by Dyan Sheldon
No, what caused most of my problems were other people. I suppose that astounds no one – it’s usually other people that cause all the trouble. They started treating me differently, which, of course, was something I expected. I got more looks, more smiles, more attention, more chat when I was standing in a queue. More help. I didn’t have anything against help; I began to get used to it. In the past, if I had something heavy to carry, I carried it alone – opening doors with my hip and concentrating on the great cardiovascular workout I was getting. When I walked into a busy store, salesmen looked past me and waited on someone else. I learned how to change a tyre because experience had taught me that no one else was going to do it for me. Things were different now. Doors were held open, bags carried, and salesmen materialized the second I stepped inside. If the light changed while I was crossing a road, I didn’t have to run because cars waited for me. The day the car broke down, three guys from school who’d never talked to me before pushed it to the side of the road. None of that bothered me. After all, most of these were total strangers or casual acquaintances I’m talking about; they didn’t know me and probably would never see me again. I figured it was the difference between the way someone reacts to a puppy and the way someone reacts to a toad. Cute always wins. Besides which, it made the world seem like a friendly and pleasant place.
My parents quickly got used to having a girl in the house; it was other people who seemed surprised. Neighbours. Friends of my parents. The women found new topics of conversation, things they would never have brought up before – diets, clothes, the nail salon in town – and the men seemed to feel they always had to tell me how nice I looked. When I ran into kids I knew from school, they either didn’t recognize me or made a big deal out of the fact that they did. No one was as weird as Gabe had been, but I could tell they they were seeing me differently. They were re-evaluating what they knew about me, what they’d assumed. But it was the guys I worked with and our regular customers that bothered me the most. I’d known things were bound to change, but I’d underestimated exactly how much.
Most of our regular customers were professional builders who came in all the time. I knew a lot of them by name, and they, of course, knew me. When I first started at Chelusky’s, the regulars were surprised to see me there the way you’d be surprised if someone suddenly dumped a bucket of water on your head. Which I understood; you see a lot more women in boardrooms than on building sites. It took a while for them to accept me behind the register – even in my dungarees with a pencil stuck behind my ear. As far as they were concerned, finding a girl in the store was like finding a shelf of hair products next to the paints. What the hell is that doing there? They were wary, doubtful that I could do anything as simple as tell the difference between a Phillips screwdriver and a Frearson. If they had a question, they’d look around for a guy to answer it. It took a while, but eventually they accepted that I not only knew my bolts from my screws and my circular saw from my hasp, but that I also was better at math than most of them and could help with complex calculations. Once that was established, I was accepted as part of the crew and they were always friendly to me – in a businesslike way. They never called me “dear” or “honey” the way guys sometimes do to women who are serving them; our conversations largely involved measurements and tools.
Then came the fateful day when they walked in and I was wearing lipstick and a skirt – and making the displays around the register attractive. I may have been the same person I’d always been, but because I no longer looked like her they became confused. They dealt differently with a girl in a skirt than a girl wearing a tool belt. Among other things, the “h” and the “d” words began to appear. As in: Thank you, honey and Where’s the sandpaper, dear?
My conversations with our customers used to be limited to supplies and orders and the weather. But no longer. By wearing lipstick, I’d automatically become a good and sympathetic listener. Which meant that I heard about illnesses, injuries, backache and indigestion. I heard about their families and their pets. Most of the time, it was a lot more interesting and more enjoyable than discussing solvents and nails. Before, I’d known them as professionals – men with houses and extensions and dormers to build. Now, I knew them as husbands and fathers and men who admitted that they didn’t always understand girls – and, for some almost endearing reason, thought that I, since I was part of the enigma, did. That was good.
What was less good was that, before, they’d seen me as the junior member of Chelusky’s crew. Now, they saw me as the girl at the till. You talked with the girl on the till, but you didn’t ask her to help you carry paint cans to your van. You might get her advice on some problem you were having with your daughter, but you wouldn’t seek her advice on a new drill.
To my surprise, however, it was the guys I worked with who were the biggest problem. They weren’t passing strangers; they knew me, they were my friends. I’d thought that once they got used to the knowledge that I had legs they’d treat me the same as always – call me a hopeless optimist.
Since my metamorphosis from sparrow to golden parakeet, my co-workers acted as if they knew there was a secret camera embedded in the ceiling that recorded everything they said and did, and reported it back to their mothers. They’d always been nice to me – like big brothers or uncles or, in the case of Mr Chelusky, a grandfather – but now they were very nice. Mega, best-behaviour nice; courteous, polite and cautious. As if it was the nineteenth, not the twenty-first century, and men had to mind what they said and how they said it when there were women present. It used to be: Out of stock? How the hell can that be out of stock? and For God’s sake, Lou, I thought you said that was coming in today! Now it was: Please could you order me such and such, Loretta? and It’s not in yet? Well, thanks for trying. If they’d been any more well-mannered they could have written an etiquette book. It was unnerving. Holy Mother, they didn’t even yell at me the way they used to – the way they yelled at each other. Were they afraid I’d cry, or swoon, or report them for harassment? As a sparrow, I’d been able to hang out with all the other sparrows and go where I wanted; as a golden parakeet, I was slammed into a cage. The easy guy-on-guy joshing and joking ended when I was around. If two of them were laughing about something and I suddenly appeared, nine times out of nine and a half, they’d stop talking so fast you’d have thought they’d swallowed their tongues. They started watching what they talked about in front of me. Started watching their language. Which isn’t to say that Chelusky’s had previously resembled an eighteenth-century pirate ship as far as oaths and curses went, but the stray strong expletive did get let loose every once in a while. The time Mr Chelusky dropped the power saw on his foot I heard several words I’d never heard before. Once I’d turned into a golden parakeet, there was no way I’d ever hear them again.
Besides the things they felt I could no longer hear there were now things they’d decided I couldn’t do. Such as carry a ladder, or shift a load of boxes, or move the display pieces without male help. I don’t think you’d ever convince anyone who’s gone through pregnancy and childbirth that women are the weaker sex, but apparently the hefting and hauling were all man’s work and I was a girl – as if I hadn’t been one before. As if, now that I wore dresses and make-up, my nails wouldn’t grow back if broken, my clothes couldn’t be cleaned, my skin couldn’t be washed. No, no, Loretta, let me do that. Which was why I skulked around like a spy, looking for heavy boxes to lift, planks to haul, large objects to carry, laden trolleys to push and trucks to unload. Checking that the coast was clear; that they were all too busy to notice me lugging tins of paint across the store. Not that that always worked. If I wasn’t fast enough, I’d suddenly find one of them scurrying towards me, calling, “Hang on, Loretta! Let me help!”
I reminded myself that this was a sociological experiment – possibly an important sociological experiment. I was going to learn from it, and use what I learned to help others. On really bad days, when they were driving me so crazy I would have b
een tempted to chase them with the forklift if I’d been allowed near it, I’d ask myself: What would Barbara Ehrenreich do? What would Gloria Steinem advise? I didn’t know. I decided to talk to ZiZi.
“I don’t see why you’re so wound up about it,” said ZiZi. “They’re just being nice. I wouldn’t complain if everybody wanted to be nice to me.”
“You mean you didn’t complain when everybody was always nice to you. You loved it.”
She went over to my dresser and started looking through the bag of things I’d bought at the mall; now that she wasn’t shopping herself she had to live vicariously through me. “What’s not to love? You get out of all the grunt work.”
“They’re treating me as if I can’t do anything for myself. As if I’m helpless.”
“This is cute.” She held up a floral skirt. “How come you bought this? I thought you said buying new stuff was a waste of money. You know, since you’re never going to wear them again after you lose the bet.”
“It was on sale.”
“Oh, right. On sale.” She tossed the skirt onto my bed. “And anyway, they’re not treating you like you’re helpless. They’re just being considerate.”
“Considering that I’m helpless.”
“My God!” She pulled something blue and silver from the bag, dangling from its thin straps. “I don’t believe it! You bought sandals? Were they on sale, too?”
“It’s Summer.” I should have put my things away before she arrived. “Sandals are what you wear in Summer.”
“You don’t. Not ones like these.” She waved them in front of me. “The sandals you usually wear are as stylish as a block of wood.”
“They don’t go with my new look. I have to consider the whole, not just the parts.”
Her eyes narrowed. Contemplatively. I’ve been known to complain that ZiZi doesn’t think enough, but now she was thinking too much. “You could’ve worn the ones I loaned you.”
“I told you, they didn’t fit right. These are more comfortable.”
She gave me another thoughtful look, and dropped the sandals on the bed. “Going back to how badly you’re being treated at Chelusky’s…” said ZiZi. “You’re making way too much of this. You really need to chill. Remember in Miss Gregson’s class when we learned how levers work? You have to think of being a cute girl as your lever. You can get a lot done with minimal effort.”
“By getting them to do it.”
She beamed. “Exactly!”
“Only I don’t want to manipulate, Zi. I want to confront and resolve.”
“Oh, come on. If they want to break their backs being big men dragging power saws and bags of sand around, let them.”
“But I’ve always done a lot of the things they do.”
“Yeah, but now you don’t have to. You can concentrate on all the stuff they can’t do.”
“Like wearing lipstick?”
She pretended to bang her head against the wall. “You’re still making the same mistake, Lo. Being a person doesn’t mean you have to be a guy.” Having more time to think was for definite making her philosophical. “You’re ignoring the downside of being a man. They have to drive trucks and run multinational companies and beat people up and stuff like that, whether they want to or not. But we don’t. We can opt out. You should take advantage of that.”
“And if I want to carry power saws and bags of sand around?”
“Just be careful you don’t break all your nails.”
I said that my nails weren’t what I was most in danger of breaking.
ZiZi gave me another contemplative look. “You know what I think’s really bugging you?”
“I just told you what’s really bugging me. The only thing they let me lift now is the coffee pot.” Which was sad, but true. It used to be that whoever got to it first made the coffee when there was none. But since I went from sparrow to golden parakeet everyone expected me to do it. Even if I arrived after everybody else, the machine would be in its corner, no red light glowing, no happy plop plop plop welcoming the workers in. When we ran out, it would sit there as empty and abandoned as a wrecked car. I’m not sure why – probably because I didn’t want to wait hours or even days for a cup of coffee – but I always gave in. Grudgingly.
“That’s not it.” ZiZi leaned against the dresser. “What’s got you is that you had it all in your head how I was going to be affected by the bet, but you never thought how you’d be affected.”
“Of course I did.”
“Then how come you’re so surprised the guys are treating you differently?”
“Because, Giselle, these are people I’ve worked with for ages. They know me. I can see that people who don’t know me are going to make different assumptions. And believe me, they do. But I don’t expect friends to act differently.”
“I never thought I’d hear myself say this…” ZiZi tilted her head, studying me carefully and thinking away. “But maybe you should stop wearing skirts and dresses.”
I never thought I’d hear her say that either. “Do what?”
“Just at work.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Because, if you stopped wearing them, the others might be more normal around you?”
“You want me to concede to their prejudices?”
ZiZi groaned. “I want you to take it down a notch. For God’s sake, Lo, you are on the record saying that you hate wearing skirts and dresses.”
“Well, maybe now I don’t hate it so much any more.” Call me stubborn, but I wasn’t about to give in now. I was going to fight my corner, come what may. “Maybe I’d rather be beamed back to a life of drudgery, corsets and oppression in the nineteenth century than stop wearing skirts.”
She heaved a heavy, heartfelt sigh. “Excuse me, but you’re the one who’s always yammering on and on about how restrictive skirts are. How you can’t crawl under a car or climb a tree if you’re wearing a dress?”
“There’s a principle involved here.”
She was patience about to snap like a dry twig under a heavy foot. “I’m sorry, Loretta, but I thought your favourite principle was not going along with gender stereotypes.”
“It is. But there’s more than one lane on the highway, and there’s more than one way of stereotyping people.”
“Oh, God, you really do like to complicate things. I just thought it’d be easier for the guys if you wore something else. You know, something more hardware-store-friendly. Not those hideous dungarees but jeans or something like that.”
“You want me to compromise.”
“God forbid!” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t think of it as a compromise. Think of it as an adjustment.”
“Why should I make it easier for them? I haven’t changed. Just my clothes have changed.”
She held up her hands. “Okay, I surrender. Have it your way.” She turned back to my bag of shopping and peered in. “Hey, what’s this?” She took out a white box, turning it over to read the label. “OMG, Loretta!” She swung around with a big smile on her face. “Are my eyes deceiving me? Is this really a make-up mirror?” Her eyes weren’t deceiving her, but they did seem to be getting larger by the second. “Loretta Reynolds, the girl who looks at her reflection less than a vampire does, bought a make-up mirror? With light, no less!” She plopped down beside me on the bed. “So are you really sure you haven’t changed?”
ZiZi
And Loretta thought she had problems
You know that old saying about how every cloud has a silver lining? Well, if you turn it around, it means that every silver lining has a cloud. So while it was pretty amazing (and gratifying!) that Loretta went out and bought a skirt, sandals and a make-up mirror, it wasn’t all good news. If she was investing her hard-earned money in girl things, she wasn’t going to be losing the bet any time soon. Talk about food for thought. It was practically a banquet!
I would never admit it to her, but my kind-of-negative attitude was because I was starting to wonder how long I could hold
out. Loretta was mad because the guys at work were being nice to her? Because they were offering her and her bike rides home when it was raining? Helping her whenever they could? Doing her favours? Seriously? Everybody should have those problems. Especially me. I wasn’t exactly being killed with kindness.
Because here’s the thing. Things had changed for me, too.
In the outside world, where I used to be greeted with smiles and approving looks and flirty winks and open doors, I was now being pretty much ignored. People (male people) not only walked by me without so much as a glance, they sometimes walked right into me as if I wasn’t even there! “Oh, sorry,” some guy on his phone or plugged into his music would mumble, “I guess I didn’t see you.” And I’d snap back, “I guess not. It must be because I’m wearing my invisible T-shirt!” But I wouldn’t be saying it to him, because he’d already be long gone. It was pretty galling at first. After years of being treated like someone special (not like I was a celebrity, maybe, but like I should be one), I was suddenly being treated like the celebrity’s maid.
And here’s another thing. Things had changed where I worked, too. And the biggest change was Mr Schonblatt.
I know it’s not like Mr Schonblatt was ever up for the Nice Guy of the Year award. (Maybe in some place like North Korea but not in Howards Walk.) Plus, I knew that he used to cut me more slack than he cut the others because I was pretty, but it was like overnight he’d gone from being the captain of a tight ship to being Darth Vader in a really, really bad mood.
And all of a sudden, I went from being his favourite waitress to being his favourite senseless victim. Whatever I did, I did it wrong. Every time I looked up, he was glaring at me or pointing a finger or bearing down on me like a bulldozer. Put that there, put that here. Don’t. Do. Do it again. Is that fork supposed to be clean? Where did you go to get the bread, the next town? Does that saltcellar look full? And when were you planning to clear that table, after everyone’s gone home? Serviettes (Mr Schonblatt’s word for napkins) should be folded, not bent. I was too friendly with my customers. “They don’t want to talk to you, Giselle. They want to eat.” I wasn’t fast enough. “I timed you, Giselle. Table six waited five minutes for their water.”
