Poles Apart

by Terry Fallis

  “Evening, Mr. B,” Lewis said while keep his eyes roaming for any peripheral threats.

  “Hello, Lurch. You’re looking particularly mean tonight,” Bennington said. “Let’s keep that up all night and keep that smile of yours under wraps.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. B.”

  It only took about eight seconds for Mason Bennington to disembark from his Bentley, demonstrate that he’s an incredible jerk, insult Lewis, and enter the club, with two shapely women and the other gargantuan suit in tow. It was quite a performance. He looked over my way just before he reached the door, but I had no desire to make eye contact with him, so I looked elsewhere, possibly at my shoes or my fingernails or the sky. I don’t remember which.

  The doors closed again, reuniting the shiny X and Y.

  I saw Lewis exhale and both sides of his mouth start to twitch upwards, despite his efforts to keep them grounded.

  “Lurch? From the Addams Family?” I said to Lewis. “He calls you Lurch? What a dick.”

  “Mr. B pays me good coin. He can call me whatever he wants,” Lewis said, smiling.

  “Why don’t you just put your hand gently on his shoulder, press down lightly, and ask him to call you Lewis?”

  Lewis burst out laughing, even doubling over to hold his stomach. I can report that this suddenly and severely lowered his asshole index. He had to work on that.

  “Bro, you are one funny dude, Ever-man. And you obviously don’t know Mason Bennington.”

  “Who’s the other massive guy with him?” I asked.

  “That’s Brawn.”

  “Brawn?” I replied, incredulous. “His name is Brawn?”

  “Yep. Brawn.”

  “Brawn what?” I persisted.

  “Just Brawn. He don’t need a surname.”

  “No, I guess he don’t,” I agreed. “Well, he seems very nice and pleasant.”

  “Ever-man, you should plan on staying far, far away from Brawn. He is the real thing. And he’d take on a charging bull to protect Mr. B.”

  “Well, that’s hardly a fair fight.”

  “You’re right. A single charging bull wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “Point taken,” I said. “Note to self, stay the hell away from Brawn.”

  “Right.”

  The music was pounding through the floor when I made it up to my apartment. I was getting used to it by then and found that it wasn’t nearly the distraction it had been in the early days. I guess you can learn to live with almost anything.

  As I’d grown accustomed to doing, I cupped my feet around the big nut and bolt beneath the kitchen table as I wrote. There was no squeaking, or rattling, or movement. But I could feel the whole assembly pulsating. And as the hours passed, the bolt became warmer. Strangely enough, my writing seemed to come easier, smoother, and faster when the pole was doing its thing beneath my feet. I’d noticed this on two earlier occasions but refused to acknowledge it. How bizarre that the pole’s vibrations, energy, and temperature seemed somehow to inspire my best writing. On the other hand, I guess it was no stranger than any other aspect of this surreal situation.

  Building on one of my original posts – the one about the power of words – I crafted a follow-up post specifically on the use of gender-neutral language to combat gender stereotypes. I’m a big believer in the unintended impact of words and how they shape our thinking. With the pole working its magic underfoot, or under feet, as it were, it only took about an hour or so to get it to where I thought my argument worked but also captured the desired spirit and tone of the blog. I hit Publish and up it went, live.

  On a whim, I popped out onto the fire escape. She was there below me, reading by the rail of the loading dock. I didn’t recognize her directly, just the book in her hand. I casually descended the stairs until I was just a little above her and sat down on the metal steps.

  “Oh, hi, Shawna, fancy meeting you here.”

  She was dressed like a noble woman from the days of the French Revolution. I might not have the history or country right, but she reminded me of the Uma Thurman character in the Dangerous Liaisons movie, complete with a severely up-thrusting bustier. Again, stunning.

  “Hey, Everett.”

  It didn’t feel at all strange to be conversing with a beautiful woman wearing a ball gown that looked like it might require a two-week training course to don. I can’t explain why it didn’t feel strange. It just didn’t. Although I’m sure it looked strange.

  “I see you’re working tonight,” I offered.

  “No, I was just feeling all Marie Antoinette today so I hauled this old number out of my closet,” she replied, straight-faced. “We’re having cake later.”

  I laughed.

  “Yes, Everett, I’m working tonight.”

  “Looks like you’re nearly finished,” I said, nodding toward the Woolf book.

  “It’s an avoidance strategy,” she replied.

  I must have looked puzzled.

  “Every waking hour I’m not on stage, I should be spending on my dissertation. But I can’t seem to get focused, lately. I just read Woolf, instead.”

  “You did say ‘dissertation,’ right?”

  “Yeah, so.”

  “Ph.D.?”

  “Yeah, so.”

  “In what?” I asked, again trying hard to disguise my surprise.

  “History, but with heavy sociology underpinnings. At the University of Central Florida.”

  “No kidding. In what, specifically?”

  “I’m examining the early history of burlesque through a feminist lens.”

  “I didn’t know you could view burlesque through a feminist lens.”

  “Most men don’t because you tend to use the brain between your legs instead of the one between your ears,” she replied.

  “Right.”

  “I’m looking at a small corner of the early world of burlesque that was owned and operated by women, for women, as an expression of power, as a way to shed the strictures imposed by patriarchal society.”

  “Fascinating,” I said, and meant it. “And there’s the feminist lens.”

  “Right.”

  “And your job here is, what, research?”

  “It started out that way, but I’ve become addicted to the money,” she said. “I have a little daughter at home, so money is something I greatly need.”

  “And you make more here than you do as a TA in the classroom.”

  “Sad, but true.”

  “Do you feel ‘powerful’ when you, you know, dance?”

  “In this place, I do. I know I’m safe. I’m in control. I’m in the position of power. And I can see it in the eyes of those watching me.”

  “What about Mason Bennington? Isn’t he really the one with the power?”

  I don’t know why I couldn’t stop myself from going there.

  “Everett, you’re going all deep on me, here,” she said, smiling up at me. “Yes, you’re right, the psycho-nut-job ultimately has the power. But in the moment, when I’m out there on stage, I feel a certain power over those pathetic sex-craved vessels of testosterone. An illusory power, perhaps, but I feel something.”

  “So I guess you would not describe yourself as a charter member of the Andrea Dworkin/Catherine Mackinnon/Robin Morgan feminist clan,” I said.

  She just stared at me with her mouth open.

  It’s not the first time I’ve shocked a woman with my deeper-than-expected knowledge of feminism. But it might have been the first time I actually intended to. Shame on me.

  “Wow, Everett. That is one impressive party trick,” she said. “Where did you pull those names from, Wikipedia? Is this a strategy for picking up girls?”

  “Women,” I said involuntarily. “I mean, of course not. It’s a long story. Just think of me as a refugee from the student movement. Or as my father describes me, a pinko, whacko, commie, feminazi. And he loves me. No, I’m legit. Done all my reading, marched in the rallies, led the workshops, know the secret handshake. And as for pickin
g up women, I can tell you that a commitment to feminism has cost me more relationships than it’s ever delivered.”

  “Really. You must have it bad,” she said. “And to answer your question, I’m more from the Susie Bright/Naomi Wolf school of feminism.”

  “Hmmm, interesting,” I replied. “I’d say they represent two slightly different schools, but in the same general sphere, I suppose.”

  “Now, you’re just showing off,” she said, smiling and pointing.

  “Guilty. But I don’t often get the chance to strut my stuff with a fellow feminist scholar.”

  “Well, I prefer to avoid male-loaded terms like ‘fellow,’ but I take your point.”

  I laughed.

  “So, how old is your daughter?” I asked after a pause.

  “Chloe is four years old, going on eighteen,” Shawna said. “She is, quite simply, the most amazing creature I’ve ever encountered and the best thing I’ve ever created in my short life.”

  “Does she, um, stay with her father when you’re here?”

  She laughed.

  “Her father, whomever he might be, is not in the picture, never has been, and never will be,” she replied. “My mother stays with her at night, till I get home. Then I’m with her most of the day, except for her nursery school in the mornings. This arrangement gives us lots of time together, so it’s nice.”

  “You’re lucky to have your mother.”

  “I’m more than lucky. I’m truly blessed.”

  “How close are you to finishing the Ph.D.?”

  “If I can get my shit together, there’s not much more to do. My dissertation is essentially written. I’m just going through final editing and polishing. And then I have to defend it.”

  She shuddered.

  “Well, that shouldn’t be so bad, should it? You wrote it, after all.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself. But for some reason, I find it easier to confront that rabble inside here than to face my dissertation panel.”

  “Well, in case there’s any confusion, a tried-and-true strategy to calm your nerves is to just think of the panelists without their clothes on,” I suggested. “Just make sure, in the heat of the moment, you don’t fall into old habits and take off yours.”

  She had the decency to chuckle, though that line didn’t deserve it. I tried to salvage something.

  “Well, if I can ever help you as you try to keep all the balls in the air, I’m just upstairs. I’m a freelance writer, so I’m supposed to be good at proofreading and editing. Always happy to help another Virginia Woolf fan.”

  “Why, thank you, Everett. That’s a very sweet offer that I might well accept,” she said.

  “Speaking of feminist authors, have you ever read The Subjection of Women by John Stuart Mill?” I asked. “A friend just turned me on to it. I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of it before.”

  “Yep. I have a dog-eared copy at home. He was one radical thinker for his time,” she replied. “I know very few men who think the way JSM thought.”

  “Well, now you know one more,” I said.

  “Yes, I guess I do,” she agreed, nodding. “Now I know one more.”

  She smiled as she glanced at her phone.

  “Oops! I’m five minutes from hitting the stage. I gotta go,” she said as she handed me the Woolf novel. “Hold that for one sec, if you don’t mind.”

  I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind at all.

  She gathered the flowing gown around her, taming the wild folds into some semblance of order. Then she placed a hand below each breast and shoved them upwards into what I can only assume must have been the performance-ready position. She offered me her hand. On instinct I reached out to take it.

  “Virginia, Everett,” she said. “Virginia.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. Here you go,” I said, handing her A Room of One’s Own.

  She took it and carefully turned toward the open loading-dock door. She was just about inside when she stopped.

  “Hey, it was really nice hanging out and talking with you, Everett. You were not what I was expecting. I don’t meet a lot of men with your interests.”

  “Occupational hazard, I guess,” I replied. “I enjoyed our talk, too. Don’t forget my offer of help on the dissertation. You’re so close.”

  She was stalled at the door. I think she was listening to the music leaking through the kitchen doors, perhaps waiting for the song she had chosen to bring her on stage.

  “How did a feminist come to live overtop of such a classy and well-appointed den of iniquity?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that question ever since I saw the XY door handles,” I replied. “Just my good fortune.”

  She turned her ear to the open doorway again, listening.

  “Okay, I’m up. See you around.”

  And she was gone.

  Upstairs, I discovered two more emails from Sandi Jacobs, each more plaintive than the last. Candace really wanted to be the first to introduce to the world the writer behind Eve of Equality. After three emails, I figured I owed her a reply.

  Dear Sandi,

  I’m grateful for Ms. Sharpe’s interest in the blog and in having me on the show, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I write this blog anonymously so that my words stand on their own, alone. Who I am simply doesn’t matter. Only the message matters.

  Eve of Equality

  CHAPTER 8

  It was a good idea. In fact it was so good, I should have thought of it sooner. When I got up the next morning, I researched and then signed up for Google Adsense to introduce online advertising to the blog. Eve of Equality had such massive traffic that I thought I might as well earn some dough on the side to offset the hosting charges. As I investigated the model more closely, I discovered that I could earn an obscene amount of money if my humble blog continued to attract as many eyeballs and drive as many mouse clicks as it had in the past few days. I’d passed up some serious coin by waiting until now to sign on. Candace probably had no idea what she’d created.

  But before I locked in, I made sure that the ads that were about to start discreetly appearing on the site would generally reflect the sensibilities and views of the majority of my readers, whom I would describe as mainstream feminists. No, I’m not certain what that means. But I made sure there’d be no penile enhancement ads appearing on EofE. I also decided I would donate half the ad revenue to the National Organization for Women (NOW). Not only was it was the right thing to do, but it was also a hedge against any backlash from readers who might not be happy that Eve of Equality was to be “sullied” by online advertising. Finally, I wrote a blog post outlining the decision to accept appropriate ads on the site and announcing the NOW donation. I accepted the Google Adsense contract and hit Publish on the blog post before I could change my mind.

  I spent the next several minutes hyperventilating, holding my stomach with crossed arms, and gently rocking. When my vital signs appeared to have returned, as the paramedics say, to normal sinus rhythm, I got back to work.

  I researched and composed a couple of dozen thoughtful, witty tweets, all with links to interesting and timely content from around the feminist web and shamelessly included a few nods back to Eve of Equality. Then I programmed the tweets to publish over the course of the next few days, suggesting that the blog had a team of community managers hard at work spreading the EofE gospel. The @EveofEquality Twitter stream now boasted more than 403,000 followers. So I had a following to satisfy – a large, steadily growing, and hungry following.

  It took me another hour to wade through the mass of comments stuck in the blog’s moderation queue from yesterday’s post on inclusive language – the good, the bad, and the ugly. There were plenty of each, but the good won the day. As well, there were still more comments stacked up on every other post. This suggested that visitors were not just reading one post, commenting, and bolting for greener online pastures. Rather, they were staying and grazing on the other mini-essays on offer. Even the very first post I w
rote was still pulling big numbers. But my Mason Bennington screed still led the popularity pack.

  By then, it was noon, and I was wiped from the hours spent tending my online garden. I ignored the emails piling up in the EofE Gmail account. They could wait.

  A Twitter Direct Message bonged in my cellphone. I picked it up to check it and nearly dropped it. The private DM was from Candace Sharpe’s own Twitter account. She was reaching out to me personally. What the hell was happening? The earth seemed to have shifted just a bit on its axis.

  @EveofEquality Really dig what you’re writing. It just works & it resonates with real power. Please, please, come on the show.

  I could see the scene playing out before a live studio audience. That is, if Candace would even agree to talk to me after discovering who and what was pulling the levers behind the blog’s curtain. What a disaster. What a cataclysm. The impact of the blog would instantly erode to nothing, as the smoke of the controversy obscured everything. Three small steps forward, fifteen giant leaps backward. I ignored her DM. I ignored Candace Sharpe. Rude, but safe.

  I passed the afternoon at the hospital. I had planned to walk Dad until he or I dropped, but that didn’t happen. When I arrived just after lunch, I once again found Dad and Beverley arm in arm, going around the Red path with jilted Kenny looking on from the sidelines. Even from a distance you could see they were deep in conversation. Beverley’s right hand was gripping Dad’s left arm while her left hand carried on an animated aerial routine, no doubt synchronized to the point she was making. Dad’s right hand worked the cane as he eased his left leg forward with a far less pronounced body-roll than I’d yet seen. As usual, he was working hard, but I could also see he was listening intently, deep in thought, nodding and grunting occasionally. I couldn’t tell from where I stood whether he was nodding in agreement or opposition. It was a very strange scene. Brought together by errant blood clots, there was the irredeemable, unapologetic man’s man with a rouge-tinged neck, walking, arm in arm, with one of the founders of the modern women’s movement. Very strange.

  “So what were you two discussing in such an animated fashion while promenading?” I asked when I joined them on the bench. They were both breathing heavily from their exertions. I thought Beverley’s eyes were wider than usual.