My small world story took place in Juneau, Alaska, during the summer of 1986. I was working my shift at the local hospital as an emergency department clerk. A young man with reddish hair walked into the reception area and up to my desk to check in as a patient. He looked vaguely familiar.  I smiled and handed him the registration form. He sat down to fill it out, then looked hard at me like he was trying to figure out who I was. He asked, "Are you Christy French?"  

Startled, I replied, "Yes." 

He said, "I'm Dave West, do you remember who I am?" 

The memory came back in a flood, colored with the emotions of my then 18-year-old self.

I knew him as a drifter who appeared one day and had excited all the young people I hung out with, as someone different. He was the sort of young man that would excite young girls' fantasies. He was rough around the edges, smoked and drank too much, took drugs and had an aura of forbidden raw sexuality about him. 

Dave lived in a small trailer on the edge of our little backwoods town in Washington. He was nothing like the boys I knew, all of whom were placidly normal. I would go visit him with my girlfriends, madly hoping that he would notice me and ask me out on a date. One day, Dave did ask me out. I was so excited and terrified at the same time. I knew secretly that I would do whatever he would ask of me that night. 

I got ready for our date. My dad was home but didn't meet him at the door, or I would never have gone out with him. Dave reeked of alcohol, his eyes were bloodshot, and I knew he was drunk. I pushed aside my hesitancy and walked out the door, climbing into his 1968 red Camaro. We drove off and he took the road out of town, which was steep and curved around a hill. Dave was all over the road; I knew I was in trouble. I looked up and saw a fully loaded logging truck barreling towards us down the hill. Dave was on the wrong side of the road.

I screamed, "Watch out!" He swerved just in time and continued driving as if nothing had happened.

We had driven about a mile down the road when I decided it was time to get out of the car before something else happened. I had just seen death in the grille of that logging truck and didn't want to take any more chances. 

I looked over at Dave and smiled, saying, "Dave, could you pull over for a minute?" He pulled over onto the gravel shoulder; I piled out and ran to the neighboring farm house, where one of my girlfriends, Lou Jean, lived. I hammered on the door, and Lou Jean’s father came to meet me. I told him what had happened and that I needed to call my dad to come and get me. Lou Jean’s father barricaded the door, because at that point Dave had driven up the lane to their house in a shower of gravel. He was hammering on the door and hollering for me. My dad arrived soon after, straight arming Dave away from the door and away from me. Dad took me home and I told him what had happened. He said that he was glad I had had the sense to get out of the car and get help. 

I never saw Dave West again until 10 years later in Juneau, Alaska.

That day in the ER, Dave apologized to me for being drunk and nearly killing both of us 10 years ago. He asked for my forgiveness, and commended my dad for rescuing me and telling him to never see his daughter again. I forgave him that day and never saw him again.