Saying Yes, Saying No

There are two types of birds. Those who run toward an offering, and those who run away.

I thought about this as I sat, legs open, in the park. I let my gaze fall idly on the heavy-set 50-something guy on the far side of the bench, as he furtively rubbed inside the pocket of his dockers. The birds waited at a safe distance, watching us expectantly. I had been contacted by this man on an app several weeks prior. There was the usual back and forth:

FunNRespect4U has submitted a bid for $200. 
“Hi, thanks for the bid…What did you have in mind for a date?"
“Do you meet up?”
“...Yes, sometimes. Depends on what you’re looking for.” I typed.
 "I want you to watch”
“Ok, well we would have to meet in public first....Have you done this before?”
“....a few times.”
“Where do you usually go?”
​“Usually in my car with someone.”
“Well, I don’t feel safe getting in a stranger’s car. How about the park?”

Checking off my safety list, I packed pepper spray and a kubotan into a small black purse. I messaged my BadGirlfriends chat to let them know where I would be just in case. Is it weird to have the kind of friends who aren’t shocked by random afternoon sex work in a park? Maybe. 

I’ve always had unconventional girl-friendships. There was a time a decade ago when Lily asked if I could film her puking into a toilet. At the time, it had seemed like a legit job lead on Craigslist. The producer of the bulimia PSA commercial had references. He was…googlable. He needed to see if my friend could puke on command, topless. This seemed normal and fine. 

This memory is tangled up with the time in college when I had watched a fellow performance art student solemnly enter the black box stage and switch on a tea kettle. He produced a small fishbowl from under a cloth. The goldfish swam in circles while we listened to the kettle reach the boiling point. Who is responsible for stopping this person? I thought. I continued to have this thought as the kettle started to hiss. I continued pondering this as he lifted the kettle and poured the boiling water into the fishbowl, the fish fluttering helplessly and becoming still. A hot spike of pain and shame flooded my chest as we watched him produce another fishbowl and switch the kettle back on. Relief washed over me as another student—shyer than I—interrupted the performance with a stutter and a gentle hand on his shoulder, “You’re done now. It’s time to stop.”

What does it mean for us to be complicit in violence toward another being, toward ourselves? What does it mean when the violence is physical? Emotional? Intangible? Some effects reverberate over the years, not immediately apparent. I think about watching my friend from behind my camera, as she bent half-naked over the toilet all those years ago. I text my girlfriend chat: 

“I’ll be at India Park at 2pm. I’ll text you when it’s done.” 
“If we don’t hear from you I’m coming down there. So, don’t forget to text,” Amelia typed. 

Amelia had a license to carry. Her handgun, I imagined, was pink camouflage patterned. I’m not sure if this was true, I never actually saw it. She grew up in Chicago, her family was poor and full of boys. When she was little her brothers used to hold her down and spit in her mouth. They made the money they survived on by pitting her against bigger boys in street fights, so naturally they made it their mission to “toughen her up” at home any chance they could. 

Amelia’s anger, barely restrained, jumps out at unexpected times, like when another woman slid into the parking space in front of the brunch restaurant before we could. “I’ll fucking kill you,” she spat from the drivers seat at the woman and her boyfriend. They shot us startled looks as they climbed out of their car. “You’d better watch your fucking back, bitch. I can find out where you live.”

Amelia wants a reason–any reason– to use her fists, her gun. Who is responsible for stopping this person? I thought. I shook myself from the sudden shock of her rage. “Amelia, I’m not going into that restaurant with you unless you calm the fuck down.”

Learning about Amelia's childhood, I hate to say, I wasn’t really surprised. After all, another friend’s brother used to hold her down while the neighborhood boys stuck their fingers inside her. Lily’s mom kept her gun in her vanity table drawer right next to her blow dryer. A random fact about my friend Maya was that could shoot a rifle. The unspoken part of the story was that her dad had made her kill and dress rabbits as a punishment when she was only 10. So many of us are forced to do these things, not even for survival, just as a by-product of being alive. Call it collateral damage, the cost of living...it comes with the job. 

Perhaps that's why choosing the job feels okay. Or at least, better than not being paid for it. There was a brief, fearful moment when the man on the bench reached toward me. I flinched away reflexively, grip tightening on the pepper spray hidden in my sequin purse. It had started to rain, and my brain stuttered for a moment. I watched a droplet roll down my bare leg in slow motion, the moment seeming to extend indefinitely. I looked him in the eye. "That's not what you're paying for," I said, firmly.