Butch Tales: The Woman In The Hall

So lost was I in my own thoughts that I might never have noticed her, except that, at that moment, we were entirely alone.

I walked with my usual purposeful, long stride, perhaps a bit more swiftly and distractedly than usual, down the now-familiar wide, sterile hallway of one of the many buildings that comprised the sprawling corporate campus that hosted my evening class. At the gloaming of this winter day, the hall was mostly empty. Having arrived a bit early to prepare for my test, I could hear my thoughts as clearly as the echo of my footsteps. The office workers had mostly gone home and students had only started to trickle in. Rounding the corner, still processing my workday while striving to focus my mind on the midterm for my class that would begin in twenty short minutes, I was on a mission to find sufficient coffee and sugar to make it through the rest of my long day, when perchance I looked up directly into her startled eyes.

I hadn’t noticed her before. But she had noticed me.

She wore a look of controlled panic: darting eyes, slightly flared nostrils, ready stance. This was a woman clearly concerned for her safety and not sure if she should be angry or embarrassed about it, but clearly focused on her primary task: getting to safety.

I recognized the look. Any woman whose heart has ever raced to match the pace of the eerie staccato of heels clicking on pavement behind her as she walked alone after dark, any woman who has ever quickly assessed how many steps (or how loud a scream) she is from the safety of a crowd, any woman knows.

I slowed my pace, smiled slightly, looked away first. Reflexively, I turned more obviously to profile to allow her to see that it is OK, to allow her to see that I have, well, breasts.

Did it do the trick? Hard to say, really. You see, the next moment a man – did she know him? – rounded the corner and I heard steps coming down another hall and, suddenly, she was not alone. And it was alright. The moment had passed.

That night I dreamt of awakening alone in a dark strange room.

I could not, at first, remember where I was. I did know that I was there to visit my mother, who was – oh yes, that’s right – in a mental hospital. With this remembrance, my nerves grow more alert and I strain to pull my sluggish, sleepy brain to consciousness. I see that the only light comes from the hall outside the door in front of the other bed.

A mother-shaped person enters the room, fails to notice me, and sits wearily at the dressing table. I catch the scent of Jean Nate and fabric softener on the smallest breeze that wafts in the door with her quiet movement. I am home. Yet, though I can’t tell what it is, I sense that something is terribly wrong. Then I see, but I do not understand.

In the flash of momentary light, when she turns on the dressing table lamp, I peer at the mirror and what stares back at me, unbelievably but unmistakably, are the eyes of a man. Startled, she/he turns off the light in an instinctual self-protective move, just as a lizard retreats from the porch light. I feel my heart beating faster, but I cannot make my legs move toward this mother-man, who may as well have been a wall between the door and me. I am paralyzed. Finally I manage to reach for the bedside lamp. But the light won’t turn on. Panic. Fear. Must have light. It is all that matters.

He/she comes toward me slowly, hands raised, perhaps to show me no harm, perhaps to shield his/her face. Kneeling to check the lamp plug, this person who looks like man, but smells of mother – this person is just too close to me. Blood pounding in my ears, I hear muffled voices down the hall. I make my decision. Still not sure my legs will even work, I decide I must try. I must leap suddenly and in one movement get to light, to people, to safety. Only then can I assess the situation rationally and decide what, if anything, to do next. Nothing else matters. Only getting to safety.

And I wake up.

And I know what happened to that woman in the hall. She had been in the restroom when I entered a few minutes prior. She heard the click of my shoes – men’s dress shoes, black cap-toe oxfords – on tile. Saw those same shoes appear in the stall next to her. The only other stall. The one nearest the door. In a bathroom down a hallway, in the evening. With all the calm and dignity she could muster, she had washed her hands quickly, exited quietly, and hurried back toward her desk. Only to hear those clicking heels behind her again, bearing down on her.

Making it at last to “the light”, the relative safety of the threshold of her office space, she turned to face her “pursuer”. Searching my masculine face, unable to reconcile it with anyone who should be in the women’s room, she hesitated to show even the smallest portion of her worst fear, but smelled of it just the same. Even now, I can feel her quiet panic, her need for light, for people, for safety. It is not rational. It is lizard-brain response. Pure amygdala. But it is real. It is all that matters.

This fear is like a primitive beast. It bears no malice, but it shows no compassion, has no empathy. It is pure instinct. It can be cold and even dangerous, but it has helped countless women live to fight (or flee) another day. I bear it no grudge, wish it no harm. I only wish to show it, from a safe distance, that I am safe and will not approach.

I know what happened. I know it on the same primal level that every woman knows.