It’s 1977. I’m twenty-five, twice-divorced, and sole provider for my four-year-old son. I buy a Dorothea Lange-worthy shack deep in the woods for $500 (my take-home pay for a month). After too many husbands and roommates, it feels like freedom even though there’s no water or electricity.
My job is entry level in a woman-owned company known for promoting people with potential. Creative, industrious, and thrilled to be employed in what I perceive as a feminist environment, I toil hopeful for a chance at prosperity.
One day at work there’s a buzz over a visit by an industry legend. The owner enters the secretarial pool while giving him a tour and introduces my co-workers and me. He shakes our hands. I think, wow that’s cool she includes the bottom of the totem pole. A man would never do that. Right on, sister!
Even though I report to a manager who reports to a director who reports to the owner, the next day the owner calls me into her office. She says, “I have great news. The legend likes you the best. Know what I mean? I’m sending you to his conference—a great opportunity. Know what I mean? Make him happy. We’re working on a big deal and it’s important that he’s very happy. Know what I mean?”
I think, yes pimp, I know what you mean. Dreams of success are dashed and replaced by an image of waitressing in a diner. Then dumpster diving. So be it. There’s no fucking way I will make him happy.
I look her in the eye and say, “You’re barking up the wrong tree.” Shaking, I walk back to my desk. In the many degrading jobs I’d held, male bosses proposing deals involving my body were ubiquitous. But a successful woman exploiting me for her bottom line? Really?
The next day, I’m called into the director’s office. He says, “The owner said you’re rude to customers. She wants you fired.”
I laugh, “HA! Oh really? When exactly was I rude?”
He says, “She wasn’t specific. She doesn’t like your attitude.”
“My attitude? Have any customers complained?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Have I ever been late?”
“Well, no.”
“Do I ever leave early?”
“No.”
“Have any of my co-workers complained?”
“No.”
“Do you know what this is really about?”
He raises his eyebrows.
“She tried to pimp me to the legend because of some deal they’re working on and I refused.”
The director blanches.
I’d been too focused on my outrage to consider the fact that prostitution is illegal. They could be in big trouble. Confidence surging, I challenge, “Go ahead and fire me.” The director says, “Hmmmmm. Go back to your desk.”
I do, wondering what their next move will be. Days later while eating lunch in the packed noisy cafeteria, the owner rushes in. The room goes silent, all eyes on her. Towering over me, she booms, “I’m sorry you misunderstood me, Chris.” Now everyone stares at me as the owner exits. I chew the food steeping in my mouth. When it becomes clear an explanation is not forthcoming, the audience resumes their conversations.
My son and I live on brown rice, soybeans, and eggs. We carry water uphill. I scavenge wood with a borrowed chainsaw. For all the hardship, we are free in our humble solitude. Do I long for convenience and less worry? Yes. Is it worth handing over control of my body? No. My bottom retreats to the woods where freedom rings.