The Pump & Grind

***

A few weeks ago I was working in the bookstore. We had barely been open 20 minutes. Armed with a clipboard and a pen, I began inventorying the periodicals near the front in preparation for both returns to publishers and noting sales for future orders. As the periodicals are all near the front door, and I was in a crouched position, with my back towards the door, counting papers on a bottom shelf, I was keeping an “ear” on the sound of the door so that I could move myself out of the way -- rather than be knocked off my kitten heels or startle customers.

At the first sounds of activity at the door, I quickly counted the last two copies in the stack and began to rise to my feet. My head was still bowed down as I  quickly scribbled the final tally of “8″ --  on the appropriate title line -- on the paper on my clipboard. And so it was that I heard the two men, conversing rather loudly, before I saw them.

“--dare to shake their fannies like that and then claim they don’t want a man or to have kids!” 

I straightened up just in time to see the angry old “coot” as he spat out his last words.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, but honestly, I hadn’t really processed what had happened yet. I was just putting on my professional clerk smile, my lips forming the “Good morning!” greeting, as I looked the red-cheeked coot in the eyes.

I received a curt nod & so was swiveling my head to greet the coot’s companion. A broad smile on my face, I turned to the younger man who was wearing a MAGA hat as red as his face. He waved me off with his angry words, continuing the conversation with the coot.

“Damn ungrateful bitches!”

By this time my brain had processed what I was hearing -- and was in total agreement with the hairs on the back of my neck. “Flight!” it urged me.

I answered that call.

But I still walked.

I walked that “purposeful” walk -- you ladies know that walk, it’s the one we use when we walk to our cars alone late at night with our keys laced between our fingers. It’s supposed to look confident. Fast enough to project that “we are to be undeterred from our business.” Slow enough not to look like the victim running.

And, yes, as I walked I removed the curly-rubberband-bracelet of store keys from my wrist and held the keys at the ready. For the door, or whatever --whoever -- might attempt to deter me from my purpose.

The words “shake their fannies” echoed over and over again in my head -- I was acutely aware that today, of all days, I was wearing an ivory blouse tucked neatly into my black pencil skirt, something which definitely could emphasize my “fanny shaking” more than any other fashion work option, especially when worn with heels (however “kitten” they might be).

So as I walked my purposeful walk, I tried to both look natural and tighten or slow any shaking of my behind. 

I have no idea how I fared.

I walked to the back of the store, to the safety of the locked shipping and receiving room. I swiftly, damn near elegantly, unlocked the door, and took my last purposeful stride into the back room. I locked the door behind me. And leaned against it, taking deep breaths, allowing my heart rate to slow. The. Fuck. Down.

It was then that I first began to dissect my actions.

Partly in shame. We women always feel shame when these things happen. It’s absolutely ridiculous that we do that! Here two grown men were loudly voicing their apparent ire over being rejected by women, swearing, not caring who heard -- and I’m the one feeling ashamed?!

Why had I high-tailed it to the stockroom? Why hadn’t I just headed to the cash-wrap desk? It was closer, and one of my male coworkers was there, running the til.

But here’s the sad fact: When a woman feels that threatened by men, she doesn’t feel supported let alone protected by other men. We just don’t. 

Why not? Because, look, these two men didn’t actually take a swing at me. They didn’t lay a hand on me. They technically didn’t even speak to me. And we women know, from our own situations and watching it play out before us, that when we do express our concerns or share our fears -- even with video evidence, that we are not believed. We are mocked. We are teased and belittled. Sometimes we are even attacked as liars, as having created the situation, as being the real problem. 

And those are the better scenarios.

It can get far uglier.

“Complaints” can lead to retaliation. We can physically be attacked and assaulted. Sometimes the very people we turn to for help join in with the abusive jerks.

So no, I didn’t trust the man I was working with.

Nor did I feel that I should put a 20-year-old slight dude in a situation in which he himself might be threatened or physically confronted by the two other men.

Astonishingly, all these scenarios, options, rationalizations, and, yes, care and concern for others, occurred in my head --  while I was smiling and greeting them, yet -- in just those few seconds it took for me to parse the conversation between those two men and plan my purposeful exit to safety.

And once I felt I was safe, it only took a few more seconds to begin the self-recriminations, to become awash in shame and guilt. All sorts of guilt.

How long was I missing from the floor? What time was it -- would I get the periodical count faxed in time? Was my coworker OK? ...Were those two men still out there?

It’s true what they say. Men are afraid of rejection, that they fear women will laugh at them; but women are afraid that men will attack or kill them.

It’s only become worse with our Bully In Chief. 

Before there were always the closet cases, the men that made the hairs on the backs of our necks stand up “for no reason.” But now, thanks to The Great Orange Misogynist, many men (and their submissive patriarchal-preserving female counterparts) don’t even attempt to hide it anymore. If Trump himself can “stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody” and not lose a vote, if he can brag about assaulting women and getting away with it, those MAGA hat-wearing followers are feeling invincible too. They “no longer have to bother with that pc bullshit.” They freely -- loudly -- aspire to the low levels of their leader.

Conversations such as those two white males loudly had in the bookstore would not have happened just a few years ago. They would have had the decency -- aka fear of decent people in public spaces -- to relegate such misogyny and chest thumping (and likely the accompanying racism) to private spaces. But now they have little, if any, fear of such public displays of hatred, assault, and abuse. Instead of being the ones to feel shame, people like me do. These people defile our public spaces.

What’s worse? Very few of The Decent People are willing to tell those defilers that their actions and beliefs are beyond inappropriate -- that they will not be tolerated.

Instead, We The Decent People, are told -- much as women have been for centuries -- not to make waves. We are supposed to “stop and think about the opinions and experiences of others.” We’re supposed to be more tolerant. We are told to be amenable to those who wish to hang inside their hate-filled partisan bubbles, to reach out and listen so that we can communicate past political divisions.

But what about when a person -- or a pair of people -- walk about spewing hate? What about those of us who feel threatened? Those of us who are attacked?

My parents taught me not only the difference between Wrong and Right and to stand up for what’s Right -- but to also stand up against what is Wrong.

Quite possibly the only Marc Fisher shoes I do not like at all, in any way.

My niece & I play “house slippers or shoes” - so I snapped this pic as a joke for her ;)