The Man at the Door

I saw him out of the corner of my eye as I set my purchases on the counter.

He was standing by the door, and when he notices me noticing, he smiles at me.

He was a good-looking guy. Nice build. Nice smile.

And I could feel him checking me out as I was checking out my groceries.

I'm sure he was a nice guy.

I'm sure his mama raised him right.

But my gut told me something was wrong.

So I chatted with the clerk. 

And I bagged my items -- really slowly.

But he was still standing there.

He wasn’t waiting for anyone else. Only for me.

I should have been flattered.

He was a nice-looking boy.

The kind that holds doors open for women

Not the kind that kicks cats when women aren’t looking.

But looks can be deceiving

I didn’t know him

And my gut told me something was wrong.

A million and one thoughts went through the head

Of the girl I had been taught to be, the feminist I knew I was,

And the person who was just minding her own business at the grocery store.

The me that was all of these and none of these and more

Kept waiting for the guy to move.

In a perfect world, I would know

All he wanted was a thank you and a smile

Some acknowledgement that one human being recognized another

And was grateful.

But in the world that I know

A smile is sometimes mistaken for an invitation

A smile can twist quickly into a sneer -- a show of power and contempt

Contempt for me, contempt for humanity

Contempt for my right to be

So I found my voice and I nearly yelled, “What are you doing?”

And waited for his answer.

I wanted everyone in the store to hear, to witness.

“I’m just holding the door for you,” he said.

His eyebrows raised in innocence. Smile fixed on his face.

Another day this could have been the start of a beautiful fairy tale.

But it was also one flipped switch from my death in a horror film.

“I do not need a man to hold the door for me,” I said.

“You need to move. You need to leave me alone,” I said to this stranger to me.

Did he call me a bitch under his breath?

Someone did.

It was not only a thousand voices inside my head

Telling me to get in the kitchen and make that nice man a sandwich.

Give him my number. Marry him.

I didn’t ask him to hold the door.

We didn’t meet by chance

Didn’t approach the door at the same time

He stood there. Like a stalker

And I don’t know him

Don’t want to

And here’s the thing

If I was rude, I missed the guy of a lifetime. That’s on me.

But if his motives were pure, someone else will notice

Because maybe nice guys finish last, but they do finish.

However, if my gut was right

And he was looking for payback

Or to follow me out to my car

To take away my agency

Or worse

Then this was a fairy tale

And I am my own hero

Slaying dragons with my hands full of groceries

And winning.

Written for performance at Gusa by Victoria March 9, 2017

2nd Thursday Nights Open Mic 7-9PM

Gusa by Victoria

252 W Philadelphia

York PA 17401

The Man at the Door was written in response to a man misappropriating a woman's text rant, turning it into a meme, and calling her a feminazi. I could have ignored the online mansplaining, but when a group of women didn't, and attacked the woman and her agency, I needed to re-frame the conversation. 

Visit Author Mother Dreamer Phyl Campbell on Facebook, this blog, or her website.

Open House at Ann Peden (ICYMI)

If you were unable to make the Open House at Ann Peden, you missed out. I know, I can't be all over the country at once. And people are busy.

So here's a video of one of the creative writing games I play, called Flash Fiction After Dark. (I was nervous and called the game the Four Favorites game, because I have been playing FF with audiences longer than FFAD. My bad.) But the cool thing about this game is the leveled playing field between talented, experienced writers, people who struggle stringing two words together, and the ability of the game host to string all of that together into one whole performance. (And cheese. I think the willingness to be totally cheesy helps a lot. I don't have a problem being cheesy. For everyone else, BYOB -- if you're of age and have a safe way home!

If you want to see how cheesy you can get with your group, call Ann to set up a party for you and your friends. http://www.annpedenjewelry.com/ 706-769-2656

I also have a new survey for people in the area who might be interested in signing up for a class or for private consultation.

House on Haunted Hill farce!!

My son was part of the backstage crew in a parody of House on Haunted Hill that just wrapped up this week. The backstage crew were ghosts who engaged in pranking the actors on and off stage. I knew this young man would be a great prankster.

And was not surprised that he got to be a funny-man.


However, to avoid even the pretense of being "One of THOSE" stage-moms, I didn't read the script. When I went to see the play, I had little idea of what to expect. Normally I have at least helped my son go over his lines -- not speak too quickly, that kind of thing. With no lines, there was no need for me to do that.

J in a production this summer. We BOTH knew all his lines for this one!

Staged parodies aren't really my thing. Puns really only work well for me when fresh and in the moment. A play that has been rehearsed for months is neither. That is not meant to be disrespectful to the writer, a 17 year old member of the troupe, or the actors, who filled their roles very well. Only that, like slapstick and other many forms of comedy, it really isn't my can of Dr. Pepper.

My laptop, my WIP, and MY can of Dr. Pepper. ;)

 

 

 

 

 

But my son responsibly conducted himself through five performances in four days -- even though he was "done" after the second show. I am so very proud of him.

J enjoys a plate of spaghetti between shows on Saturday.

 

And I'm proud of myself. I DID manage to step back and let him do what he needed. He did not disappoint me. And the next time, he won't disappoint me, either. He will make me proud. My little boy is growing up. May the village help me!!