When I lived in Lubbock, I worked at a grocery store and part of my job was running the service desk. This mostly consisted of cashing payroll checks, selling money orders, processing bill payments, and answering the phone, which rang at least once every fifteen minutes or so.
When I picked up the phone, my greeting was always the same, slightly harried and all in one breath.
ThankyouforcallingUnitedthisisMaggiehowcanIhelpyou? Most of the time, people called to check that we had a certain brand of beer or to order a birthday cake or something forgettable like that, and I would quickly transfer them to the appropriate department and move on to another task.
One slow night, I was sweeping when the phone rang and I answered, same as usual. He asked a question—I don't remember what. Maybe what time we closed or something routine like that, so I gave him a routine answer. He thanked me. I was about to hang up the phone when he started to say something else.
"Oh, and Maggie," he paused, "do you have a tight pussy?"
I slammed the phone down and stared open-mouthed at the receiver, my brain working to process what had just happened. I was in disbelief—for about ten seconds, and then I was
livid. I was visibly shaking. The question played over and over in my head and I could hear the smirk in his voice. He thought he was funny.
When I told a few of my supervisors what had happened, they only stifled their laughter once they saw how angry I was.
---
A couple of years before I moved to Austin, I was visiting Melany for the weekend and we decided to go dancing. It was a good night. I was so happy to be in my city and away from the stress of school, drinking and dancing to all of my favorite songs. This was pre-ridesharing, so when we felt too tipsy to drive home, we decided to walk a few blocks to a restaurant to get something to eat.
The restaurant was much farther away than we thought, but it was a nice night and we didn't mind walking. We made friends with drunk strangers and walked and laughed alongside them for a few blocks until they reached their apartment and we waved our goodbyes. Soon after that, a pedicab drove up and asked if we wanted a ride, but we brushed him off. We were nearly there by that point.
One block after the pedicab and about two blocks from the restaurant, I collapsed dramatically on a bench and complained about how long it was taking. Melany sat down next to me and was in the middle of apologizing for the miscalculation when a man walked around the far corner of the building we were sitting in front of.
Without saying anything to each other, we both immediately stood up and started walking again. He was short, probably shorter than Melany, but he was lean and muscular and wasn't wearing a shirt and was walking purposefully towards us. He was mad—mad at women because they wouldn't have sex with him and mad at us because we were women.
"Why can't I get any pussy?" he said, over and over as he followed us. We tried to shake him off and asked him to leave us alone,
please just leave us alone, please.
I dialed 911 on my phone, my finger hovering over the call button, but I didn't press it because what if? What if he heard me calling and freaked out? We could have run, but what if he chased us? What if we couldn't make it to the restaurant? What if he did something to Melany?
If he does anything to Melany, I'll kill him, I thought.
It was less than five minutes, but felt like hours before we crossed the last street and reached the restaurant. An employee was sweeping the sidewalk outside and I ran up to him.
"This guy won't leave us alone," I said. Without a word he ushered me inside and Melany followed. Then the employee stood in front of the door and refused to let him in. The employee repeatedly told him to leave, but he stood there, glaring at us through the window. It was a few minutes before he finally walked off.
Melany and I sat down and held hands across the small table while we silently cried into our milkshakes.
---
I was out dancing with my best friends one night when we met a couple of guys at the bar. I started talking with the tall, cute brunette and we had a few drinks before moving to the dance floor where, eventually, we started kissing.
It was crowded that night, a Friday at the end of SXSW, so bodies were pressed against me at all times. I was sweaty and drunk and I'm not going to lie—it was fun. I was having so much fun dancing and singing along to '80s music and kissing a cute boy.
At one point, through the haze, I realized there was one too many hands touching my body. It happened so fast. The extra hand was on my ass and moving down, then up and under my dress and inside my underwear. It registered enough to slap the hand away, but not enough to stop dancing. Not enough to turn around and see who the hell had touched me.
It wasn't until the next day talking with Melany that I remembered. I told her, but laughed it off. I was drunk, I thought. I was drunk and making out with someone in the middle of the dance floor. I shouldn't have done that.
I felt stupid and embarrassed, like I did the night that man followed Melany and me. We shouldn't have been walking downtown alone at night and I shouldn't have been kissing a guy and I shouldn't have gotten so worked up about that guy that called the store and on and on.
But here's something I've learned in the last few years: he shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have followed us, and he shouldn't have harassed us, and he shouldn't have said that to me, and he shouldn't have touched me.
I didn't do anything wrong.
-Maggie
To be honest, I've been feeling a little burnt out. I'm always tired, and the only thing I feel like doing when I'm not at work is sleep. I'm not sure what it is exactly. I think I just need a weekend off. The weekends I haven't had to work, I've either been traveling or entertaining. It's been awhile since I've had a couple days off with no plans, and I'm really, really looking forward to next weekend because of this. Hopefully, I will be able to spend the entirety of it in my pajamas.
