Flashed
A short story
My friend Ashley and I were waiting in line to get donuts when it happened. It was one of our many ventures into Portland, back in those days. We thought we were invincible. Or at least she did; I was kind of along for the ride.
I remember: I wore a light pink blouse with frills on the end and grey ripped jeans. (It was a phase.) Ashley was wearing a baggy T-shirt with SLUT stenciled across the front, and shorts that stopped just before here actual ass did. She was a classy babe if I ever saw one.
In line for Voodoo. I can’t quite recall why we went there so often. Voodoo was absolutely revolting. Too much sugar. It made you feel like an orca after chewing through a peach fritter.
But, there we were anyways.
“Fuck, this line is long.” That was Ashley, arms folded across her chest. She had gone heavy with the makeup that day. Ashley was ever wistful whenever we went into the city; she would say, “Tiff, I swear to you, if I don’t find a smokin’ twenty-something today who can take care of me and I can call Daddy, I’m going to die!”
Despite me dying a little inside every time she said this, I hung out with Ashley because she was good for the social scene. The profanity, the provocative attitude, the T-shirt…it was all a front. Ashley was a sweetheart, no matter how grunge she wanted to be. But it didn’t hurt that she was willing to be friends with me regardless.
“Don’t you think this line is long? Like, not normal long but like, long long?”
“I guess so, Ash.” I wasn’t paying much attention. I was wondering what else I could be doing. A lot of things came to mind: I could be at home, reading a novel I’d been putting off lately; I would have said “yes” to going to the movies with my sister, even if it was a shitty film; I would have drawn in my sketchbook. I could be doing all of these things. Instead, I was with Ms. SLUT and getting Voodoo Donuts…
Ashley was preoccupied with the extensive menu when he approached us. Well, not us, really — me. His eyes never left me. I didn’t know how long he’d been staring at me before I noticed him, but I’ve had a sinking suspicion that it was for a while. He was drinking my body in, scanning up and down, stalling at specific parts with those deep, dark eyes.
It was so fast, I couldn’t ever identify the man if he were in a lineup of two. But I could point it out rather quickly if the lineup were naked.
I had never seen a penis before that moment. It’s probably scarred me for life in terms of having a relationship with a guy, but in that moment, it was all I could see. It was quite…unimpressive. I remember thinking, Really? This is the difference between males and females? Disappointment aside, I heard the collective gasps and shrieks of other people, people who weren’t in direct sight of this guy’s manhood. As if they were being victimized for me.
Ashley was still unaware, completely oblivious to what was occurring right behind her. I just stood there, not shocked, not really; more like entranced. Mesmerized. This should be my irrevocable undoing. Instead, I was more confused than ever. Why was I even here, in this situation? It wasn’t where I wanted to be — in return, a stalker flashed me. I felt deserving of this full-frontal nudity.
Finally, Ashley became cognizant of the penis; she let out the worst bloodcurdling howl. This was the guy’s cue to cover up, give us — me — a giant grin, and sprint away. His coat flapped in the wind, leaving a whirl of dead, dried leaves and incredulousness in its wake.
I turned to see space in front of us. “Ash, the line’s moved forward.”
Her mouth had stayed open. She just stared at me, bewildered that I would say anything, let alone something as mundane as the line for fucking donuts.
“Did you see what that guy did?” Tears were streaking down her mascaraed face. The black smudges actually complimented her derelict outfit quite well.
“Yeah.” Nonchalant was an understatement to how I felt when I said this. “I’m not that hungry for donuts, Ash. Mind if we leave?”
I didn’t give her much time to answer. I was about three steps away from the brick building when, “HEY, TIFFANY” came rushing up to me. The wind was blowing briskly, causing me to shiver. The penis was out of sight, out of mind for me, but for everyone else it was still swimming in their sight; limp, useless, unimposing really.
I honestly 100% did not care about being flashed, but in the days following the incident I began to think of my life as before and after the flash.
“We need to tell somebody!” This was Ash, still shaking with…fear? Rage? Cold? “We need to…call the police! Or something! Tiff! Are you listening?”
So many questions, I thought. As if she were the one that got a big helping of man meat. She only got a side piece of that action. “Whiny bitch.”
I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It kind of slipped out. But I didn’t regret saying it. It had needed to be said for a long time. I just wish the circumstances were a tad better.
Normally, I would’ve experienced the Wrath of Ash. But on that day, after that flashing, she was too far gone to utter anything close to a retort. All she could do was pitter-patter behind me, replaying the penis in her mind, over and over and over…
Of course, Ashley told everybody and their dog about the flashing. Of course, everybody had their two cents. If you added up the amount of two cents I got from unsolicited people, I would be rich enough to shut myself away from the outside world forever.
Instead, I got headaches from the advice I got:
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me — it’s Portland! That’s why I never go into the city!”
“You should sue. You saw a dude’s penis, for Christ’s sake!”
“Statistically speaking, you’re probably gonna get postpartum depression.”
“Did you see his face?” This one was my mother, ever concerned I’m sure. She swirled her black coffee with non-dairy creamer around her cup, barely aware of her surroundings. She reminded me of Ash in that way. (In fact, everybody is unaware. They just aren’t aware of it.)
“Not really,” I lied. Seriously, I didn’t care that I got flashed. It woke me up. It made me realize that I was there because I wanted Ash to like me. Because I wanted to fit in. But now that I’d been exposed — literally — I seemed to have switched planes. I was now level with the guy who flashed me. He knew how big a joke it was: To fit in, to be part of something you didn’t give a shit about. He knew he didn’t gel with the vibe, and he was okay with that. Why couldn’t I?
“Well, do you want to stay home from school this week? You know…to recuperate?”
Recuperate. “Recuperate?” I was fine. Couldn’t she see I was fine? “I don’t need to recuperate. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” When I reverted to one-word answers, Mom knew to wrap up the conversation.
“Alright, if you insist.” She moved into the parlor, blowing the steam off her mug.
School was worse. Not only did our entire class knew, but they knew Ashley’s version. Lord knows what kind of spin she put on the split second that changed our lives.
My life. Not hers. But it did. She said so. And so it did.
“You must be sworn off men now. You lesbian?”
“Everything’s going to be okay, girl. Just try not to think about it!”
“It’s good that you told people and didn’t keep it to yourself. That stuff festers in you, makes you act all cold and stuff. We couldn’t handle another suicide.”
“I fucking hate you.” This was Ashley. I was expecting this. I no longer wanted to be friends with her regardless. “Outgrown” would be the way to describe how we jettisoned out of our relationship.
“Sounds good,” I replied.
Teachers weren’t any better. They kept referring to this magical counselor that could take away all of my problems by simply talking to him. Lucky me: A guy to sear something into my memory, another to surgically extract it. I politely declined each time.
One thing became better: I learned how to decide. I could now choose without remorse. Without regret. Anybody who tried to invite me over out of ill-thought condolence was nicely but sternly rejected. I said “No” so often people at school believed Ashley’s assertion that “Tiffany is a stone-cold bitch who liked to see random guys’ dicks.” Nice Ash, you even used the same word I did. At least I’m stone-cold where you’re whiny.
I said yes to more things I enjoyed. I hiked a ton. I went to the beach, dared to touch the icy Pacific. I sketched in my sketchbook, drawing without judgment. I laughed when I wanted, cried when I wanted. I lived as I was, without wondering how people would think of me. They already assumed I was damaged goods; how could I convince them otherwise?
So I lived. Being flashed didn’t reveal anything more than the fact that I was living a lie.
The rest of my junior year was surprisingly pleasant. Eventually, if you never play the victim card, people start losing interest and fold. Ashley went on to bond with other SLUTS, my mother and father and sister started treated me like I was Tiffany and not some foreign dignitary that demanded respect and complete silence, and I regrouped with my middle school chums. It was the best time of my life.
I always wanted the chance to thank him. The guy who flashed me. I might have, in that moment, when his eyes wouldn’t avert from mine. When I looked into those dark eyes and saw, not hatred, not disgust or disdain or woe-is-me, but freedom. Unadulterated freedom. He didn’t flash me because I got his rocks off or because he was schizophrenic. He flashed me because he could, he didn’t care what other people thought, and that was that. He ran off, into the chilly Portland air, to hunker down in his tent or his $3,000 apartment, maybe make himself a bowl of oatmeal or heat himself beside an oil drum fire, hands outstretched. That was one thing I didn’t decide on: Where had he come from. Truth be told, I didn’t care about that either. What mattered was he shook me from my lie, from my belief that I needed to be something other than the oddball I could never escape being. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
I haven’t been to Voodoo in the five years since it happened. Sure, my friends and I joke about going — because they’re real friends who get me and aren’t afraid to poke fun at life — but there isn’t a reason to go. Voodoo donuts suck. They’re too sugary, they give me the same headache people who hear about my “trauma” give me when they gasp and exclaim, “Oh, you must be just torn up about this.” And they cost too damn much for donuts.
They do have an item on their menu, however, that I always joke back with: “Hell yeah, let’s go! I’m getting the cock and balls!”
