I wrote this short story back in 2008 but never posted it to my blog. I definitely don't like it as much as I did when I first wrote it, but hey, that's part of writing.
"Consent Runs at 100Mph"
I was leaving work after a closing
shift, walking down the fairly deserted street in downtown Seattle. It was a
Sunday night and we had closed at a comparatively early 1am, no, I don’t work
at a bar, I dance at a strip club. Before you jump to conclusions, let me
explain that it isn’t what most people imagine when they think of a strip club.
I work at a peepshow, an archaic design, with naked girls dancing behind glass
while (mostly) men peep through
shatterproof windows.
Most every storefront was dark and
quiet, except for the dingy convenience store my car was parked in front of.
Walking, I reflected briefly on my uneventful shift. It was uneventful in a
very relative sense, I recently had to be reminded how strange it is that I get
paid to watch strangers jack off all day. Pleasantly tired from my strenuous
work out, I approached my car when I heard someone yell, “Hey! Are you familiar
with this area?” I turned to face a car full of adolescent men, parked just a
few yards in front of my car. Before I could even form a sentence their car
erupted with taunts of “Hey hot stuff!” and threats of “Looking for a ride?”
and “Come over here!” My blood immediately began to boil, and turned quickly
and stormed towards my car, their voices chasing after me. They sped off, but
stopped at the next light less than a block away. I jumped into my car and
slammed the door behind me gritting my teeth and lighting another cigarette.
For a brief moment, I considered following them, tailing them until I could
threaten them with one of the numerous knives I store in my car. Numerous
images of them pulling me out of my car and curb stomping me gave me ease for
hesitation. My exhaustion kicked in, my adrenaline eased, and began the hour
drive home.
Why did I get so upset about this
when so much of my day is consumed by the vulgar attention of men? As I drove,
it came quite simply to me. Consent. When I’m at work we have entered into a
mutual agreement about the context of our relationship. At work if a customer
treats me disrespectfully, hell, if they just annoy me, I ask them to leave.
This is a privilege fairly unique to strip clubs, there is very little
incentive to hustle customers at the peep show. The stereotypical image of
cat-fighting women in 7” heels grappling over a twenty dollar bill remains
mostly a mystery to me.
As I drove the guilt of my inaction
became overwhelming, I had shot a furtive “fuck you!” over my shoulder, but I’m
sure they heard my voice shake. Whenever I’m catcalled on the street or
violated in some other way by men, I can’t stop myself from entering into vivid
fantasies about how I could have defended myself. Driving down I-5 that night I
imagined a painful fate for my assaulters…
The boys are yelling at me and I
slowly and calmly approach the car. As if it’s an old habit I say “Okay boys,
everyone out, let’s see those hands nice and clear.” The boys pause, they’re
slowly processing the dangerous situation they’ve just created. I clear my
voice for dramatic effect “I said get out of the motherfucking car and let me
see your fucking hands!” The four boys scurry out, their hands fumbling over
themselves and each other. I recognize this behavior, the self-pat down, the
‘did I forget to take the _____ illegal thing of out my pocket?’ Their sudden
uncertainty makes me smile coldly on the outside and pulse hot and wet on the
inside. “Officer, I’m very sorry my friends yelled at you, they’re just very
excited to be in the city and we’re really lost,” says the driver. ‘Good’ I think
to myself, ‘they assume I’m a cop they’re too scared stupid to ask to see a
badge’. Smirking I say, “You’re just sorry you got caught. I sure hope you boys
didn’t have any plans this decade. Assault on an officer, that’s ten years,
easy…” They’re looking like I poured a bucket of cold water over them, shaking
and breathing heavily. “Please, sir…officer! They didn’t know! I’ll do
anything!” I’m thrilled that only one of them, the driver, even has the courage
to speak. “Well…” I say stepping closer to him so that I can see the sweat on
his brow…
My gaslight comes on, the rest of
the fantasy trails away, with one final image of me standing on a cheap motel
chair whipping the boys with a cat of nine tails. I pull off the highway in
Tacoma, my halfway home mark to fill up. The pump doesn’t accept my card. It’s
cold. I’m exceedingly annoyed, but at least I’m distracted from the fantasy
about those boys. I turn on one of my favorite bands, Daft Punk and get back on
the highway. Music blasting and a cigarette smoke filled car on a cold night,
these are a few of my favorite things. It’s almost two am and the highway is
mostly deserted, unpleasantly damp and chilly.
Casually observing the other cars,
I suddenly jolt and my stomach falls on the floor mat. There’s their car! The
same color. The same license plate. It only takes me a moment to weigh the
morality of my options. I accelerate and switch lanes, following half a car
length behind them and one lane to the left. Breathing slowly I estimate how
long it will take them to realize they’re being followed. Ten minutes? Fifteen?
It ends up being closer to five, expedited by me aggressively boxing them in
between two tractor-trailers.
My Ipod has switched seamlessly to
the next album, an industrial remix of the aforementioned favorite band. I roll
my windows all the way down, whipping freezing air throughout the inside of my
car, I finally let them in front of me. As they speed ahead I switch lanes
again and light another cigarette. From my new vantage point I can see all the
passengers in that car turning around quickly trying to see into my car, but
I’m safely just out of view, I don’t want them to see that it’s me yet. This
whole experience tastes too good, feels so cinematic that my timing has to be
just right. Suddenly their car accelerates…they’re a 1/8th of a
mile…1/2 a mile ahead. I’m hesitating because it’s only eight miles to my exit
home, maybe they’ve had enough. My privilege of a fast transmission takes over
my remaining willpower and I’m cruising at 120mph. It feels like being spanked
during sex, hot, exciting and with a warning label that reads ‘You Could Lose
Control at any Moment’. My foot stays pressed hard against the floor.
I’ve caught up to them. Never
passing or completely matching their pace, I let them set the speed and take
the risk of getting a ticket. They level off at 100mph. Five miles to my exit.
Everyone in their car appears frantic, and I start laughing. Three miles to my
exit. They switch lanes, so do I, staying close. One mile to my exit. I turn up
the music as high as my stereo will allow and accelerate, effortlessly drifting
into their view. I take an unrealistically long drag of my cigarette and stare
them all in the eyes as I pass them. I can see their unbelieving stares of
recognition, shock and awe. It’s a lot like the look I imagined in my fantasy,
cold water, shaking and heaving breaths. It’s a more terrified version of the
look I had gotten earlier that day when a customer realized he served me my
latte that morning. Sighing, I take my exit and set my sights on home.
Still smiling I enter my house,
some of my housemates are still awake, sipping beers in the kitchen. I put the
kettle on to make a cup of chamomile tea. My lover asks “Hey Honey, how was
your day?” I fall into an armchair and laugh deeply.
I was presented with a very rare
opportunity that night, to disempower those who had disempowered me. That’s
another difference between work and the real world I’m the king of the castle
at work, on the street I’m seen as some sort of helpless sex-bot. Did those
boys learn a lesson about institutionalized sexism that night? Probably not.
Will they think twice about yelling at some women on the street again? I’m
quite certain they will. Sex work for me is a constant struggle between boundaries,
some seemingly arbitrary others strongly rooted in the avoidance of trauma.
Whatever those boundaries are, I will do whatever I have to do to maintain and
protect them. Thanks boys, I had almost forgotten how much power I actually
had"
----
Reflecting on this piece three years later a few things come to mind immediately.
- I find it specifically problematic that I felt the need or desire to embody a violent tool of the state (police) to validate empowerment. The police are not a libratory (or even protective force), yet they hold disproportionate relative power.
- I don't actually think that in order to be empowered it may be necessary to disempower others. In the same way that there is no scarcity of oppression there isn't a scarcity of empowerment. Of course healing trauma can look like a lot of things, but it still is self-generated rather than directly traded.
- I wish I had written more car chase narrative, maybe I'll go back and add some more.
