[WomenMoveMe]

As they held me down, he talked of killing me, of teaching me a lesson, I was told I would be left without a hair on my head. It seems if I were going to act like a man, it was their intent to have me look like one. At least that is what they proclaimed as tufts of my hair surrounded me on the pavement beneath my forced resting place.

I had been asked to meet a friend at a bar. She was married and she and her husband were on the verge of divorce and she wanted to talk. She had chosen this particular bar as it was conveniently located between our homes, and she had frequented it a few years earlier. She assured me it was a nice, quiet place. We could have a couple of drinks, talk, and be left to our own device.

I arrived earlier than she. The parking lot was studded with motorcycles and trucks whose paint jobs had seen better says. I felt a small sense of foreboding, but I soldiered on. I entered the bar, feeling as though every head turned in my direction. I stood there, aware I was completely exposed, as my eyes scanned the room for somewhere, anywhere, I could sit that would take me away from the stares and whispers of the disbelieving crowd.
I was in their place, the nerve of me.

I opted for a booth in the back, I sat against the wall. Were someone to approach me, I at least wanted to see them coming. Unfortunately, this booth, was near the men’s restroom and really not at all where I should have been. I should have been in my car, calling my friend to arrange another meeting place, but I stayed, for her, I stayed.

It was clear now my presence was something quite remarkable to those in the bar. Each turn on the pool table did not seem to be able to be performed without first glaring at me as they bent down to make their shot. The men muttering something to their audience, their women giggling and all but pointing. Yet, I stayed. Where was she?

Too self-conscious to order a drink, too anxious to move from the safety of this booth, I waited. The longer I stayed, the louder and more outspoken the bar patrons became. I defiantly returned the gazes of some. I pretended to take great interest in the all but wasted candle that sat alone in the middle of the table. Anything, to appear undaunted.
Not typically one to fidget, I fidgeted.

It had been only a few minutes, but it seemed hours. She would soon be here and for some reason I thought that would make everything alright. As if just the presence of her would show these people I was not a freak. I was not something of which to be frightened. I was not there to compromise their prejudices, nor their women.

I became painfully aware how very much I needed to use the restroom. What to do? I somehow knew were I to make my way to the ladie’s room, it would invite unwelcome and belittling slurs. I knew were I to enter the men’s room, I would flat-out have menacing company. I opted not to go at all, but my body knew not that option.

I slid from my booth, heading for the ladie’s room. As suspected, this caused others great glee. They were emboldened and made no effort to mutter any longer. Their hurtful words trailed after me as I made my way through the bathroom door. As I hovered over the seat in the stall, I heard the door open. I was terrified and wondered how long I might be able to stay in this little space. What awaited me if, and when, I was to open the stall door. It was ridiculous really. Standing in there, thinking about never leaving, considering options that were nonsensical and fostered by fear.

I opened the stall door to find one of their women leaning against a sink. She was tall, and had she not followed what I was certain was a path of hedonism and debauchery, she might have been pretty. She stared at me. I looked back and tried to offer a smile. I moved to a sink to wash my hands. She spoke. She assured me these guys were just drunk and nothing but all talk, just having fun. She told me her sister was gay and she loved her sister. It seemed such an odd, one-sided conversation. She, telling me these things, me, wanting to get away. She reached out and touched my arm. I was so taken aback I nearly fell yet I stood there, paralyzed. It was this moment another of the insulting party entered the room. There we were, me, with what I was sure was horror written all over me, and she, staring at me, her hand resting on my arm. The new arrival turned immediately and was surely returning to those men. I could only guess what she was to tell them. Was this woman, the woman touching me, brave enough to tell the truth?

I had to get out of there. My friend would have to understand. I made my way out the bathroom door. The pool players were now in a circle whispering and once again, all heads turned my direction as I headed for the front door. I exited the building and moved quickly to the safety of my car. I almost made it too.

I was grabbed from behind. I could smell the sour beer and cigarettes as he accused me of trying to ‘fuck’ his girl. I wanted to defend myself but I knew. I knew it would not matter what I said. I had this coming from the time I stepped in that place. It was inevitable. I figured they would beat me up and I would go on my way. It had happened before, probably would happen again, and I knew that while painful, and not just for injury sake, I would recover.

I was cast to the ground. I saw the gleam of metal as the sun found the knife held in his hand. There were so many of them. Some just held me down, urging their friend onward. Some touched me, asking me if I liked it, assuring me their touch was what I had needed all my life. A couple just stood idly by, watching the show. I hated them the most, the watchers, too afraid to participate, too afraid to help.

I was now certain this was to be the end of me. I attempted to ready my mind for the last breath I was to take. I had done nothing but be me. I had done nothing but come to meet a friend. I had done nothing, and with so many surrounding me, there was nothing I could do.

He brought the knife close to my face. I looked into his eyes. If he were going to kill me, he was going to remember me. I remember thinking how important that was for me for some reason. I wanted to try to make him know me before he ended me. I became obsessed with this thought and it almost made me laugh aloud.

The knife found my hair. He began sawing at it, scattering handfuls of it to the wind. Telling me maybe if I would made ugly I might not go around trying to hit on women that didn’t belong to me. Still terrified, I came to understand that perhaps I was not to die this day.

Sometime during this haircut, my friend arrived. I don’t really remember as my thoughts were elsewhere. She knew one of these men from her days at this place. She convinced them to stop, to let me be. I was her friend and therefore I was ‘cool’. They moved away a bit, making certain to spit on me as they realized their fun was over. She helped me to my feet, dazed and exhausted, I could barely stand. I was bloody, battered, and alive. My hair, fluttered about the parking lot, as if little pieces of my person I would never get back.

My friend helped me into my car. She wanted to take me to the police. She wanted these men prosecuted. I did not. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be as far away from every living being I could. I wanted to be somewhere different, someone different. But wasn’t being someone different what had caused this to begin with? She did not want to let me drive but I assured her with the exception of some scrapes and bruises, and a truly bad haircut, I would be fine. I just needed to be left alone.

As I started my car, and pulled from the parking spot, movement in one of the trucks caught my eye. It was the woman from the bathroom. She sat alone. I could see tears in here red and swollen eyes. As I passed, her lips formed the words “I’m sorry”. I thought of our moment in the restroom, and not only did I believe her, I felt as though she had the worst end of this whole thing. After all, I could walk away, I didn‘t feel as though she felt she could, and that thought, hurt me more than anything those men might have done.