh beneath his chin, twisting until the blood gurgled out of his condescending former frat boy face. Sidney would be proud.

           While Kevin continues his tirade of personal attacks disguised as innocent opinions, I hone in on my goal: Escape. I’ve known quite a few people like Kevin. Their privilege makes them feel entitled to all of your free time. I’d made the error of telling Kevin the time of my speech and debate competition so he knew I was free for a few hours. So, as we walk and he berates me, I drop hints I forgot something important. Just keep walking, you can see the parking lot through the trees. Keep going! I keep calm. I must focus. I finally tell Kevin that I have a Covid vaccine booster appointment that I’d forgotten. He scoffs. I run.

My feet glide across the ground, frantic steps in tune with the palpitations of my heart as I breach the trail opening, dashing through the parking lot. Kevin is caught off guard. His eyes narrow on me. I sneak a glance backward. I can see his indignation. He adjusts his stance, eager to pursue me–his prey. I hop into my Kia, lock the doors, and floor it. Kevin better count his blessings that he didn’t step off the curb or he would have been splattered across the asphalt. I accelerate. Blindly racing across three lanes of traffic. I don’t wait to see if the traffic light is green. I just go. I feel my chest tightening up. Am I having an asthma attack? I do not care. I grip the wheel with ferocity.

“There will always be more Kevins,” Sidney Prescott points out. Her voice is disembodied but it echoes throughout my mind without warning. I try to shake off the horrifying sentiment. I need to get as far away from this deranged man as possible. Listen, my mind implores. “There will always be bad people in this world,” Sidney continues.

“How am I supposed to feel safe? How can I ever put myself out there again after this?” 

“Breathe, take in your surroundings,” Sidney soothes. “You’re driving too fast. You’re doubting yourself too much. You think of yourself in too small of terms. Open your eyes, stop crying. Final Girls don’t have time to cry.” I feel my muscles relax a little as I let off the gas pedal. “Listen to that little voice in your head, whether you choose to recognize it as your own or mine, trust your instincts, Dalton. Trust yourself.”


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