"Boys only want one thing."

When I was about 15 or 16 y.o., I accompanied my dad to the dealership for an oil change for his car. To give you a visual, I was not a cutesie-tootsie teenager. I was slightly a non-conformist, in protest to the girls in my high school whose lives were consumed with dating half the school, wearing short skirts and getting weekly manicures and pedicures. Also, I think subconsciously I was protesting the stereotypical, superficial Persian girl. Instead I wore jeans and polo shirts or preppy sweaters, watched college basketball obsessively, and refused to date the male losers I had known since elementary school (ew, that's, like, incest). I barely wore any makeup, and my figure hadn't adopted much shape yet. Thanks to my wild mane of hair and darker skin, I still had some redeeming natural appeal, somehow?, at that age.

I was sitting in the dealership waiting room, glancing over the Car and Driver magazines, while my dad was chatting it up with an old friend outside. It was a typical, mangy car shop waiting room with uncomfortable metal chairs and coffee spots on the carpet. The hyper-masculinity of the entire place was making me uncomfortable, considering I was the only female creature on the lot. Then in walked a semi-attractive young mechanic in his greased-up jumpsuit. The scene couldn't have been better scripted. He looked about 18 or 19 y.o., dark hair, toned arms, cavalier attitude - typical for a guy that age - and eyeing me curiously as he wiped the oil from his hands with a rag. "I think your car is ready." Oh..um...thanks. I couldn't look him in the eye. I turned around and saw my dad still engaged in conversation outside. "So what's your name?" I swung around, panicked that he was still talking to me. "Are you thirsty?" he asked as he threw some coins into the soda machine. Um, sure. . . I couldn't believe an older boy was actually paying attention to me. He handed me a coke and started to talk to me about his job, trying to joke to get me to lighten up. I kept looking back to see if my dad was watching. He finally signaled to me that we were leaving. I smiled and thanked my cute friend for the soda (and secretly for the vote of confidence he had unknowingly given me). Coke in hand, I took upbeat strides to my dad's car and got in. We were but a mile away from the dealership when my dad looked at my cherished soda:

"Vhere deed you gett coke?" From the waiting room...a guy at the dealership just bought me one. "VHHAT?" Next thing I knew, the car was pulled over and my dad was pulling a U-ey in the middle of a crowded street. My dad's thick black eyebrows were arched real high, the way they get when he's PISSED. His perfectly parted mustache - one that has earned him quite a rep - began to twitch. Oh shit, that's bad. He switched over to Farsi: "Who gave it to you? The mechanic??? The nerve!! Who does he think he is?? What was he saying to you?" I was trying to reason with him: Dad. It's just a soda. He just gave me an extra one...no biggie. "No beegie?? Shadi, let me tell you sumteeng..." And then he told me something that has, unfortunately, stayed with me.

"A man does not offer you something unless he wants something else in return. A gift, a drink, a ride, anything. If you take it, he will expect you to repay him."

Damn. I felt the air knocked out of me. You mean, he. . .wants. . SEX?! Just from buying me a coke? I was confused. We pulled back into the dealership, my dad grabbed the soda can, and beelined toward the waiting room where the poor unsuspecting kid still was, not realizing the wrath my father would bring with him. I couldn't hear anything but I saw my dad's arms flailing around and he was clearly yelling. Probably in Farsi, even. He stomped back to the car, mumbling in Farsi under his breath. I glanced back through the window at the defeated kid who was just as confused as I was. That was the first of many "I'm a man and I know how they think" lessons I got from my dad, and to this day it still echoes in my head. Not as strictly, of course. His traditional, old school influences have waned a bit over the years.

But I swear that is why I could never allow myself to accept a drink from a stranger. Blame the mustached, expressive Iranian man in my life who only wanted to protect his daughter in an unknown land.