Fingers wrapped around a plastic cup coated in condensation; I study the man just to my left. Ill-fitting charcoal suit, Men’s Warehouse tie, and dress shoes that are both well cared for and weathered. He’s carrying a dated leather briefcase in one hand and a foil-wrapped contained in the other. I imagine it’s a breakfast sandwich or something similar that he’s just purchased at the diner that’s on this floor. A thick, plain, gold band adorns the finger that signifies that he is promised to someone, somewhere.
He’s an imposing figure, but in size alone, as his face is best described as friendly. Unlike most men I’ve encountered in this building, a gentle smile crosses his face at rest and he holds himself comfortably. His shoulders are broad and round, but not pulled up to his ears, which I’ve learned is clear evidence of anxiety and even, aggression.
A small ding shakes me out of my observational revery, alerting me to the arrival of the elevator.
After you, he says, holding his arm out in front of him and motioning towards the still opening metal doors. Thank you, I reply, stepping onto the elevator, careful not to drop one of my two bags off my shoulder as I endeavor to press the button for my floor.
Allow me, he says.
Ah, I reply, thank you. Eight, please.
As you wish, he says, pressing buttons for the eighth and tenth floor.
We sail past the first floor and I stop myself from telling him he must be good luck, as I always get stopped at the first floor in the morning. Instead, I wonder how he feels about the Cornell 7. I wonder how he sees women like Jane Doe, like me. I wonder if he’s looking the tattoos on my hands and peeking out from my sandals, or the multiple shiny piercings that decorate my delicate ears. I wonder if he notices that I’m not wearing an engagement ring or wedding band. I wonder if he’s thinking that the camisole underneath my cardigan shows just a little too much of the sun bronzed skin of my chest. I wonder if he assumes I’m a secretary or an assistant or if he thinks I’m more seasoned than that, but I’ve only gotten there by the grace of God and charm and diversity initiatives.
A pit is forming in my stomach. Anxiety is creeping- viscous mud sliding through my chest and into my lungs and filling my throat.
I wonder if he has a spouse who is a woman, if he has a daughter. I wonder if he has women he works with or for, or who work for him. I wonder if he respects and celebrates them or secretly resents them. I wonder if he lies in his bed at night, scrolling through Instagram in the milky black of his bedroom, stopping from time to time to watch a video on the male loneliness epidemic or the way in which women are ruining our society through their desire for rights and autonomy.
Perhaps he is one of those performative feminists who says all the right things and then overlooks the woman who really deserved the promotion, or calls the barista at his local coffee shop who refuses to flirt with him a cunt under his breath. Perhaps he told colleagues that the Lindsay Clancy case really demonstrated how neglected women’s physical and mental health is, and then growls about increased health insurance premiums every year, blaming birth control and IVF.
It’s possible that he told everyone that he would never hire one of the Cornell 7, but also considers the “kind of” woman who would drink to excess and do drugs and present herself to a group of young men, who are clearly just youthful and hungry and perhaps, a little hasty in their decision making. Maybe he’s told a female colleague that she looks beautiful or hot and then softened it with some throwaway language about how he isn’t “that guy” but rather, just speaks the truth.
He might be that guy that’s gentle massaged a friend’s wife’s shoulders when she complained of tension, and didn’t stop, even after she gently shrugged and offered a weak protestation. He might allow himself to linger longer in the cardio section of the gym, so he can admire the taut midsections of the fashionably dressed young women gathered there, thinking that they clearly wear such eye catching athleisurewear for the purpose of such stranger appreciation.
This guy could be the guy who calls his waitress honey and his kid’s school crossing guard doll and slaps his wife’s ass whenever she passes by, proclaiming it his property. Perhaps the female executive at his company is a bitch because she doesn’t appropriate appreciate the jokes he makes at their Thursday morning catch-up. When he uses two sausage like fingers to make bigger the small Facebook photograph of a woman he went to high school with, perhaps he declares her a whore because she is recently divorced and tends to wear jeans that are just a little too figure-hugging for his taste, but really, it’s because once upon a time she rejected him.
Maybe he’s recently sat in a circle of his college buddies, sipping on a craft beer and listening to one of them describe in graphic detail all the ways in which he violated their underage babysitter recently, with his wife none the wiser. Perhaps he squirmed a little when he described her hairless vagina, her long thick hair that tickled his old, freckled chest, and her perky full tits but still stayed, and still listened, and still offered gentle verbal encouragement for him to continue. Tell me less, he thought, but tell us more, he yelled.
Perhaps he’s the reason why I hold a hand over my open container at a concert, or run a different route every early morning. Maybe he’s why I change my outfit more than once, several times a week. He could be like the men I’ve proclaimed are harmless, when I know they are not, because I’ve had to create a scale of sexual harassment that never results in reporting and always produces tears.
I want to tell him that I’ve made bad decisions in life. When I was young and also, now. I’ve drank too much and taken drugs. I’ve trusted men that I shouldn’t have. I’ve worn things that I feel good in, that the world might describe as revealing. I’ve run when it’s dark and hiked desolate paths and mostly, I’ve done it alone.
I want to tell him that I’ve been the receptacle for stories. Stories of harassment and assault and rape. Stories of betrayal and violations. Stories of behavior that ranges from troubling to illegal. I want to tell him that I’ve suffered, myself and for those whom I love.
And mostly, I want to tell him that I’ve never concluded that it was my fault or theirs. Not because I’m a woman, but because I’m a human. Because I control myself. Because I understand what consent means. Because the only people who feel compelled to interject “not all men” are the people who haven’t figured that out yet. These are the humans who still want to clarify and justify and explain. These are the individuals who still believe that vilifying those who have caused and will cause grievous harm is a slippery slope.
DING.
This is you, he says, turning to me, a wide toothy grin creasing his face.
This is me, I think, but who sir are you?
X
L.
