(WARNING: What follows isn't book or writing or media related. It's personal. Delivered with all the usual charm. But it's about the dread S.H.)
I hate having my picture taken. I know what I look like. I know what my voice sounds like. Neither pleases me. I am still gobsmacked that my wife married me. The wedding photos show a luminous bride. The groom looks like the guy the neighborhood kids are 75% certain is a serial killer.
So.
Enrolled in a metro driver class, the problem put before the students involved figuring out a desired route or destination when the bus passenger at hand might have a speech impediment. Solution: You let the passenger use her or his finger to write the relevant number on your palm.
As a test, to see how sensitive our palms proved, the class instructor had each table pair proceed to palm write. I wrote in the palm of my classmate. She got every number. Swell. Her turn. She wrote 5. Yep. Got it. 17. Sure. Then...69. With a pause. And a little sidelong glance to see if I 'got' it.
The metro class was a time-intensive endeavor. Basically, you got shot through the chute to try and take a CDL test determining whether or not you had the right stuff or not. Almost all of us were working full-time jobs while taking the class. A little harmless sex joke didn't seem appropriate to bump up into kerfluffle form. Also, as though I can't stress it enough, I am not a good looking guy. If anything I believe sexual advances made towards me are made for the simple reason my default setting is looking uncomfortable. I guess some people just want to up the ante and pop the uncomfortable into the red with a little squirm thrown in for flavor.
For years (and years and years and years and sweet Jesus, years) I worked in the retail book world in the general Seattle-area, all for the same company.
I encountered three instances of sexual harassment at 2 of 3 locations, and the harassment I encountered/endured/dealt with sourced from female co-workers.
In the first instance, the unwanted advances/jokes were directed both at me and another male co-worker (we'll call him Connor). Connor and I approached our boss, informed the boss of the goings-on, and agreed we'd try to defuse the situation on our own before opening the human resources can of worms. The can, I'm still happy to say to this day, remained unopened. I don't know what particularly drove my female co-worker into her temporary madness, but she's still someone I miss, and over time have come to admire for her fine works outside retail-Hell.
The other two instances I'll thumbnail.
One, basically at a workstation by ourselves, a female co-worker let me know how much she enjoyed anal sex with an understated offer for partaking in the activity. There was no provocation other than the Casual Conversation Muse was having a glitch of unfortunate proportions.
Two, another female co-worker, on multiple occasions, let me know how much she enjoyed oral sex - receiving and performing.
In one of the above instances, the co-worker would get a pass from most people, even management, even the most rod-up-their-butt human resources expert for the simple existence of outstanding health issues. It's what I think of as the Ewok Effect.
Take any issue of the day, and insert an Ewok, and the scoundrel in the crosshairs is suddenly sympathetic. Think of Hitler. But if it's an Ewok in jodhpurs and with the little mustache...so cute! The Holocaust is practically excusable.
So, if the female employee telling me about anal or oral is somehow hurt or hobbled in some dreadful and permanent state, complaining either to them or to a boss about being harassed is tantamount to complaining about an Ewok.
ME: "Hey, I know I'm gonna sound like a jerk for complaining about this but the Ewok was telling me in graphic detail about getting a little nookie."
BOSS: "The Ewok had sex? OHMIGOD! That is so cute!"
I come from the Go Along To Get Along School. The bad thing is I also come from the I Never Forget A Slight School. And not slights directed only my way but towards family. This is not a happy marriage. This is why my hair is thinning.
In his work office, my dad would hang a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Models calendar. On the inside of the door. In other words, no one could see it. And it's not like Dad held meetings in his office. He was usually out of the office, out in the woods doing the job of a Fire Management Officer. But one woman in the business office took issue with the calendar and filed sexual harassment charges. She was a piece of work, the kind of turd that bobbled back up in everyone's toilet, seeking to inflict hardships with wide a brush as possible because of course everyone always tries to undermine a minority woman. I think the troublemaker would be a short spitting distance from 70 at this point in her life. Even so, given the chance for a face-to-face, I would have to fight like a mother dog to suppress unleashing a hot torrent of insensitive language.
This is now a post-Harvey Weinstein world. And now Kevin Spacey is thrown into the fire, too, with who knows how many more to follow. What Annabella Sciorra, Natasha Malthe and just too goddamned many other women have suffered at the hands of Weinstein and his species of shit is a different kind of Hell than I can know. All I've known in comparison was a Heck. A low-level smidge of a Heck.
I think the basic problem is people have genitals. And as so often occurs, people misread the room. And the company. And their companions openness to information or first-hand experience with said genitals.
What I'm waiting to see yet not expecting to see, is men coming forward to detail their experiences being harassed by women. It seems highly unlikely any woman could be a Weinstein-sized monster. But I know there have to be lots of men who've bitten their tongues or didn't want to rock boats and went along to get along. Saying something, problems arise. Saying nothing, the stress monkey shortens your lifespan. The poisons don't care. A or B, the crossbones marked wine is gonna flow.
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