Not afraid of that guy
This is part 2. See part 1.
My most infuriating, ongoing harasser was a lot closer to home.
On our street, we had elderly neighbors who told us to get off their lawns, neighbors with kids about the same age as me and Dani, neighbors with little toddlers. We had a retired judge and his family. We had a widower who invited the dads over to play pool in his rec room. We had Joe and his sister and their mom. And we had Lucy and Bob, a couple my dad’s age, who lived on the corner with their grown kids.
Lucy, to us younger kids, was the mayor of the block. She and her family had lived there longer than most of us, and she was older than many of the moms — in her late forties. She was accessible, reliable, and a good listener. When I was ten and eleven and my mom was so sick, Lucy was one of the people who had let me sit on her porch and chat to her. And I had watched her teach Dani to ride a two-wheeler, on the spur of the moment, running along and pushing the bike by its seat, then letting go and yelling “PEDAL! PEDAL! PEDAL!” as Dani — clearly ready — sailed off down the sidewalk, piloting her bike for the first time.
One spring day, soon after my adventure with Colleen in the jungle, Lucy and her two kids, Cindy and Larry, were sitting out on their tiny concrete porch. Their sidewalk was shaded by red-leafed maple trees that shimmered in the sun and dappled the walk and the house.
Cindy was pretty, probably twenty, with long, straight, Scandinavian-blonde hair. She made me nervous. She had loudly teased me and Gayle last fall — “You girls are de-VEL-op-ing so NICEly!” I thought a beautiful college girl, liked by all the adults, should be nice to us kids. But this wasn’t nice. Her older brother, Larry, had thick blond hair and a pelt of reddish chest fur. I didn’t know him well. I saw him as one of those people who think they are so funny.
I was in tomboy gear that day as always, two layers of shirts and ill-fitting boys’ jeans as stiff as a bucket around my skinny hips. I still wore two-year-old glasses, thick dark frames that were both too small and too heavy for my face. My hair hung limp. My dad had said I was starting to look less like a pretty girl and more like an unkempt boy, and wanted to schedule me at a salon for a short pixie cut. I felt I couldn’t win. I already felt ugly, and now I was told to cut my hair off.
Lucy saw me coming and raised her hand, a partial salute, in greeting. Cindy, also facing me, exclaimed, “Wow, Fran, I haven’t seen you in months. You’re looking so-o gro-o-own u-u-up!” She said the last three words in a sing-song falsetto.
Lucy looked at me, then at Cindy, giving her a puzzled, where-is-this-going half-smile. Larry, his back to me, swiveled to look.
“Oh, you’re right!” he exclaimed. “She does have boobs!”
I could hardly believe my ears. But I was past them and wasn’t going to turn around. “Oh, shut up, Lar-reee,” I shot back. It was the only thing I could think of. I half-heard Lucy: “Jesus, Larry.”
I went home and stewed, furious. I felt like a rat in a pet store, examined and turned upside down to demonstrate how to tell a boy from a girl. Cindy had set Larry up to humiliate me, and he did. What a team.
I didn’t tell my dad. I had a whole ball of reasons not to tell my dad about Larry, or about being groped, or about the gauntlet on the way to the library. I was certain he could do nothing about any of it, that my being catcalled and mocked would seem as alien as if I’d asked him to help me choose a sock-hop outfit. If he confronted Larry, I’d be humiliated for life. If he thought I should be a good sport, I’d be so mad that I’d fight with him. I couldn’t afford to be that mad at my dad. Anyway, I only saw him at the dinner table and on the weekend days, hanging around the backyard with his girlfriend. How would I even break the ice on a topic like “Larry is making fun of my boobs”?
I was on my own.
As I calmed down, I realized I wasn’t afraid of Larry. I concluded that nothing I could possibly say to him could get me in any real trouble. What could he do? A boy my age might beat me up after school, or follow me around and get other boys to taunt me, but Larry was an adult. They had to behave. I told Dani and Gayle: Larry is our enemy. I decided to tell him off, and the more witnesses, the better.
A few days later, walking home, I saw at a glance that he was on his porch with three of his friends. I recognized one — a decent-seeming guy my dad and I knew by name. I thought for a second about turning into the alley to avoid passing them, but if I started avoiding their house, when would I stop? I walked past, eyes on the sidewalk. Larry said nothing. Thank goodness, I thought. I’m off the hook.
“Hey, Fran?” he called politely.
“What?” I half turned. This wasn’t what I expected. Was he going to be fake nice? When he saw that I was looking, he stuck his hairy chest out and massaged his man-tits with both hands, as if trying to milk himself.
I took a breath. I saw myself six feet tall, spitting sparks, whirling a spiked iron ball on a chain over my head. “Larry, you jerk, just shut up. I hate you. I hope you die!” I shouted. Larry’s brother had died unexpectedly a few years earlier, so I hoped this hurt.
His friends stared. I remember the scene as if they were frozen in place.
“Jesus, Fran,” said Larry. “You can’t say things like that! Who do you think you are?”
“Oh, shut up,” I said, walking on.
He shouted, “You should have some respect for your elders!”
“YOU DON’T DESERVE ANY!” I bellowed, without turning around.
