Content warning: Descriptions of sexual harassment and sexual assault.
“Take your clothes off so I can see your muscles.” He says it almost offhandedly, without shaking my hand or smiling. The light is behind him, obscuring his face in shadow. I can’t make out his features. The health club is empty; it’s after hours. He told me on the phone to drop by for an interview. I’m in art school and materials are expensive. I need work. I know I can teach exercise after studying ballet for ten years. And I desperately need to make some money.
I bite the inside of my cheek. I hope this goes well.
I called a week ago. He answered, asked a few questions and told me he’d need to see me in person. We’d go from there. I arrived after hours as he had requested. He unlocked the door and said “Come in.” I followed him to his desk. He took a seat; I remained standing. I have already told him on the phone that I’m getting my MFA at Maryland Institute of Art and am seeking part-time work. I have no office skills but worked as a Recreational therapist several years. This is only the second time I’ve ever applied for a job.
The exercise instructor sits with his back to his desk… watching me; waiting to see what I will do next. It is 1973. None of my friends are squeamish about nudity. You have to be cool about things like this. I bite my lip and swallow. My throat makes a dry, clicking sound. I’m not a modest person, really. Everyone has modeled topless for each other at school. We take turns when we can’t afford the model. It’s not a big deal. So what’s the difference here? I need money. I need him to hire me.
Crossing my arms in front of my chest I pull my t-shirt up and over my head. I’m not wearing a bra. No one I know wears a bra any more. His hand is on his chin and he cocks his head to one side. He just watches, judging. Like a doctor, right? I think. He wants to see if I’m fit enough to be an exercise instructor. It’s kind of like being a model; you have to have the right body.
I pull the t-shirt up smothering myself with my own hair for a moment. It tumbles past my shoulders down my back and over my breasts, stopping at my waist. A drop of nervous sweat traces a line in-between my clavicles. His eyes follow it as it runs down my sternum, and drips onto the floor.
The air feels cool. It is after hours at the health club but the air conditioning is still on. I will myself not to shiver. My hands and arms look very pale. (Our art instructor says my skin is luminous.) The room is utterly silent except for the air conditioner’s hum. I can hear my heartbeat in-between my ears. This feels weird, but if I say something, he will probably find someone else for the job.
“How ‘bout the pants?” He leans back in his chair pursing his lips, squinting. I can’t read his expression with the light behind him. I feel like I should say something or flee to the door, but I am already half naked; what if he locked the door? I tell myself not to be an ass and just act cool. I really need this job. He said he needs to see my muscles. I’m having trouble with the button on my bellbottoms and my hands are trembling just a little.
ZZZPP… my hiphuggers slide down my legs into a wrinkled pile around my sneakers. I feel lightheaded, and realize I’ve been holding my breath. I’m picturing myself and the instructor from outside my body, as if I’m witnessing two actors in a play. He rises from his chair. He squats down next to me, puts his hand around my thigh. His eyes are brown, I think.
“You have strong quads,” he says, squeezing my leg.
As though drugged, I wonder what he will do… what I should do. I am somewhere outside of it all… like when the car wouldn’t stop or when the horse ran off with me or when my parents are drunk and screaming at each other… I hope whatever happens he won’t hurt me. If he does, it will be my own fault, not his. I should have known that this kind of thing could happen… I just didn’t think of it. And if he does something to me, I won’t tell anyone, because they will just say it was my own fault. If I go to the police, they will say, “You’re telling us you called this guy up, went there after hours and took your clothes off when he asked you to?” (Snickers all around.) The cops shake their heads. “Well, sweetheart, it sounds to me like you asked for it.” I imagine one of them murmur, “Stupid little bitch,” with an amused smile.
“Well…” the instructor says with a sigh, glancing at the clock on the wall, “it’s late. Someone’s meeting me. I’ve gotta close up.”
He turns his back on me, shuts off the air conditioner and the lights, grabs a gym bag and begins walking towards the front door. The interview is over. I scramble to throw my shirt on, pull up my jeans and rush after him. Outside, the white-hot Maryland sun blinds me so that I nearly stagger into the front of the red Mustang convertible that is pulling up to the curb. He gets in beside the dark-haired woman driver wearing sunglasses, leaning across the seat to give her a kiss. He doesn’t introduce me or say goodbye. All the air has gone out of me as if I had been punched. I sit down on the curb, noting that both my shoelaces are untied.
I have not quite returned to my body; there is no way I can shout after the car to ask if I got the job. Should I call him or just wait and see…? I wonder. I will wait for a call. I don’t really want to call him again. I am afraid to call back. I am afraid of interviews. I am afraid.
Image: Courtside by timlewisnm, flickr, licensed under CC 2.0.
- Nothing Person, 1970s - November 15, 2024