What It Means To Miss New Orleans Ch. 02

As a lawyer, she knew that the events had turned to rape the second that she told the men that she wanted to stop. But as a lawyer, she also knew that proving that the events were non-consensual would be difficult and embarrassing. She found herself playing out the scenario the man in the store had set up and imagined herself going to the police station to report the crime. There would certainly be no problem collecting physical evidence, the greater problem would be a problem of too many DNA samples. But, physical evidence aside, she could not imagine the questioning that would occur even by a sympathetic police officer. She knew she would have to repeat her story multiple times and that the question that would be raised either explicitly or implicitly would be "Why were you there in the first place." And even assuming the police agreed to pursue the case, she could not imagine having to return to the state capitol for an untold number of grand jury presentations, hearings and individual trials, each of them attended by salacious courtwatchers, those old retired men who haunted the courthouses looking for titillating trials to watch. No, it seemed that any punishment these men would receive would have to come from some higher power, whether karma or God.

Reaching into her jacket pocket, she found the two unused condoms which reminded her that she had had unprotected sex with an untold number of strangers. She remembered the comments of the man who, not satisfied with raping her, seemed intent on inseminating her also and decided that her first stop after a shower was a trip to the pharmacy to get a morning-after pill. Immediately upon her return home, she would go to be tested and, if necessary, treated for any sexually transmitted diseases.

Finally she looked at her remaining clothes. This outfit had been special, the one that she wore for any special work occasion, the one she had worn that night in New Orleans. She could not imagine pointing out all of the stains to the kindly old man at the dry cleaners who would then dutifully attempt to mark each with a little sticker. And even if she were able to remove every stain, repair every tear, replace every button, she knew that the associations with these clothes were so overwhelmingly horrifying that she could never even consider wearing the outfit again. She would have to crumple them up in a bag and discard them as soon as she got back to the room.

And so, as the evening that had started as being mildly depressing and turned into an unmitigated nightmare drew to an end, she found herself driving back to her lonely hotel room and terrible memories.

Months passed before Kathy could even think about the events of that evening again. Although the bruises had faded and the test results revealed that she had, miraculously, avoided picking up any sexually transmitted disease, the event had been so traumatic that she avoided thinking about it at all for a long, long time. When she could finally bring herself to contemplate that disastrous evening, she found herself, as was her wont, analyzing the reasons that events had so quickly careened out of control and why it in no way resembled her expectations.

There was no mystery about why the events that unfolded in the store room were so horrific and unpleasurable. She recalled the physical attack, but, most of all, remembered the constant verbal assault to which she was subjected by the men as they goaded themselves and each other on. It was not as if she were a stranger to foul language. In fact, one of her fondest memories was of a lover, ultimately separated from her because of a job transfer, who delighted in using the most explicit, foul language imaginable in bed. He loved to narrate what he planned to do to her, often using silly or bizarre images ("I'm going to suck your titties like a Dyson DC26 Vacuum Cleaner") and would then tease her by carrying out his threat or promise with excruciating slowness.

He would continue to draw out the process until, adopting his style of speech, Kathy would urge him to "Do it to me, plow me like a field of winter wheat!). He was the first and only man who could make her cum and laugh at the same time.

But his foul speech was nothing like that of the men in the store room. His was the product of humor and affection and the desire to please her. The men in the storeroom were completely uninterested in her as a person. At best, to them she was a source of friction, something warm to get themselves off on or in. At worst, she was something into which they could pump their anger and frustration at women or the world as a whole. She became the surrogate for every suburban woman in a Lexus who pulled into the service station in which they worked and rudely demanded that they fill the tank, or every girl who turned down their request for a date in high school and then ran to tell their friends laughing about the loser who had dared to ask them out, or, even worse, every woman who never noticed them at all. Kathy's story, her modest upbringing, her difficult upbringing, the financial difficulties she faced paying back enormous school loans with the salary from a low-paying public interest job, were of no interest to them. She was not an individual, fellow human being but a symbol of things they hated and she would be made to pay.

No, it was no surprise that the storeroom had been a bad experience. But why was her time in the booth so unsatisfying? That was something that she had worked herself up into being excited about before hand, only to have it disappoint her. It could not have been the anonymity, the two men she had served in the French Quarter alley that night, the most exciting night of her life, were complete strangers who she would be unable to pick out in a line-up. Why was one so exciting and the other as sensual as filling up her car's gas tank.

And then she realized that the difference was the presence of Steve. She remembered how fond she had grown of him and how quickly that fondness had arisen. She remembered carefully watching his response as she went down on him and, later, on the two other men. It was his obvious excitement at what transpired rather than their pleasure that she most valued. And the fact that his interest would have continued in spite of what he had seen touched her even more. What she missed from New Orleans was not the sex but the connection she made with Steve.

Realizing this, Kathy's subsequent fantasies altered to emphasize Steve's role. She focused more on what had occurred in her hotel room and, when she dared to fantasize about things which had not actually happened, imagined a life together with him. These thoughts were so attractive to her that she found herself thinking of Steve more and more until he was in her thoughts anytime she wasn't concentrating on some other specific task. He became like the screen saver for her life. All the while, the regret for her refusal to see Steve again grew and grew.

It was of Steve that that she was thinking one evening when she had stayed late at the office to complete a brief. She was tired of sitting at her desk writing and decided to take a brief walk through Grand Central Station to a Chinese restaurant to pick up take-out food which she could eat at her desk while working. As she walked by the information booth in the main hall, she was surprised by what she saw when she looked up. At first, she thought that she had been thinking of Steve so much that she had somehow conjured him up there in the station. Sure that she was just mistaking someone else for him, she quickened her pace. As she got closer, she realized that it was him. His eyes were sweeping the room as if he were looking for someone. Then he turned toward her and a wide grin burst across his face and he raised his arms. She quickened her pace even more until she felt something brush against her, a woman running. She ran past Kathy, and leapt into Steve's arms as he spun around her blissfully. Kathy, stung by the fact that his smile had not been for her but for another, much younger, woman, turned on her heel and veered away from the two. Kathy though, "Well for once, fate was on my side. I was just spared what would have been a very embarrassing scene."

The old saying, timing is everything, is particularly popular among stand-up comedians and people who juggle fire. But it applies equally to us all. Kathy thought that timing had been her friend, for once, but fate had actually treated her cruelly yet again. Had she arrived at the scene just two minutes earlier, Steve would have greeted her enthusiastically and told her that the woman for whom he was waiting, the one who appeared young enough to be his daughter, was in fact his daughter meeting her beloved father for their annual New York weekend together. Steve would have told Kathy about seeing her legislative testimony, how well she spoke and how beautiful she had been, just like now. He would have told her that she was on his mind all of the time and that, now that they were being given another chance, he didn't care what had been said and what happened in New Orleans. He would have declared his certainty that they were meant to be together and that he would not take no for an answer.

On the other hand, had she arrived two minutes later, she might have overheard the exchange that actually occurred between Steve and his daughter. The two had developed a standard greeting, one of the many little rituals that drew them closer together. Steve greeted his daughter, "How's my favorite lady in the world."

She answered, as she always did, "I'm perfect. So have you found a second favorite lady yet?"

Normally, Steve would have replied, "No, I'm too ugly, mean and old for anyone other than you to love." This time, though, a wistful look crossed his face, and he said, "Well actually, I did meet someone in New Orleans . . ."

His daughter, slightly jealous but primarily concerned about his happiness said "Great! When do I get to meet her, I assume it's a her unless you've given up on women after you and mom got divorced."

Steve just said, "It's complicated," and grew silent. His daughter, ever attuned to his emotions knew that it was time to change the subject and told him about the latest scandal between her high school friends in order to distract him from the gloom that had suddenly descended on him.

But since Kathy was neither two minutes earlier or two minutes later she had no inkling that each of them felt the same and every bit as strongly about each other as they did. So, she returned to her office and gazed out of the window wondering how things might have been different as her untouched broccoli and brown rice grew cold on her desk.