I told a few people about Fat Sal. What brings Fat Sal up? My intense dislike for mustaches. I suppose Fat Sal is a part of my childhood. Everyone has their stories, I have Fat Sal. I have Fat Pam too, but she's another story all together.
Again, looked in the archives, did find one mention of Fat Sal, but not by name, only be reputation.
Fat Sal the molester- why I don’t like men with mustaches:
Again, looked in the archives, did find one mention of Fat Sal, but not by name, only be reputation.
Fat Sal the molester- why I don’t like men with mustaches:
by Shannon D. Peterson.
I grew up in a pretty rough neighborhood. I mean, it wasn’t inner city Chicago tenement slums, but it wasn’t the suburbs either. One day my friend and I were standing on the sidewalk when we saw a beat up old Caddy rolling our way. Maroon- grey primer, mid seventies model with pointy corners and enough room in the trunk for a peck or two of kidnapped, molested children. We were about 8 years old.
Our discussion on whether or not to draw the hopscotch board on that stretch of sidewalk stopped as that Caddie crouched and crawled toward us. The prey could smell the predator. We looked at each other, curious as to how the next moments would unfold. We knew every car in the project- we knew there was no reason for strangers to come through. We knew, although I doubt we could have expressed it, that we were being stalked.
We were impetuous children- reckless as we took in all the details. The car was much like all the other cars in the lots around us. Standard issue low income- beat up and noisy. The man was slovenly, fat, dirty and greasy. His moustache drooped flaccidly over his lip.
“What’re your names?”
“Jenny.” I lied
My friend became Shelly.
“You girls want to go for a ride? Get some ice cream?”
“No.”
He didn’t get out of the car, but he was suddenly too close.
How fast can a fat man move?
We turned and ran to the park. Screaming and laughing at the swings, we forgot about the fat man and the car as soon as we stopped telling each other how gross he was, and giggling over our new names.
That night my mom asked me what we had done all day. I told her about the man who talked to us. She said, “What is I big red car?”
I said, “Yes.”
She asked, “What it a big fat man?”
I said, “Yes.”
She said, “Did he have a moustache?”
I said, “Yeah!” (How do moms know everything?!)
She said, “That’s Fat Sal. Don’t ever talk to him again, and tell your friends to never talk to him. He’s a child molester.”
I said, “Oh, okay.”
Only later did I wonder why I accepted that explanation without question at 8 years old. Why my mother gave it to an 8 year old and why my mother knew exactly who I was talking about when I said “a man talked to me” are other questions I later considered.
I grew up in a pretty rough neighborhood. I mean, it wasn’t inner city Chicago tenement slums, but it wasn’t the suburbs either. One day my friend and I were standing on the sidewalk when we saw a beat up old Caddy rolling our way. Maroon- grey primer, mid seventies model with pointy corners and enough room in the trunk for a peck or two of kidnapped, molested children. We were about 8 years old.
Our discussion on whether or not to draw the hopscotch board on that stretch of sidewalk stopped as that Caddie crouched and crawled toward us. The prey could smell the predator. We looked at each other, curious as to how the next moments would unfold. We knew every car in the project- we knew there was no reason for strangers to come through. We knew, although I doubt we could have expressed it, that we were being stalked.
We were impetuous children- reckless as we took in all the details. The car was much like all the other cars in the lots around us. Standard issue low income- beat up and noisy. The man was slovenly, fat, dirty and greasy. His moustache drooped flaccidly over his lip.
“What’re your names?”
“Jenny.” I lied
My friend became Shelly.
“You girls want to go for a ride? Get some ice cream?”
“No.”
He didn’t get out of the car, but he was suddenly too close.
How fast can a fat man move?
We turned and ran to the park. Screaming and laughing at the swings, we forgot about the fat man and the car as soon as we stopped telling each other how gross he was, and giggling over our new names.
That night my mom asked me what we had done all day. I told her about the man who talked to us. She said, “What is I big red car?”
I said, “Yes.”
She asked, “What it a big fat man?”
I said, “Yes.”
She said, “Did he have a moustache?”
I said, “Yeah!” (How do moms know everything?!)
She said, “That’s Fat Sal. Don’t ever talk to him again, and tell your friends to never talk to him. He’s a child molester.”
I said, “Oh, okay.”
Only later did I wonder why I accepted that explanation without question at 8 years old. Why my mother gave it to an 8 year old and why my mother knew exactly who I was talking about when I said “a man talked to me” are other questions I later considered.
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