The Misogynist (Republished)

Pen Pals

Pulling up to the wrought-iron gate, I stare in confusion. Of all the things I expected to find, the heavily guarded fortress in front of me was not one of them. I check my phone again to make sure I have the right address, flipping back and forth between my text messages and my Maps app. It's the right address, but this has to be a mistake... maybe he texted it wrong or something. My already frazzled nerves scream for me to turn around and go back home. It was stupid of me to agree to this, there's no other word for it. But I was lonely and feeling brave for once, lulled by a sense of familiarity.

I'm still thinking there's been a mistake when two men step out of the guardhouse just to the left of the gate and approach my car. Now I don't know much about guns, but even I can tell the ones holstered on their belts are not standard issue. Not to mention, they're both carrying deadly looking rifles across the front of their bodies. These guys are armed for an attack, not just to scare lost idiots like me.

"Shit. What have I gotten myself into?" I mumble as I put my car into park and prepare to talk my way out of this.

The larger of the two men approaches my side of the car and I roll down my window. I try my best to look non-threatening. His partner meanwhile is using his flashlight to look into my backseat as he makes his way around my car.

"I'm so sorry," I say to the guard at my window, my voice shaking from nervousness. "I think I must have the wrong address."

"Name?" he says, in a slightly accented voice. I hesitate, not wanting to give this man my name but not feeling like I have much of a choice. One glance in my rearview mirror tells me his partner has positioned himself behind my car, so as to block me in.

"Theresa Preda, but I think there's been a mistake. Please, if you'll just let me turn around, I'll be on my way without bothering you again."

"Ms. Preda, Mr. Cazador has been expecting you. Please pull through the gate and up to the main house." Almost like magic, the gate opens with his words and before I can argue he's waiving me through. I seriously consider backing out anyway, but the other guard is still positioned behind my car, trapping me. So with warning bells screaming inside my head, telling me I'm about to enter a horror story or something, I accept that I don't have a choice and pull through to the brick drive in front of me.

The pen-pal program the council started with the state prison was intended to help motivate inmates. The prison chosen was a minimum-security facility and participants allowed into the program are heavily screened before being paired with members of our church. We were assured that there'd be no risk to us. Only those sentenced for non-violent crimes, who were first offenders and had good records both in prison and out, and who were screened by their counselors and were chosen as participants.

Still, this isn't something I'd typically be brave enough to do. At twenty four, I'm still a virgin. I've never had a boyfriend and don't have any male friends. In fact, outside of my church, I don't really have any friends at all. Talking to people I don't know gives me too much anxiety. I feel awkward and never know what to say. Outside of my job as a librarian and my interactions at church, I rarely have the courage to talk to anyone. So when I was approached me to try the pen pal program I was hesitant, but in the end, I was convinced that it could be good practice for me and I was paired with an inmate. And as I pull up to what could only be described as a mansion at the end of the drive, and park next to a fleet of black Mercedes SUVs, I wonder what the heck I've gotten myself into.

Farzad Cazador was serving time for tax evasion when I got paired with him. Thirty-five to my twenty-four years, everything I know about him comes from letters and emails, and eventually phone calls done in fifteen-minute increments. I've never seen a picture of him, had refused to do a video call with him and never sent him a picture of myself. In some ways, I feel like I know him intimately, spending six months getting to know him through letters before agreeing to finally talk to him on the phone. But in other ways, he's a complete stranger to me. And certainly, I never expected to meet him. And yet, here I am about to walk into his lair.