Sexism and The City

It was the day that everything changed. The city was revelling, a continuous cycle of drudgery, delusion, and desperation. Once again, I found myself standing waiting for the rhythm of the traffic light to quicken to a rapid pace and allow me to cross the road. Most people didn’t obey the traffic lights in the city, something about having no time. Yet, I quite looked forward to taking my time in the morning. With the hallowed sounds of civilisation knocking impatiently at my door and my heartbeat syncopated with the city, I looked around for a second, tried to gain my bearings.

People clung to their coffees as their lifelines, their only love other than a steady paycheque. I would step in between pieces of trash on the floor, a simple game I would play with myself; discarded cigarette butts, a misplaced sock or two, and pieces of gum slowly infusing with the concrete. Homeless people on the street clawed at my feet. Once in a while, I would drop a coin or two into their laps, feeling a sense of humanity as I did so.

The woman next to me with striking hair stared out into the distance. Her body was present, integrated into the thick of the concrete jungle, yet her mind miles away. She screamed desperation as her caked makeup disguised whispers of wrinkles. I expected she looked withered underneath. The man just in front of me tapped his foot restlessly on the ground. Every moment or so, he would check his watch as though mystically the universe would turn in his favour and turn back time, just to suit him.

Cab drivers honked discordant tunes, yelling at people crossing in front of them to scatter. Instinctively, as it happened every morning, the pedestrians would throw their hands up as if to say sorry and then, continued to do the same thing again to the cab in the next lane.

Sometimes I was flattered with the cat-calls of beggars on the street, maybe my skirt was a tad too short. I tugged at my frock and tried to ignore them. I let the sweet whistles bury themselves into the symphony of the city.

My building sat in the same spot I left it the evening before. It was the same as any other, feverishly built and vapid. It was squashed between other buildings on all sides. I would often feel despondent as I entered the building, I wondered with so little space how it was able to breathe. I ran to catch the elevator as the doors slowly closed on me, no one bothered to hold it open. Another second, and I would have been mangled.

We were packed in like the products on that woman’s face, myself and a few others, trapped in 9-5 drudgery. Two men from my office were standing in the elevator, though I doubted they remembered my name. They wore fitted suits and radiated copious amounts of cologne and privilege. One of them stood behind me. Even though I faced away from him, I could still smell the coffee laced with gin on his breath.

‘… and so, I told her to man up and do the presentation.’ The man behind me said.

‘Not sure that was the best call, buddy. I couldn’t take her seriously in that meeting — did you see what she was wearing?’

‘Well, that’s not my fault.’ He deflected, ‘Must be trying to gain a promotion.’ Their laughs were stabbing and virulent. Later, I would regret not standing up for the woman. Though at the time I did not want to get involved.

I pleaded that the rest of the ascent would be quiet and boring. Boring was good - it meant I didn’t have to worry. After a few stops along our journey, everyone else had gotten out and left me and my colleagues alone. I would often worry when I was alone with men, it was a trivial, irrational fear I had since childhood. I told myself to get over it.

‘You work in our office, don’t you?’ the man behind me intimately whispered into my ear. I nodded passively, staring down at my shoes. I felt small. He then looked to his fellows with a sly raise of an eyebrow, ‘I hear you’re quite smart for a woman, not trying to steal a man’s job, are you?’ Immediately, I felt the sting of their eyes on me.

‘An intelligent woman…’ the other said, ‘who wants that?’

Even before the elevator reached my level, I pressed the button, got out, and arduously climbed the stairs the rest of the way.

My desk sat at the front of the office, close enough to hear the whispers of conversations yet far enough to never join in. It wasn’t often that people would talk to me; not much more than a pitiful and empty greeting or a summary of what I had to do. I wouldn’t have fitted in with them anyway. Most of the folk in the office were the more aggressive and chauvinistic type, and I, more passive and insignificant.

My boss was the kind of man who seemed to have been created by a cartoonist. So completely predictable and basic like a caricature. With his diminishing hair slicked back and encroaching stubble across his cheeks, he acted as though he owned everything – as though the title of manager gave him all the power he needed.

On occasion, he would stroll out from his office and parade around the bullpen, making everyone feel uncomfortable as he did so. That day, as he wandered out of his office, his eyes narrowed on me. I felt my mind atrophy instantly.

‘Sweetheart,’ he turned to me, with a sweetly sinister smile breaking at his face, ‘Won’t you be a darl, and cancel my dinner with my wife this evening?’ He bent down over my desk, towering over me intimidatingly. A shadow cast over me and I was engulfed by the stench of his cologne.

‘I’m not a receptionist.’ I replied blankly, he seemed unbothered.

‘Tell her I’ll be late working.’ He didn’t even wait for my response before he turned on the spot with a flourish and walked back into his office.

Like any respectable woman, I’ve been taught my whole life to be compliant. So instead of calling him out, I resolved to regard his wishes. The only problem was, I seemed to have mistakenly forgotten to send the message. I must have been temporarily dazed from the impact of his stench and disrespect.

I stayed late that night, choosing to finish all the work that had been piling up, rather than go home. No one was waiting for me anyway. Around 8 o’clock, a woman in a tight crimson dress strutted past me and right into the boss’s office. I couldn’t tell whether she didn’t notice me or if she was blatantly ignoring me.

I was just about to pack up and leave for the night when a blur passed me. It was his wife and she stormed right toward the closed door; tacky pink panties clutched vengefully in her hand. She hadn’t gotten the message I never sent.

It all happened quickly; a whining yell, the scamper of his mistress. Then a shot, deafening and lethal. He didn’t have enough time to scream, then silent forevermore.

She turned to me then, as if noticing me for the first time. Still, with the gun burning in her hand she said one single word that would echo within my soul until my dying breath, ‘Nothing.’ And then, she briskly walked past me, the hallowed sounds of her clunking heels bellowing out the door and into the hall, leaving the mess she made in my hands.