That Was Unexpected

Dating as a naturally melancholic, depressive little prick

When I was 18 years old, I dated a murderer.

It was the summer after graduation, before I went to college (the first time), and I felt free. Nothing made me happier than the thought of leaving Warwick and running towards what I felt was going to be my REAL life, my self-directed life, a life free of the impact of other people’s assumptions about what I should do with myself. I had already begun testing the waters, hopping into NYC and driving all over the northeast to attend concerts, and had a working theory that not only was I incredibly capable and independent, but left to my own devices I would positively THRIVE. After graduation, I was finally going to put theory into practice, and nothing was more exciting.

The delusion of youth is a hell of a drug.

I’ve been working since I was 12 years old (not officially recognized by the state of New York until I was 14), and I was busy saving as much money as I could that summer. My family was unable to help me with the financial burden of an out-of-state university; I applied to colleges on my own, filled out applications for financial aid on my own (mostly—they did want some practical information from my grandmother, which she treated with the suspicion of a mafioso being asked where the bodies were buried), and figured out how to physically get to the college I chose on my own, so I worked hard to fill the gap between the canyon of Growing Up Poor and A Veritable Child About To Sign On For An Inordinate Amount of Crushing Debt Just To Continue Going to School.

Most of my friends were experiencing the last gasp of youthful freedom before embarking on a path to adult responsibility, a path I had already been walking for years. They were going to the beach, going on family vacations, spending entire afternoons at the movies. They were soaking up as much time together as possible before the friendship-changing geography on the horizon slapped them in the face. They were having fun. I was waking up at 4am to pack bakery boxes and measure out pignoli nuts at the cafe on the corner.

So I tried to carve out fun where I could, see people whenever possible. I was more committed to the balancing act back then, trying to keep a foot in my reality while desperately trying to access the more common experience.

I went to the mall with my friend Tim, a typical hang out for us small town kids with nothing better to do. After we had some mild shenanigans and took part in my favorite pasttime—spying on the cutest guy working in Waldenbooks—we drove over to Taco Bell. We were in our own little bubble, just laughing and ordering Chicken Meximelts, when the man behind us surprised me by speaking to us. He couldn’t help but notice how much fun we were having, and we struck up a conversation. He was cute, and tall, and in his late 20s, and he seemed gentle. When he asked for my phone number as we were leaving, I said yes—no one had ever asked me out before, and this was further confirmation that the next part of my life was going to be FUN and SEXY and FULL OF TACO BELL CINNAMON TWISTS.

Adult Danielle knows that a man almost twice my age picking up a teenager in Taco Bell is the reddest of flags. The giant Les Miserables red flag waving at the end of the first act. Christo draping the Grand Canyon in red flags. But teenage Danielle was an absolute naive little dummy about men.

He actually called me that very night. I had my own phone line, and it felt strange to sit in my childhood bedroom and make plans to go on a date with a man. He had an artistic job, lived in nearby New Jersey, and I thought it was all terribly appealing. We made plans to go on a date.