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Sarah Simons
Professor Micer
WR20001
22 Apr. 2015
The Man with the Long, Black Hair
Grigsby Brothers Paper Box Company, a large cement building, is situated in Southeast
Portland, on the corner of Market and Jade Street. Once it was painted an awful combination of
yellow and beige; the paint had only slightly begun to chip. It spanned the length of the block
and was a quiet addition to an already quiet neighborhood. On one side was a tiny parking lot
with maybe twenty or so spaces for workers; most of the cars were never parked within the
slanted, yet somehow crooked, yellow lines. Behind Grigsbys was a small, rolling hill spotted
with yellow dandelions. I would walk around to the front and, after going a short distance up a
sidewalk and patch of grass, ascend the six steps leading up to a big wooden door with an old
fashioned lion head door knocker on it. Above the entrance hung a green fading sign with the
words Grigsby Bros. Paper Box Co.
Surrounding this warehouse was a quiet neighborhood. Small, brown-roofed houses
painted in warm blues and bright reds with tiny yards lined the street. Chain-linked fences
created a barrier between barking dogs and tricycles, and the cracked sidewalk. Around many of
the driveways flowers of purples and yellows were in bloom. One yard had a massive
rhododendron bush growing next to it. The flowers were a cool shade of pink and bigger than my
tiny hands. All down the street, the leaves on the trees had begun to grow. Most days I could
smell the fresh cut grass coming from the corner house where an old man was always doing yard
work. I would watch as the robins flitted around porches, competing with their friends to see who

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could reach the bird feeders first and listen to the sound of wind chimes that could be heard
whenever a spring breeze blew by.
Going to Grigsby did not just mean feeling safe and serene; it meant I would be awarded
a small taste of freedom. My grandma Thelma worked there as a bookkeeper and her bosses had
no problem with me exploring the place. Neither did grandma as long as she went with me. In
hindsight Grigsby was (and still is) just a big, dumpy yellow building situated on the outskirts of
the ghetto, but at six years old it was a place of grandeur to me. Now maybe I loved it so much
because, at the ripe age of six, I felt privy to be of the select few who could walk around the
factory and sit behind the secretarys desk, even if I did need supervision. In a world where
everything was forbidden because it was always unsafe or I could break something or I was in
the way, at Grigsby Brothers Paper Box Company this was not completely so. I was welcomed
into the adult world with little handshakes from old men and the privilege to touch the typewriter
for once.
One day, just like we had done so many times before, my mother and I went to pick
grandma up from work. When we arrived my mom told me I could head inside; she had to get
something out of the trunk. It was quiet and no one was outside, not even the old man who I
swore mowed his lawn multiple times a week. The light pink blossoms of rhododendron bush
were swaying in the wind to a gentle springtime breeze and the sun was getting ready to set. I
started the short walk across the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, halfway between the car and
the set of front steps.
From my periphery I saw a beater car, old and burgundy, pull slowly up beside me.
Turning my head I saw two men, sitting there with the windows down, staring at me. I stopped.
Why I stopped I will never know, but I stood there staring back. The one behind the steering

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wheel will always remain a blank spot in my memory, but his friend will watch me from behind
my eyelids until the end of time. A man, maybe 35 or 40, with tan skin and long, black hair was
looking into my eyes. He had on a black muscle tank showing off his huge biceps. I thought I
saw a tattoo on his left forearm. He did not belong in such a peaceful neighborhood. He was too
big, too frightening against the spring time flowers and tricycles. One step and he could probably
squash the rhododendron bush. He seemed like the kind of man who would rip the flowers off
for fun, taking away their lives in an instant. If he was a father, I had never seen one that looked
like him, especially around here. Her, someone said gruffly. The man began to reach for the
door handle.
SARAH GET BACK HERE! I heard my mom shout.
The car sped away as, heart pounding, I turned and rushed back towards my mom. In the
few minutes that followed we hurried into the building while my mom told my grandma what
happened and called my father to explain the situation.
What color was that car? asked my mom.
Burgundy, I said.
Someone then went to drive around the block looking for the car. After that I never felt
safe going to grandmas work again. The feelings of security and freedom were gone. Whenever
we returned to Grigsby I stuck by my moms side, even when we were inside of the building. As
I got older I became more and more paranoid about being outside by myself. When my mom
would send me to walk down the street to buy a loaf of bread or had me walk the one block to
my school, I hated it. I would walk quickly and look back every time I heard a car approaching.
Even now, if my friends and I find ourselves on a corner waiting for a cab or my running
group heads into a neighborhood near my university, I will count the minutes until we are out of

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the situation, danger or no danger. It is hard enough in todays society for a female to feel safe
walking down the street alone. People catcall, harass, stalk, and do much worse. Although I am
cautious and these things do not typically happen to me, knowing that it could builds up the
tension and reinforces the idea that I am in danger. The man with the long black hair robbed both
my joy of going to Grigsby and my security of walking down the street, even in broad daylight
with people all around. Because you never know who is watching.