prudie mcpruderson (3)
Posted 30 November, 2005 in that is f'ed up.
I hate the creepy guy who works in my office building. He smokes too, and so sometimes we ride the same elevator back up to our offices after a smoke break. Too often it is just us two in there. He always stands too close, looks at you too hard (and looks at dubious areas of your anatomy), and is overly, unctuously friendly. It’s not just me–he does it to one of my other coworkers too, also a lady. We call him Mr. Creepy.
I wonder if everyone has a creepy guy who works in their office building. There was one at the old office too, except he was worse: He gave me a hug. I have no idea why. We were both smoking out on the balcony, and he needed a light. He was probably in his early 20s, decent enough looking, dressed hip hop style. We chatted for a moment. He worked at the talent agency on the 10th floor. He asked what I did. I told him, and after he gave me the usual raised eyebrows people give me when I tell them what I do, I explained that I wanted to be a writer. He then launched into a long soliloquy about his dreams and aspirations. “I just want to be an all-around entertainer,” he told me. There are lots of people in Los Angeles who suddenly decide to tell you their life story while you both stand outside smoking cigarettes, and it freaks the hell out of me. Plus he was now standing way too close to me. Then he asked what floor I worked on, and I made the mistake of telling him. “We should have lunch sometime! I’ll come up to your floor,” he said. Then he put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze before he went back inside the building. It was highly inappropriate. Every time I saw him after that, I made sure to avoid him.
It’s not that I mind a discreet bit of male attention, but being charming is one thing, and being just plain creepy is quite another. Some guys don’t know where to draw the line. I wear a ring on my finger, and I never throw out flirtatious signals, because I’m married, and I’m not interested. I rarely start conversations with men I don’t know, unless they’re really old, because I like to talk to really old men. They are cool. But creepy dudes don’t discriminate, because they don’t seem to realize, or care, if a woman isn’t interested: they creep on every girl they get the opportunity to creep on. I am sure there are equivalent creepy gay guys too, who stand too close to other men who are grossed out by them.
This new creepy guy is actually not bad looking: he is probably in his mid-30s, in good shape, well turned out, seems to get along well with his colleagues. But God, he is icky. The other day we were in the elevator and he said, “I like your grey hair. I think it’s sexy.” Stunned into silence, all I could do was look away and heave a great sigh that I was stuck in this terrible situation. It was rude, but I think it got the point across without my having to shout or say something insulting. Plus he wasn’t technically being gross: he was just paying me a compliment, and I am not one to get all feminist on someone’s ass for doing that. It was even a well thought-out compliment: he was saying it was OK to rock the grey hair despite being only 30. But because of the look on his face, the distance (or lack thereof) he was from me when he said it, and his general tone of creepitude, I felt like shouting “EEEEWWW!” and running away. But I couldn’t, because I was in the elevator. Hence the sigh.
Yet I am charmed when the Israeli security guard I call Little Benicio, because he is a 5′5″ version of Mr. del Toro, holds the elevator for me for a really long time when I walk in the door after lunch. I don’t feel threatened by him, because he stands a decorous distance away once we are inside, doesn’t make more than a tiny amount of chitchat, and looks more at the wall than he does at me. Still, I know I am a lady and that’s why he held the door for me an extra long time, and I appreciate those kinds of chivalrous gestures. I am kind of old-fashioned that way. In fact, I think I am actually a big prude in disguise. My mother would be proud. Her nickname in college was “The White Glove.”