The XX Files
My first creep
I grew up knowing this: it’s
my body and no one has the right to say or do anything that makes me feel
uncomfortable. My mother tried to build a protective wall around me by
hammering in this message repeatedly.
By the time I was 14 and
started waitressing, I’d heard it a zillion times: “It’s your body and no one
has a ….”
“Well duh, Ma,” I’d
interrupt. “It’s my body. Like, whose
else would it be?”
My first week waitressing, I
got the warning. It’s the same warning the congressional pages got about
Representative Mark Foley, the same warning people all over the country give
newcomers every day: “Look out for so-and-so. He’s a creep.”
I can’t remember my first
creep’s name. I can’t remember his name for the same reason that the warning is
so ubiquitous: because no one does anything about sexual harassment. There have
been so many creeps since my first creep that their names all blur together. So
many leering co-workers, groping college custodians, obnoxious dates, and
hinting bosses. It’s hard to keep track.
But I’m getting ahead of
myself. At the restaurant, I avoided… let’s call him “Mark.” He was the cook,
so I had to be friendly. As long as I stayed away from the walk-in freezer in
the basement, I was safe. I saw the other waitresses race up the stairs
carrying bins of lettuce or tuna, swearing and grabbing napkins to wipe Mark’s
smelly kiss goo off.
They were older than me, and
they put up with it. But I knew it was wrong. Like a 4-year-old acting out an
imaginary battle with the bad guys, I decided that if Mark pinned and groped me, his ass would be out of a job and in
court.
Be gentle: I was only 14
years old. What did I know?
So it happened. When I talk about it now, it’s hard not to be cynical. I resort to
arm’s-length patter, something like this: “He followed me into the walk-in,
delivered the typical false-friendly remark, made a creepy anatomical
observation, and engaged in the obligatory groping and kissing.” And that’s
what it was. At the time, however, I was terrified, and there was nothing
arm’s-length about it.
“Here darlin’, let me give
you a hand with that.” Mark grabbed the big white bucket of chicken salad from
off the shelf above me and swung it down to the floor. I froze. He pushed me
against the shelves.
“Ooh, why you’re all skin
and bones. Well, not all bones,
hmmm?”
I snapped out of it and
shoved him away. I found the boss upstairs.
“What were you doing getting
chicken salad?” he barked when he’d heard my story. “Next time, send a busboy.”
I summoned my courage and
said something about sexual harassment being illegal.
“Mark has been with us for a
long time,” the boss said. His eyes transmitted a dual message. A) In contrast,
I’d only been there one summer, and B) I had lied about my age to get the job,
and he knew it.
“Watch your step,” he seemed
to be saying, “or you’ll be out of a job.”
Representative Christopher
Shays of Connecticut says about Speaker Hastert’s handling of the Foley
scandal that at least nobody died. Though he’s taking a desperate,
election-year swing at the Dems by way of Chappaquiddick, this comment echoes
many employers’ pervasive callous disregard for sexual harassment. At the risk
of sounding maudlin, although I didn’t die either, maybe a part of me did.
I didn’t quit the job. I
never told my parents or got a lawyer or anything like that. Instead, I turned
my powerlessness into bitter resignation, bitching about Mark and my stupid
boss during breaks with the other waitresses, all of us blowing smoke rings and
jingling our tips.
In my late teens, sick of
kissing ass, I got a job as a short-order cook at a huge International House of
Pancakes. Thirteen waitresses. Eight cooks. All of them male except me. The
checks came in by the handful, and we sweated and cursed trying to keep up with
orders for pan sands, silly 5s, Mile Highs, and 9-on-3s. The best part? Bossing
around the waitresses.
“Baby, I’m thirsty,” I’d
say. “Not a freakin’ glass! A tray!
Half waters, half Cokes.” The waitresses rushed to fill a dishwasher rack with
10 glasses of water and 10 of soda. We cooks gulped them down and yelled for
more.
The power alone was
exhilarating. If I’d been attracted to women, I like to think I wouldn’t have
been all creepy and groping. But who knows? A big power imbalance like that shot
through with sexual tension must be a rush.
As it was, I was too busy
defending myself from the constant pantsing, a restaurant kitchen ritual saved
for the rare female cook. Every day I wore two or three pairs of white cook
pants tied so tight they dug red dents in my skin.
By the time I met fat Charlie the cook, I knew the deal. Eighteen and supporting myself
by waitressing at a fancy hotel, I knew there is no protective wall between
pervs with power and the rest of us.
“Give Charlie a hug,” he’d
say, gumming a damp cigarette. I did, but found a way to keep my pride.
“You’re a disgusting pig,”
I’d say. “The only reason I’m anywhere near your stink is I need my order now!”
This article appears in Oct 18-24, 2006.
