No Touchy

         There's nothing like an epiphany on a Monday morning in July. The sweltering heat mixed with the suffocating humidity that usually comes during Nebraska summers can make someone so lethargic and listless that the only thing that can be done on these days is thinking. And my day came on a Monday morning standing behind the counter of a small Starbucks, which occupied the darkest, dampest (in the summer: it was the stuffiest) corner of a midtown grocery store. There was a lull in the flow of traffic of people on their way to work; to their air conditioned offices and bosses clad in black trousers and suspenders, and that lull had left me bored and lonely. 

         As I stared out at the store, watching people walk in and out, sometimes through the wrong door, a middle aged, grey haired man walked by slowly, catching my gaze and tucking it into the back of his mind as a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He slowed down even more as he waited, with rapt attention, for me to greet him in some way. It came, in a rather acute form of salutation, when I smiled politely before turning my gaze back to the automatic doors in front of me.

         "Morning," the man said, taking a step towards the stand in hopes of initiating a conversation with a young girl he had never met before.

I nodded, groaning inwardly, as I replied, "Morning."

He kept his eyes locked on me as he slowly walked towards the door, which opened and closed as people passed through with carts loaded with groceries for the week. He finally reached the door, and before walking out he nodded at me and said, "Have a good day."

"You too," I replied, twirling a pen between my fingers as I anticipated his departure. He finally left, and a heavy sigh escaped my lips. There are too many creeps in my life, and more often than not, they're men who are, or close to, the same age as my father. It was just a little too weird for me, the way that man stopped in his tracks, just to get a good look at a twenty year old female who was a complete stranger. I was all for being polite, working in the customer service industry and all, but it was almost as if this man, like many others, had an ulterior motive to his sudden chivalry. I've found that too many times in my life, I've been the object of affection for middle aged men, a stark contrast to the skaters and preps who have stopped by before to flirt with my co-workers. In fact, it happens so much that often I feel compelled to curl up in a ball in the corner of the store. Or hiring a bouncer.

          The Photo Center manager, Marty, is usually seen walking across the front end of the store, rather than in his department, keeping a sharp eye out for troublesome employees to report on. With a camera bag draped over his brawny and experienced shoulder, and his neck craned to look over displays and unsuspecting shoulders, Marty is one of these creeps. At one point or another, I might have found him remotely attractive. Then he opened his mouth. His features were chiseled and defined, I will give him that. He had a pair of strikingly pale blue eyes, and well into his thirties, he had just a few gold teeth and a laugh like an eighth grade girl. Marty has made a few moves on me in the past, the most awkward moments occurring in the latter part of my career at the store. On a typically stuffy and humid summer day, I had ventured over to Customer Service to retrieve some in-store charge slips, and as if it were some twisted, cosmic joke where the punch line evaded me, the Photo Center was directly to the right. I waited in line at the counter just as Marty rounded the corner, carrying a few medium-sized boxes.

Noticing me, he had walked up and asked, "What's going on, Katie?"

"We're out of in store charge slips," I stammered, cowering slightly under his seemingly perpetual stare. I wasn't exactly used to being approached by Marty, especially in the manner he had, making a bee line for a random employee standing in line to focus on their needs, when there were real customers to be helped. And clearly he was occupied, as he adjusted his grip on the boxes he was holding and continued staring. I had to hand it to him though, he could sustain a stare. I made a mental note to never enter into a staring contest with him, should the opportunity ever present itself. 

It took him several moments to answer as he paused to read my expression. The glints in his eyes bore into my own slightly dimming glints in the same amount of time I imagine it'd take for a virus ridden computer to download a two hour movie. I cleared my throat as my eyes shifted away from his gaze.

"Well that's not good, is it?" he finally asked, as I shook my head, ready to dart back to my dark little corner of the store as I stepped backwards onto my left foot. He walked behind the Customer Service counter and reached into a drawer beneath one of the registers, pulling out a stack of bright, florescent pink in-store charge slips.

"There you go, sweetie, that should be enough for now." Marty continued to stare me in the eyes, something I found particularly disturbing and uncomfortable. Marty and I had not reached that professional friendship level where eye contact was not as frightening or intimidating. Not to mention the pet names for me were strictly taboo for.

"Thank you," I replied timidly before walking back to my department, unable to shake the discomfort I felt under Marty's stare. What was he trying to read from my expression? Was he trying to break some foreign code in my expression that even I was unsure of? Did I have something on my face? His hesitation and focus bothered me for some time, as I struggled to find reason in his behavior.

Not even a week later, I had been dusting merchandise on one of our shelves when Marty walked over, carrying a few small boxes in his left hand. "Laccie brought me a caramel macchiatto, so I brought you girls some animal crackers."

"Oh, thanks," I replied, taking the box with a picture of a train filled with animals on it.

Marty smiled at me and rubbed my arm gently, causing me to tense up immediately. "I gotta make sure my Starbucks girls have something to snack on."

My ability to act defensively dematerializes as that familiar red flag in my head sprung up, alert and forewarning. So much for those Tae Kwon Do lessons.

'Holyshitthisisawkward. Pleasestoptouching. Pleasestoptouching.'

Finally, after it seemed like we'd be standing like that forever, two frozen figures standing under the cast of florescent lighting, stoic expressions and all, he dropped his hand and nodded, as if reading my mind. "You ladies have a good night."

"You too," I replied as he turned on his heel and walked away. 

Standing now at my register, I am reminded of Creepy Produce Guy, a bald, middle-aged man who looks like he would be one of the slimy, suspicious smiles on the sex-offenders list and who just can't seem to turn off the "I want you" vibe-for any female walking by him. Anytime I have walked past him as he stocks bananas, apples, or potatoes, he looks up from his work to stare past his thick, Harry Potter glasses at me and smirks, acknowledging my presence with a quick, "How's it going?"

He knows my weakness. I have to answer. It's the polite thing to do, even if I can't bring myself to look him in the eye. "Fine, thanks," I reply as I hurry past him, silently pleading, 'Please. Don't stop working on my account.'

I am generally safe from him in the little corner we occupy, but I can't stay back here forever. When I passed him on my way to the shelf in the back not too long ago, he had locked eyes with me, smiling suggestively and asking, "How's it going?"

"Good, thanks," I replied, turning towards the shelf quickly in order to escape an awkward conversation. Sighing, I began to step on the edges of the shelf, climbing up in order to find a hidden bag of espresso. Having no luck finding it, I climbed back down, turning my head slightly to glance over my shoulder, only to find the "Creepy Produce Guy" peering through a stack of bread racks to get a good look at my ass.

'Ugh, time to leave,' I thought as I hurried past him before he could make any remark or comment about what he saw. I know I am not alone in thinking he is creepy, however, and I find solace in the fact that many of the female employees are creeped out by him, and that it's not just me. If only the management could see what we saw.

And then there's Jeff. Or Creepy Jeff, depending on who you're talking to. Mid thirties, tall, handsome and successful. You've got to hand it to him, he's got a lot going for him. But as always, a man's level of attractiveness can also be determined by what comes out of his mouth. And unfortunately for Jeff, everything that comes out of his mouth is dripping with chauvinistic, demeaning comments, usually aimed towards women. The women of Starbucks, in particular. When he does happen to grace the store with his presence, he steps up to the counter, lets his eyes wander over the body of the barista who has to serve him, and orders, "Grande coffee. No room for cream. Tall cup of ice. No lid."  For the times he had come on days when I was working, I would quietly grab the grande cup and fill it to the top, always scooping off the extra bubbly foam from the top of the burnt, brown coffee. I would set the cups of coffee and ice on the counter in front of Jeff, smiling timidly up at him before scampering off to the corner by the sink to busy myself with the dishes.

After witnessing this ritual of mine several times, Jeff laughed one day and took a few steps from the counter. "This is what Katie does when she gives me my coffee." As my manager, Reneé, watched intently, a playful smirk tugging on her lips as she stares out from beneath the bill of her Starbucks cap, Jeff proceeded to approach the counter, shoulders slumped and face turned downwards. He mimicked my action of placing cups on the counter as he smiled the same simple, timid twitch of lips I had given him before walking to his invisible corner by the sink. Reneé guffawed with raspy, chocked laughter as Jeff smirked triumphantly and I smiled and shook my head, returning to my spot at the sink, thinking to myself, "That's just my defense mode. It happens when my creep-dar goes off."

On another day, my co-worker Laccie and I had been, ironically, talking about how we hadn't seen the elusive Jeff for a while. As if on cue, Jeff walked through the automatic doors in front of our little shop in the corner, and had made great strides toward us, a cheeky and confident grin playing on his lips.

Being the braver of us, Laccie remarked, "Well, speak of the devil!"

Jeff gave her an inquisitive look before Laccie explained, "Kate and I were just talking about how we haven't seen you in a while."

Locking his jaw as his eyes darted from Laccie to me, he leaned on the counter and smirked, "You ladies wanna make out to make up for lost time?"

'Gross,' I thought as I looked down, shuffling papers around in order to avoid looking at him. Since that day, I haven't had any run ins with him, and I am counting my blessings every Sunday when I realize that this has been yet another week without having to serve Creepy Jeff.

My most recent endeavor into the awkward realm had actually occurred outside of the store, at my aunt Muirne's house for a family barbecue. With the rare arrival of my aunt Marg from Seattle comes her old boyfriend and long time pal, Tom. It's an awful Catch-22; the excitement of seeing fun, quirky aunt Moogah again is mixed with the apprehension and worry of standing under Tom's gaze. There's not much I can do about it though, being a quiet person who just couldn't carry the weight of knowing I had broken up a twenty year friendship, all because I had been a little creeped out. I knew Marg valued her friendship with Tom, which was something very few family members could understand, and so, like the rest of my family, I kept quiet about my opinion of Tom when Marg was around. She very rarely visited, so I didn't want to waste my precious time with her by complaining about how her friend was creeping me out.

So as we pulled into Aunt Muirne's steep, narrow driveway, I was not surprised to see Tom standing in the backyard with Marg. I rolled my eyes and sighed, stepping out of the passenger's side of the car and trudging my way around the back as slowly as possible, enjoying a small taste of freedom from watchful blue eyes.

"Hi, Miss Kate," Marg chirped delightfully as she embraced me.

"Hi, Moogah," I responded, keeping a safe distance from Tom as I welcomed one of Marg's notoriously comforting hugs. Standing awkwardly next to Marg, I answered Tom's questions of how school was going and how I was enjoying my summer. Once there had been a pause in the conversation and he had started talking to my father, I made my way inside the house, where I would be safe at least until dinner time.

When that time came, I had been lucky enough to nab a spot by my grandpa, aunt Marg, and aunt Beth. It had been an enjoyable dinner, as it always is with my family, and we had finally gotten to desert when my aunts and uncles had started discussing a recent local news scandal involving an embezzling nun that my family knew and believed to be innocent. In the skirmish of getting the table cleared and ready for desert, Tom had somehow found his way into the seat next to mine. As I was momentarily staring off into space, I had suddenly felt a hand wrap around my arm. Looking over, I saw Tom leaning in to whisper, "This is your problem to fix."

My mind went blank at his sudden and intrusive touch. I replied, "What?"

He nodded at my aunts and uncles, who were deep in the throes of cursing our archdioceses and repeated, "This is your problem to fix. Your generation. So fix it, babe."

He had a point about my generation's task, as I was already aware of the issues we were facing, but I was not his babe. And frankly I was annoyed by the way his thumb was grazing my arm. I glanced around the table and noticed my aunt Beth and uncle Steve staring at the hand on my arm, trying to remain as passive as possible, while also shooting daggers at Tom with their eyes. This was getting uncomfortable for everyone, apparently.

I chuckled and subtly moved my arm from Tom's grasp. By now, the conversation had reverted back to the family's recent trip down to Missouri, without Tom, thankfully. In the midst of it all, Tom turned to me and asked, "Did you get any ticks?"

"No," I replied, staring down at the plastic tablecloth.

"Why not?"

I shrugged nonchalantly. "I wore a hat."

He leaned in and scratched at my arm, "What about leeches? Did any leeches snatch on when you were in the lake?"

Leaning back slightly as he attempted to imitate leeches, I replied, "Nope."

He dragged his finger along my arm. "And snakes? Did any snakes slither into your presence?"

I shook my head, looking around the room for someone, anyone, to take notice of Tom's behavior, which was becoming increasingly more inappropriate. "No," I said.

My stand-offish answers weren't causing him to give up, unfortunately. He looked at me one more time before he went back to scratching and tickling my forearm.

"Are you ticklish? Are you ticklish? Tickle, tickle," he squeaked, as if he were talking to my 5 year old cousin Robbie and not twenty year old me.

'I feel so degraded,' I thought to myself as Tom continued to squeak in his patronizing way, trying to get me to launch into a hearty guffaw, often brought on by way of tickling fingers. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't ticklish on my arm. And unfortunately for him, my aunt Muirne, the lawyer, would be hearing about this later. I knew my rights. His behavior was becoming intrusive and I was starting to feel suffocated by his social ineptitude. I imagined myself pushing back my chair, pointing my finger at him while shouting, "NO! TOUCHY!"

This outburst would, no doubt, be followed by a doggy pile tackle by my father, uncles, and male cousins; a genuine Irish brawl. But I knew I didn't have the guts to tell Tom off. I was the Amazing Spineless Wonder of a loud, proud Irish family who stood up to the injustices life threw at them. Besides, with my grandpa's new wife sitting two chairs down, I figured this family had already filled the drama quota for at least one more year.

So I sat, waiting for a proper segue, as Tom playfully scratched my arm, squeaking, "Tickle, tickle."

Finally, it came, as aunt Marg addressed him, causing Tom to turn to her, while pointing at me, and say, "Not now, I'm bothering her right now."

Therein lay my cue to leave. I turned towards aunt Muirne and quickly blurted, "I'm going to go upstairs to look at those pictures."

She nodded, giving me permission to leave the dinner table. I pushed back my chair and, having already cleared my dinner plate, made a bee line for the upstairs bedroom where I know photo albums are waiting for me. I knew I would be safe there. And there I sat, flipping through old photo albums, until my aunt Mydge had come up to check on everyone, while also letting me know that Tom had left and that it was safe for me to go downstairs. As I trudged down the carpeted steps in the narrow staircase, I reflected on my bad luck with men, in that the only ones that seemed to notice me where the ones that were twice my age.
         
It's a hard fact to face; knowing that the men you're attracting are older, desperate men when what you're waiting for is someone your age, an intellectual with the ability to empathize with the trials that come with young adulthood, and a good sense of humor to boot. Someone like Jonathan, the cute pharmacy technician at the store's pharmacy who would appear on days when I could use his bright, charming smile. It was my moments with him, the moments that felt like they could be scenes from a Hollywood romantic comedy, that I clung to during my last months at Starbucks. His appearance during the summer was rare, as he spent the entirety of the three months working on rotation in Minnesota, and that made the days spent in the ventless chamber where I stood, unmotivated and frustrated, even more unbearable. There was a part of me that remained hopeful and optimistic that his visits would become more frequent, that he would come and save me from the normally drab and suffocating days of serving coffee to the dwindling clientele that passed through the doors every day. It was my hope for one more interaction with him that kept me there for so long, as I endured more winks and subtle pick-up lines from the older gentlemen that visited the coffee shop. And family gatherings. I think, though, that there was an even bigger part of myself that just wanted to be swept away from it all, and Jonathan just happened to be there, as I tricked myself into believing that he could be the one to do so. 

I finally realized that, if I did want these advances from older men to stop, or at least become a rare occurrence that I didn't have to worry about every time I arrived for work, then I had to detach myself from the environments in which I was thrusted out of my comfort zone. My father has, ever since the incident with Tom, sworn that if my aunt's friend were to ever touch me again, my father "would kill him" and has since forbidden me from joining any family festivity Tom might attend. I humored my father when he was in the middle of one of his angry tirades against Tom, but I knew I would end up defying his demand. It wasn't that I wanted to see Tom again; I could care less about him. It was my aunt Marg, and the rest of my family, that I cared about. I could tough it out if it meant spending quality time with an aunt I hardly see. I just had to hope and pray that eventually Tom's open invitation to such gatherings would eventually peter out into non-existence when the whole family could show him, as a loud, united entity, how 'No Touchy' really means 'No Touchy'.