Plane crashes, Panties & Percocet
Did I just pay to be photographed by a pedo?
Jul 16, 2025
My armpits are sweating. The air con is currently set to 73. My jaw is clenched so tight my teeth are actively grinding. And even though I am aware of it I can’t stop it. My left armpit aches, which is normally the case when my anxiety is on high alert and when the tension is so thick it blinds me from seeing the light. My throat is 90% closed, my saliva is thick, pure white, clogging the middle of my esophagus with each swallow.
All I see in my mind is his green collar shirt. Sitting at the bar on a wooden stool, a mug of beer in front of him. Brown hair, tan skin, in his 60’s. Khaki shorts and either solid black or white ankle high socks, that part is foggy. His phone case was solid black, I know because I watched his body language adapt to fit the perfect position to snap a photo of a mom and daughter sitting at a table with their family for lunch.
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That mom was me. That daughter was mine.
I watched him stare at me for over 15 mins. My body was tense the moment I sat down at the table. The table I asked the waiter specifically for.
Most might be able to tell he was a regular there. The way he held up his two fingers, signaling to the woman behind the bar he was ready for another drink.
My kids were hungry. The Fish Market was short waitstaff, and after waiting 40 mins for a table adding another 20 on just to get our order taken was pushing their limits. Understandably. The boys held it together, but my five-year-old daughter needed to cuddle on my lap. She was cold, being dressed for the beach in shorts and a pink swim tank top with her swim goggles still on her head. She’s always a whole vibe and I love her for it. She wears what she wants, says what she wants and does what she wants, even in while she was in my womb.
So, I ask you this- What was it about my daughter that became an open invitation for a secret photoshoot taken by a man sitting alone at the bar?
I felt it. My intuition, my entire body, all my core, every bone, every cell, each fragment of me knew this man was positioning his phone and his body on this wooden stool in just the right way to take pictures of myself and my daughter without anyone knowing. I watched him look around, his right thumb bopping up and down on the bottom of the screen ever so discretely, his eyes darting around simultaneously. He was sitting sideways on the stool, his entire body angled towards us, even though there was another couple right there beside him at the bar.
I froze. It was like time stood still, this man, his phone, and our bodies. The boys were laughing and telling jokes, playing thumb war, but the space between this man and our safety, her innocence, stood still. She was the center of his pedo storm; this little girl on my knees, bouncing to the music, her tan limbs flailing, begging me to bounce her higher with each beat. I could see his eyes locked in rhythmically bouncing up, and down, up and down.
I blinked my eyes a few times. Looked away. But for some reason I couldn’t pretend this wasn’t happening. I could see perfectly, my head now directly facing his phone, his fingers, his hands.
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.
Like, you have got to be fucking kidding me. This can’t be happening. He wouldn’t. I have got to be making this up in my head.
I turned away and mentioned it quietly to my boys. “Guys, I think that guy at the bar in the dark green shirt is secretly taking pics of us.”
“What! Who? Where?? That guy!” They all look.
Jesus Christ you guys dont be so obvious!
He didn’t notice all four of us starring at him every so often trying to make sense of what was happening as he continued to hold his phone at his waist, the camera lens pointed directly at my daughter and I, his right thumb still there on the bottom of the screen, his four other fingers holding the base of the phone at the perfect angle. My oldest had his back to the man, my middle had a clear view.
I never say anything. I need to do something. This is not ok. This did happen. Do not gaslight yourself out of reality. God why does this keep happening?! Why can’t I feel safe for once??
My appetite for food was gone. Something else needed to be fed.
I told my daughter to get up and we walked the few feet to the end of the bar, getting the waitresses attention.
“Hi. Sorry, I have a weird question for you. Is that guy down there in the green shirt a local?”
“What, that guy with the brown hair there on the end, why?”
“Yes, with the beer mug, does he come here all the time? Because I am pretty sure he just took a picture of my daughter and I without our consent.”
Holy fuck I actually did it.
Her eyes widen, her mouth forms a perfect “O” shape, she starts to back up as she gets a little louder. “Woah!! Wow! Ok! I mean ya he is a regular, and to be honest he is a bit off but how do we tell him that?”
“You don’t.” I manage to mumble.
“I can get my manager and talk to her about it, is that what you want?”
I manage to squeak with the final breath out of my mouth, “Ya, sure that works, thanks so much.”
As we walked back to our table, the man proceeded to get up and walk away to the restroom. My kids were silent, taking in every single detail and movement of this moment, keeping it in their memory banks for later in life.
A few mins later, the female manager comes to my table and asks what is going on. I told her the story, her reaction changes immediately, her eyes wide with disbelief on the connection.
“Well, that’s interesting because earlier he asked me if he could take my picture and I told him I wasn’t comfortable with that. Let me talk to him when he comes back, not sure where he walked away to. He comes in here all the time, he’s a little weird I can totally see that.”
I thank her repeatedly. My mind is racing, going from “ok, do we leave? Stay? We haven’t gotten our food yet, maybe we should just go?” To, “What should I teach the kids? No. I need to do this for my daughter, and I need to let the boys see I can stand up for them and myself.”
Not a minuet after she walks away, the man returned to his stool. This time facing the bar.
The manager immediately approaches him and asks him to walk and talk with her.
A few mins later she returns to our table without the man.
“Ok so I spoke to him, I asked him straight up if he was taking pictures and he was shocked and immediately said “No! Oh my gosh No!” and even offered to show me his phone with no problem when I asked. There wasn’t anything in there.”
That’s when my 9yo son chimes in, “Well he probably deleted them before you talked to him.”
Laughing, “oh, no that’s not possible he wouldn’t have known to do that,” disregarding my sons knowledge of the man walking to the bathroom for more than 5 mins with his phone just before she pulled him away.
“Well, thank you anyways, it’s better to be safe than sorry” I let out. “I really appreciate what you did, and I swear he was, and I don’t normally say anything, this was the first time. Maybe it was my PTSD talking there, who knows.”
“Oh my gosh, don’t worry at all, I understand, I have a daughter too.”
My body is still tense.
“Ya its crazy, I never had this type of attention with my boys. Ever since I have had my daughter, the attention I receive has escalated from dirty men to pedos. I need to stick up for her.”
Laughing, she rubs my shoulder, simultaneously walking away and replying, “Oh I get it totally!”.
“Thank you again, honestly, that takes balls!” I tell her, knowing I didn’t really have any further proof other than what my body was telling me or what my eyeballs witnessed, and knowing I needed to be thankful considering this was a small town, a local eatery, and a local paying customer I had made a very strong, now apparently false, claim on.
She steps back smiling, “Hey, sometimes I have them!”
The man returned to his stool once she walked away, facing the front now. Never looking back. Never making eye contact.
My boys pat me on the shoulder, whispering, “Mom! Look he’s back! He’s not looking at us anymore.”
My bold and fierce daughter, her tiny, growing body in this life for a mere five years, now sitting in her chair across the table from me exclaims, “Mom! Why do men always do this! He’s not looking anymore Mom. That’s so gross.”
Our waiter walks by saying the food is almost ready, asks me how I’m doing.
“Hanging by a thread man! By a thread!”
He offers a silent laugh and smile and walks away.
Our food comes, my stomach is in my throat, my lettuce won’t make it down. After two bites I succumb to the pit in my gut and let down the fork, knowing another bite isn’t possible.
The kids loved their food, and a self fulfilled happiness came with each witnessed bite.
The bill came without question along with Styrofoam carry out boxes. We packed our leftovers and walked outside to be met with 90-degree humidity, the yellow sun trying to peak through dark blue rain clouds that hovered over Lake St. Clair in the stagnate air. The boys asked to fish one last time before we left.
It always happens so quickly.
Did I just pay to be photographed by a pedo?
