On Wednesday…

There are two men in front of me slowly swaggering and bantering back and forth with each other. I know this could mean trouble when they slowly turn and look my direction as I’m pacing towards them in a hurry to catch my bus. The one on my left quickly says hello and cocks his arm out in a ‘take my arm’ manner. I slow down trying to figure out how to get around them when I realize they’re going exactly the same way I am. So they keep walking with me and finally I take out my earphones because they’re trying to talk to me. Shortly, we exchange names and a polite but verging on the too personal conversation begins. One of the men lights a cigarette and asks me if my job is boring (‘cause he can tell I hate it he says – though I haven’t said a word, I’m just wearing a suit), how long I’ve been in the city, that he knows plenty of clubs around town and lives nearby. He is a jewelry designer and his friend is basically a drifter but he works sometimes. Between the two of them they’ve lived in L.A. over forty years. He tells me that he and his friend could take me out, we’d have some fun. That he loves beautiful women. I change the subject and ask about restaurants. They argue about Tunisian food over Armenian, tell me good places to go eat and say that there’s not really any good Tunisian food around here, a statement his friend protests. Then finally, “you should take my number down” he says. I tell him I’m married, and he says “so am I. My wife likes pretty women.” His friend, a little miffed that I am accepting his friends’ number says, “its fine if I want Tunisian, but give it a try and you’ll be calling me instead.”

Image by Thomas Hawk via Flickr

On Thursday (the week after)…..

I’m standing at the bus stop, finally picking up my bags to get on the arriving bus. When this man, dressed in a nice suit with a green tie and a hair line so far back from his forehead and cut straight across the middle of his head, I’m not sure if he’s going bald or if he cuts it that way, says, “It’s hot. I’m in a suit and you’re in a sweater but we both look good.” He tells me he’s going to the Body Shop, happily chiming that “it’s a strip club.” When the bus arrives, he embarrassingly moves in front of the line and motions for me to step in front of him. I think ‘uh-oh, this guy’s trouble,’ and my face puckers in disgust; a look I don’t really emerge from until he says goodbye. I manage to score a seat next to a woman who is sleeping, so he is forced to sit diagonally from me.

He’s going to ‘Body Shop’ and people if you can’t guess what that name might imply, let me tell you – it’s a strip club. An ALL-NUDE strip club. He tells me that it’s a shame there’s not a local club for women. I tell him I don’t think it’d be a popular destination.

“Do you have a car?” He asks.

“No, that’s why I’m on the bus.”

“Aw, ’cause I was gonna say you should meet me at the club.”

He asks me if he can have my number and I say no. So, he asks me if he can give me his. I tell him that yes, he can, but I won’t be calling it. I’m married (and for god sakes even if I wasn’t I wouldn’t be joining his little party).

“‘You know, a lot of women in L.A. cheat, its pretty common”

‘That’s not my problem” I respond

He looks at me, and smiles. Suddenly he leans in and motions me to come closer. The story he tells me is this: “You know I screwed around with my friend’s wife for nine years. Nine years, can you believe it (chuckling)? He was a cop, and he would go away on jobs and work late, and they had three kids. You know everytime I was with her she would just go crazy and want to leave him, but I convinced her to stay with him everytime because of the children. (Smiles) You know, we didn’t make love everytime we got together. No, there was this one time we spent at a hotel and we just got some oil, and we just rubbed up on each other. There was this nice hot tub in the room and we just sat there and had some champagne. You know, there was this one time that her husband said he had to go away for two weeks for a job to guard the President, but he only worked for the police and only the FBI and CIA guard the President, so she knew that he was cheating on her too and so I always told her ‘my girl don’t know about you so don’t let your guy know about me and we’ll just keep seeing each other.  Nine years! Can you believe that? (chuckling)”

WHAT.THE.HELL.

I lean back in my chair and put my earphones in, but he persists. He asks me if I’m Tricia Yearwood, because maybe he was talking to a country star. Nope. He asks if I like country music and I say ‘no’ to that too. He tells me he likes classical music but mostly listens to R&B. Finally, he returns to a former subject:

“Would you like my number?”

“No.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters? Yep. A sister.” (That was a mistake to mention)

“Does she want my number?”

“No.”

“Can you give me her number?”

“No.”

“Now, I was gonna give you my number because when that husband of yours does cheat, you should give me a call.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

He kind of looks around and then back at me. He brings up marriage, so we talk a bit about the importance of communication, and he tells me he hopes to find a woman like me. “So, could he have my sisters’ number? No.”

He tells me that I’m very beautiful. I thank him for the compliment and wish him luck, as he’s about to leave the bus.

Finally he asks if I could say a prayer for him. Just a small one, like a minute long because he says he’s a troubled man.

I tell him that I could do that.

At times, these experiences leave me feeling sad for the man, and angry at myself. Seeing a glimpse of these men’s attitudes about life, about women, how desperate they seem and kind of lonely is depressing. It’s depressing to know that morals don’t seem to come into their consciousness (in the way that hitting on a young girl may be inappropriate or suggesting sexual situations unwelcome), that integrity is a lost art and self-control a big problem. I’m not sure I pity them, but I certainly feel something that sits between loathing their presence and sadness; and I realize, it’s not my job to fix their problems and I’m not here to flatter them. This is where I get angry – my lack of defense and not putting up enough of a fight. Accepting a number or having a conversation, to me, is getting me nowhere, and certainly trumps my ability to show that my foot won’t waver once I’ve spoken the word ‘no’. In my experience, I haven’t learned that saying no is the ultimate answer, but diffusing and managing the situation is. No doesn’t stop it, but if I bide my time, I’ll be ok and outta there in fifteen minutes without anyone getting hurt. This isn’t right though, I know there’s a better way, I just haven’t figured it out yet.

Recently, there was an article published on Jezebel.com by Almie Rose titled ‘Stop Hitting On Me’ in which the author reminds everyone that being hit on isn’t a compliment, it’s harassment and the violation of another person; and it reminded me of the biggest reason I hate being asked for my number: “When a man says no, that’s the end of the discussion. When a woman says no, it’s the beginning of a negotiation.” Rose points out, “as women, we’re subliminally taught to be polite under duress. Because if we say no, or reject any sort of advance even if we do it kindly, we’re labeled a bitch. We don’t want you to join us when we’re eating alone? Bitch. We don’t want you to buy us a drink? Bitch. We don’t feel flattered when you catcall us on the street? Bitch. And the thing is, we have no way of knowing which one of you is going to snap and attack us.” I am angry that I am vulnerable to this sort of experience. Though I can get off the bus at the next stop, or walk away, change seats or stand in the front next to the driver, there is always the possibility that the intruder will follow me and that others will watch it happen without a word. As in, if I’m being raped or attacked, I’m told ‘don’t say ‘rape’, say ‘fire’ otherwise no one will want to get involved because they don’t want to get hurt either.

I am angry that I have to manage the situation instead of walk away from it because of potential consequences and the creation of that experience by someone who just can’t seem to get a clue, or thinks they have the right, or won’t respect the fact that I’m married. Rose states that there are women she knows that will just say ‘fuck off’ but like her, I’m just not always one of those, because I’m too worried about what might come next. To echo Rose’ conclusion, I don’t want to be mean, I just want to know that if I decide to say no, that’s where it ends.

Tags: Bus, Getting hit on, the body shop