(one of a series of essays written for a college feminism
class)
November 11, 1981
She wanted to go; I didn’t want her to.
This was when I was still naïve to believe I could influence
a woman to do anything but what she wanted to do and that I had no right to
stop her, even if it hurt me.
Later, I learned (and am still learning) that regardless of
how painful, the best thing to do is to step aside and let her do what she
wants, and hope that she still wants me when it’s over.
We argued, but no matter what I said, the debate ended with
her even more determined to go that before, and me even more helpless to do
anything.
“They have my contract,” she kept saying. “I signed it”
She had gone before, aching to become a movie star or model
like the sign said at the Hollywood
Boulevard office, and for the first few times I
didn’t ask what it was she did, until she told me – scalding words describing
acts I mistakenly believed I had exclusive rights to (yet one more misconception
on my part). The best you can do is accept it or leave, wisdom I had yet to
learn as well.
So when she said she was going back for more, I said no, she
said yes, and she went, and because I could do nothing else, I went down to the office to see about getting her
contract back, my imagination filling in the details of that acts I knew went
on as I did.
In the office, I told the receptionist I wanted the
contract; she said I could not have it, that it was between management and the
client, and since I obviously wasn’t the client, I should get lost, implying
naturally that there might be serious repercussion if I made a scene.
I wanted to beg her to understand – when I was the one who
didn’t get it. This was business, nothing personal, and what my girlfriend did
had nothing to do with me, only making money, and that I should go home and
wait, and appreciate how hard she worked to get the money she got.
All these years later, I understand that, although it still
hurts when something like this happens. I just learned not to interfere with
something I can’t control.
But back then, at age 19, just how of a year in the army,
hunted by the police and mobsters for some stupid crime I committed back east,
I was scared and lonely, and clung to the illusion I had rights to things I had
no right to. You either accept it or walk away, someone told me later.
Back then I could do neither. These days I swallow hard,
still struggling with the basic concepts, but understand I have no real say in
the matter and reluctantly, painfully sometimes, accept it.
Then I did beg, telling her that I needed to contract or I
would go nuts.
She told me to leave even more coldly than the first time –
or else.
Then, something stirred in the back of my cave man mind,
some pathetic idea that soon grew into something of a curious plan, a way – if
not to fight back, then to stand my ground.
I said: “Do you give contracts to men?”
The woman behind the desk eyed me very strangely, then a bit
less coldly, looked me up and down. After a year in the Army, I was in good
shape – although my folly would not reveal itself until later, the ups and
downs, the embarrassing moments of inflation and then the even more
embarrassing moments of deflation. She said, “Yes.”
“Then give me one,” I said.
It didn’t solve anything.
My girlfriend still did what she wanted to do, and when push
came to shove, I refused to do some of the stuff they asked of me – clearly
unwilling to share the same men my girlfriend did, but it was the deflation
that did me in at the end – utter dread of public humiliation and the dread
that I was helpless to fate or change any bit of destiny as I learned the one
basic fact of life: everybody has the right to do pretty much what they want to
do, regardless of what I think, and that in the end, it is a matter of not
trying.
“If you can’t beat them, join them,” one of the other men
told me. But he never had deflation issues and no problem being with other men.
No comments:
Post a Comment