The Buick scraped the curb and stopped in front of the Goodwill store off Dunlap Avenue. Mom pointed to the sign in the window — HELP WANTED.
“There, see? Go on in and apply. They’re looking for people. This will be a perfect part time job for you after school.”
I was 15-1/2, and couldn’t drive. I didn’t want an after school job. Wasn’t the fact that I had homework, and Mat Maids (wrestling cheerleaders) and puberty, enough?
But Mom and Dad were big on work ethic, paying for your own stuff, making your way in the world. They didn’t care what I ended up doing for a living (within reason), as long as I did something. A little job wouldn’t hurt me, they reasoned. And why couldn’t I buy some of my own books and lip gloss? I couldn’t fault them for their attitudes, though. They grew up in the Depression, and could remember the rationing of such basics as sugar and flour. Mom spoke of her delight upon opening a Christmas stocking to find an orange and a banana–a rare treat for her growing up in a “holler” in eastern Kentucky. They stockpiled and saved and I secretly wondered if hoarders were borne of this unfortunate moment in history.
The Goodwill hired me instantly, and I began working that week. Running the cash register was boring, so I asked if I could redo the window displays. “Of course!” the manger said with a huge smile. And so I did — putting the best clothing items on mannequins, dragging eclectic pieces of furniture and shiny objects into the windows. I was a big fan of Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar, and New York. I tried to recreate the windows I’d seen in photos of the New York department store windows, having never yet been there myself.
The management was thrilled! Real talent, they said! People were beginning to stop just to look at the windows! Can you reorganize the whole store? Can you work more hours?
No. And no.
Enter the managers’ son, Ricky.
Ricky was a lanky boy of 17, wearing a cowboy hat that perched too far forward. His teeth were in need of braces; he sported an oversized belt buckle bearing his initials. He decided his love for me was real and made no effort to hide it. His manager parents — both of them — fully supported their son’s quest and suggested I date him as well.
It was horrible.
I had no interest in him, and continually turned down his offers to take me out. He was not deterred in the least, and continued to follow me around, making sure he was on the premises every time I worked. How did he even know? His parents informed him.
I started wearing my coat during my shift so he wouldn’t comment on my body.
In today’s world, it would certainly be considered harassment.
It was a hot Friday afternoon in May and I was working the register since both the front windows were done. Too hot to wear my corduroy coat, I slipped it off and placed it on a chair. Ricky had just walked in through the back entrance, all bow-legged and wearing cowboy boots and Wranglers. He must have thought I had removed my coat just for his pleasure. He grinned and sidled up behind me, sliding his hands up my waist and onto my breasts.
I gasped and yelled “WHAT THE???” — then turned and punched him hard under his nose. He staggered back, fury in his eyes. A trickle of blood oozed from his nose and his eyes began to water. Both parents ran from the back of the store to see what the commotion was about, their mouths agape.
Time seemed suspended, I held my breath. The store was quiet except for Ricky who cursed quietly under his breath, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his western shirt.
I exhaled, then picked up my purse and corduroy jacket and walked out of the Goodwill on Dunlap Avenue.
I never returned.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I’m guessing every person reading this has a story, a “first time it happened” incident. If you’re female, the odds are much higher. The National Sexual Violence Resource Center (NSVRC) statistics: nationwide, 81% of women and 43% of men reported experiencing some form of sexual harassment and/or assault in their lifetime.
Speak up. Be strong.
Stay strong,
Suzette
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