“You saw this morning in the makeup room how things are going, Madeline.” She allowed a bit of a snip into her voice.
I sure had. After my makeup was done, I went to the bathroom carrying my purse to make sure my monthly curse was all taken care of. As I was coming back in, Thacker Blunt knocked and entered. I stepped back into the shadows so he couldn’t see me while he ranted and raved like a sick bull. At the very start of the rant, I thought it would be exciting to whip out my mini, high-tech tape recorder and record him, so I did. When he stomped out I turned off my tape recorder and rejoined Tracy.
We agreed that today was the day to fry her boss like a gasping fish and then boil him alive.
“What I saw today, backstage, is that your boss, Thacker Blunt, the station manager, came in and proceeded to tell you that you had a ‘big ass’ and threatened to run your big ass out of town if you didn’t figure out ways you could be younger and hipper on your show.”
“That hurt.” Tracy’s eyes filled with tears. We had discussed this part. She was to be brave and strong and womanly, but definitely hurt. Almost mortally wounded!
I shoved my laughter back down my throat. “I recorded his diatribe.”
“You did?!” Shocked face by Tracy, that brilliant actress!
“Let’s listen to the tape so the audience can get an idea of the type of illegal harassment women, and sometimes men, face in the workplace. Folks, this is Thacker Blunt on the other end of the conversation. He’s the station manager.” I hit play.
The audience leaned forward, eager, a bit confused. The station manager had been recorded? They were playing it live, on air?
“Listen up, Tracy.” Thacker’s voice was rough and aggressive as it torpedoed around the studio. “This deal with Tawni strained things for me, got things stirred up, and I blame you, and I don’t like your part in it.”
“My part?” Tracy said.
I glanced at the audience. They were, no kidding, on the edges of their seats.
“Yes, your part.” That was Thacker. I nodded at a gal backstage. She had a grudge against Thacker. She flashed a gigantosized photo of him behind us looking smarmy. “You know how you manipulated that situation.”
“I didn’t do anything to manipulate it,” Tracy said.
“Yes, you did. I put Tawni on your show because we needed to appeal to young women and young men. We needed thin, we needed pretty. We needed sexy. Not you, and you kicked her out.”
I heard gasps in the audience. Women do not like bimbos who are pushing them out of jobs and marriages.
“I didn’t kick her out. The viewers could see that I was being kicked out.”
“Look, Tracy. You’re getting older. You’re too heavy. You’re not in style. We need to catch the young ones.”
An audience member gasped and shouted, “What a prick!”
The audience at home heard that.
“So you want to fire me because of my age?”
“That’s between you, me, and the chair.”
“I could sue you for that comment.”
“You could, but I would deny that I made it. Your word against mine.”
The tension in that studio was thick and getting thicker. Like fury does when it comes alive.
“You’re here because all your old, middle-aged menopausal friends called in to the show and saved your ass and Tawni made some unfortunate comments about fat women. I mean, shit, fat women shouldn’t be wearing designer clothes. Their rolls make them look like hot dogs. It’s gross.”
One woman in the audience hissed, “He has a dick like a hot dog!”
The audience at home heard that, too.
“I thought Tawni’s comments were rude and inappropriate.”
“Who cares what you think? Fat women are fat women. Get the ratings up.”
“The ratings are already up, Mr. Brilliant.”
“That’s the kind of back talk I don’t need, dammit. Keep your old mouth shut. Don’t tell me how to run my station.”
“I don’t like you calling me old.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. I’ll tell you what to do. You’re beneath me.”
“I will never be beneath you. That would make me vomit.”
There were audible rumblings of that growing fury in the audience, as if fury was becoming one roaring person.
“It would make me vomit, too, Tracy,” a man in the audience told Tracy.
The audience at home heard that.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Tracy. I’m warning you. You’ve got a live show in an hour and a half. I’ve got to go to a meeting across town, but I will watch a copy of your show this afternoon and we’ll talk about ways you can reach a younger audience, despite your age, or I’ll find a way to run your big ass out of town. Run it out of town.”
When the tape was over, the disgust and live fury was heavy in the studio. The only thing that cut through that silence like an ax was one man’s slooowww comment, “I’m gonna run that cowpoke out of town myself with my truck.”
I winked at the sound man. He gave me a thumbs-up. Thacker had stolen his girlfriend. I leaned forward and said, “Tracy, you have a hostile work environment here.”
“I know I do, but I don’t want to have to go to court, hire an attorney. If I did that, I would never be hired again in this field.” She dabbed at a tear. Such a brilliant actress!
I nodded sympathetically. “Here’s the thing, Tracy. Tawni, the woman Thacker brought on to replace you, was terrifically unpopular with the viewers. But it’s my understanding that she was his girlfriend. Is that true?” I knew it to be true. I had made a few calls. Including to Tawni herself, who was still steamin’ mad. She’d heard of me, that got me into her confidence. ‘He used me,’ she’d whined. ‘I thought he and I were going to get married! Go to New York together! Have our own show where I would be the host. That’s what he said would happen! Now I’m in Memphis! I’m an assistant to an assistant and my husband left me!”
“I can’t comment on their private relationship,” Tracy said meekly. “I don’t want to repeat gossip, even if it’s true.”
“It’s also my understanding that he has another girlfriend working here at this station and they keep their . . . um . . . toys . . . shall I say, in the third drawer of his desk.”
Elizabeth had, with great fanfare, showed me the drawer today after Georgie called her. Thacker had told Elizabeth, when she was hired, “Ha. I’m movin’ up in the world. I have a black on the show now. We need blacks so I don’t look racist. Do you know another black who could work here? It doesn’t matter if it’s a male or female, I need another black. Or a Mexican. Get me one of those. A black or a Mexican.”
“Here are your choices, Tracy. One, sue the station. Two, quit, move on with your life. Three, take things as they are. Pray he leaves. Which one will you do?”
“Hmmm.” Tracy pretended to think. “Hmmm.”
The audience members, those women between the ages of forty and sixty who are tired of taking crap. started voicing their opinions, loudly, until Fury was up and skipping around the room. “Sue him! Don’t take that, Tracy. . . . Stand up for us women . . . stand up for yourself . . . woman power . . . prick men shouldn’t run the show . . . I’m frothing I’m so mad!”
I snuck a peek at the audience. A frothing woman? Where was that one?
“You know”—Tracy sat up straight, got some fire in her eyes—“I’m sick of this. I’m sick of the girlfriends, the promotions for them because they’re young and sexy, sick of the way he treats us women.”
“You can’t let him get away with it,” I said. “Not only for you, but for all of us. What about the sisterhood? Do you want to let another sister be derailed because she’s not young and thin enough, or do you want to make sure she gets fairness at work?”
Oh, whooee! The audience voiced their opinions. “He’s an asshole, Tracy. . . . Sue the station, sue for all of us women.... Girlfriend blondes should not replace other women because they’re goo
d in bed.”
“Don’t be a wimp, Tracy. Don’t be walked on.” I shook my fist, rallying the troops.
“You’re right, I know you’re right,” she said, thinking deeply, pretending to gather her courage.
I let the pause hang heavy between us and the audience. “Come on, Tracy!” an audience member shouted. “Don’t take his abuse! What are you? A woman or a wimp?”
I raised my eyebrows at that one. Nice line.
“Sue for the sisterhood, Tracy!” I cheered. “Women do not need to work in sexually hostile environments. Young girlfriends sleeping with the boss should not replace experienced women because they’ll get naked. It’s unlawful, it’s unethical. It’s not right!”
The audience hooted and trilled.
“I think . . . I’m going to . . .” Tracy drew out the tension. There was scattered applause, encouraging words . . . Fury sprinting about.
“I’m going to . . .” She tilted her chin up, brave woman, she.
I put both my fists in the air and flung them about, building the tension. “What do you think, audience?”
“Sue sue sue!” they chanted.
“Take no crap, Tracy! You don’t want to get to be a ninety-year-old woman and look back and think you were a spaghetti noodle, do you?”
“Sue sue sue!” the audience chanted, ol’ Fury blasting away.
“I’m going to . . .” Tracy finally stood up, shoulders back, a tough expression on her face.
The audience stood up, too, continuing their chants.
Tracy pounded a fist into the air, then screamed, “I’m going to suuuuueeeee!”
Chaos. I leaped to my feet, arms up in a victory V. The audience went wild. The cameras later showed them on their feet, standing ovation, fists pumping.
“Thatta girl!” I thundered. “Now everyone!” I jumped onto my chair. “Put your fists in the air and yell, ‘I am a woman who will take no crap!’”
Tracy and the audience yelled it back to me while Tracy joined me on her chair.
“Louder! You can do better!”
They yelled again, “I am a woman who will take no crap!”
“One more time!”
They hollered, “I am a woman who will take no crap!” Even the men yelled that they were women who would “take no crap.” I saw that later on a replay on the news that night. The men bought into it full force, especially the white, middle-aged balding ones.
“I am more than my age!” I boomed.
They echoed it back, deep and passionate.
I grabbed my boobs. “I am more than my bra size!”
They screamed, and they grabbed their boobs. One man had heftier boobs than me.
“I am more than what a man thinks of my ass!”
They full-throttled that one.
“I am me! I am wonderful! I am smart! I kick butt! Say it with me! I. Kick. Butt!”
Whooee!
“I.Kick.Butt!”
“Now come on down here and show Tracy, who has battled cancer twice, who volunteers her time raising money for all sorts of hellaciously good charities, show her that she is one spectacular woman! Come on down, sisters and brothers!”
They poured off the risers, as I cued the sound man and the theme song from Rocky pounded the studio.
Da, Da, da, da-da-da, da-da, da, da-da-da . . .
Two men lifted her up on their shoulders, one with the boobs heftier than mine, and the other men and women crowded around and cheered as they paraded a victorious Tracy around the studio, the cameras catching all of it.
Thacker Blunt lost his job.
He didn’t even get to return to the studio as the beefy security officers called by corporate blocked his way.
For evidentiary purposes only, the third drawer of his desk was opened by his colleagues with a hammer and a wrench.
This is what they found: Dominatrix kinds of treats. Leather vests. A whip. Handcuffs made of leather. Eatable underwear. A black male thong. Licorice. Condoms. A ballerina outfit. A black ski mask with eyeholes. A pair of red high heels, size 15. Hmmm. Who wore those?
Now, what bad person took photos of all that stuff and passed it around, I don’t know. That’s not my business. Someone else passed around pictures of Thacker and the young, leggy, snooty blonde, Tawni, and his girlfriend of today, also a young, leggy, snooty blonde. Who did that was also not my business. The often-promoted girlfriend lost her job. That was her business. Perhaps she should not have her married boyfriend wear red high heels.
It was rotten for someone else to take the photos of Thacker all dressed up in drag and whiz those around the office, too.
His wife filed for divorce. Rumor had it that all his stuff was removed from his house and shoved to the street. Then the wife poured gas over the whole pile and set it on fire. The fire made the news. Some said she was dancing around the fire like a witch casting spells, but I don’t know if that’s true.
The wife was arrested and charged. The charges were dropped.
Tracy’s ratings, once again, skyrocketed.
As for me, my profile as a life coach skyrocketed, too.
Whoo-ha. Tracy slugged a home run.
My sisters, together, we have to slug sometimes.
Slug away, sisters, slug away.
I have issues with sex.
I know this.
I know why.
I have tried to get over it. I had a boyfriend in college once. He couldn’t get over my frozen body, the panic in my eyes, the startling lack of enthusiasm.
I didn’t blame him. He said once, “I feel like I’m forcing you, and I can’t do this again. I can’t. I want a woman in my arm who wants to hug me, to kiss me, who wants me. Madeline, I mean, do you not like sex? Are you gay? I feel awful, I do. Do you like me at all?”
I liked him. He was kind and gentle.
No, I wasn’t gay. No, I didn’t like sex.
I’m a hypocritical life coach who counsels people periodically on their sex lives. A life coach’s job isn’t technically supposed to be counseling people on sex, but I specialize in relationships in your life, so it comes up on a regular basis. If it’s a problem for my clients, it’s a problem in their lives. So I address it as best I can if they bring it up.
I had a woman tell me that in the twenty-two years she’s been married she’s been making love to Jimmy Smits in her head every time instead of her husband. “If I think about my husband, I freeze up.” Turns out the guy had the emotional openness of a porcupine, was often cranky, and had a history of lying. No wonder she froze up.
Another client, a man, said that he’s too intimidated by his wife to have sex. “She constantly criticizes me about everything, my family, how I haven’t been promoted enough, don’t make enough money, I’ve gained too much weight, our neighbors have better cars . . . even during sex, she’ll sigh and roll her eyes or not respond, lie there like she wants to get it over with, it’s a chore, I’m a chore, and I feel like nothing, nothing, nothing.”
I met his wife a couple of times in session. She was so cold I almost froze in my chair. Dyed red hair, slender, lots of makeup, perfect, and expensive clothes. She smiled pleasantly, but in the course of my conversation with her I found her to be manipulative, snobby, an expert at mind games, and shallow. Barbie meets a frozen snowwoman meets an “I Am Better Than Everyone” attitude. She refused to work and spent most of her time making herself beautiful. I advised divorce because of her terribleness, the snowwoman part, and he confessed he would rather commit suicide than be married to her for another week. They had no kids, so he divorced her and moved to Bend for the skiing. He’s a lot happier now.
Another woman liked having a lot of sex. I don’t know where the line of nymphomania starts and ends, but I think she was deep into the nympho side.
“I can’t be with only one guy. One stud. I mean, I wear them out. I tell the guys I’m dating that I’m dating other guys. I like sex. I need several studs.”
“And you like a lot of it.”
br /> “Yes.” She smiled, sat up straight. She was wearing an innocent yellow dress and yellow heels. “I love it. I can’t think sometimes unless I’ve had sex.”
“No thinking at all?”
“Nope. Brain dries up. I have to have it in the morning before work to get myself together. And I like to have it in the middle of the day if I have a full schedule in the afternoon. An orgasm releases my stress, like a river floating it away.”
I nodded, river-like.
“And I like to have it before I go to sleep or I can’t sleep. I’m up all night! Is there something wrong with me?”
“Do you feel like something is wrong with you?”
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m addicted to sex, but it’s a healthy addiction. I keep my job, I never sleep with anyone I work with, I don’t sleep with friends’ husbands or boyfriends, or anyone attached at all. But I have a few single men on the side.”
“A few?”
She grinned, fiddled with her pearl necklace. “Yes, I love them all. They love me. We have fun. It’s not serious. I think of them as my morning, noon, and night orgasms.”
“Don’t you mean your morning, noon, and night men?”
“No, no, my, no.” She grinned again, fiddled with her pearl earrings. She looked so sweet! “They’re my orgasms.”
“So these men equal orgasms? Do they know that’s all they are to you? Is that fair to them? Are they getting hurt in this process? Do they feel used?”
“I’m respectful. I don’t look at them and say, ‘Hello, Morning Orgasm! Hello, Lunchtime Orgasm!’ It’s not like that. We need each other at different times.”
“Aren’t you at work at noon?”
“Yes, but I leave and meet my afternoon orgasm.”
“At his house?”
“No.”
“At your house, a hotel?”
“It would be too committed to meet in either place. We usually meet at a Starbucks. In one of the restrooms. Then we have a drink together. I like their sandwiches and their yogurts, too. Then I go back to work.”
She smiled.
She’s a cardiac surgeon.
She’s apparently quite talented.
Amazing what an orgasm can do for a woman.