Vintage Modern Me Too: The Exhibitionist
Note to readers: This essay recounts an experience from my past that may be a trigger for some people.
As a college undergrad at U.C. Santa Cruz I took whatever small jobs I could find. I rifled through a collection of index cards at the campus employment office to see who was looking to hire a student.
My first job was housecleaning for a faculty member’s family. I had learned to dust, vacuum, polish furniture, wash windows, iron, and shine cutlery starting at age eight. These tasks were part of my regular chores. Supplemental chores, unlike the routine cleaning, were reimbursed: ironing my father’s handkerchiefs, for example, netted me a few pennies apiece. I had never cleaned someone else’s home and felt like an intruder when I entered with no one there, the home silent, encrusted dishes piled in the sink, the bathroom odiferous. The disarray was disconcerting, at odds with my image of a college professor.
Needing additional income, I branched out and followed up on a gardening job. It was a long and hilly bike ride away, against a strong headwind blowing off the ocean. I arrived at a nondescript taupe colored ranch home and rang the bell. A tall rangy man in his forties with a shifty smile ushered me into a sitting room with diffuse light filtering in through the partially closed wooden blinds. He motioned me to a low stuffed dark leather couch and sat in a matching chair across the coffee table from me. I perched on the edge of the couch while he discussed the terms of my employment. Five dollars an hour, unless of course, he paused and laughed nervously, I would consider gardening topless. I was startled, but declined politely. He informed me that he employed several young college students like myself who cleaned house for him topless. The hourly rate was double he wheedled. I declined again.
We walked outside where he showed me a flat uninspired walled-in garden with a variety of shrubs and ground cover, concrete walkways, and some lawn furniture. I crouched over and began weeding, feeling the sun beat down on my back and head, replaying the anxiety-provoking offer. I tried to push the image of the owner ogling the topless students out of my head. After a half hour or so, my employer arrived in the garden shirtless, sporting a hand towel around his waist. He positioned a chaise longue to face the sun and lay down. I tried not to look over in his direction, hunching over further, scrutinizing the plants as intently as possible. I was sweating profusely. He called me over. His teeth were long and yellow and his torso was an unpleasant pasty white. He told me he was thirsty and asked me to go inside and bring him a glass of lemonade; I would find what I needed in the kitchen. My heart was beating fast. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood.
I fumbled in the kitchen, uncertain where to find the glasses, and encountered two buxom young women arriving to clean house. At least I think I met them, but this many years later I could have imagined them. Back in the garden, I proffered the drink. He half rose from the chaise longue, the poorly wrapped towel falling away to reveal a long and, to me at the time, alien-looking purplish pink penis. I had seen very few penises up to that time. “Oops!” he said, grinning broadly and chortling devilishly, exposing himself for several seconds before rewrapping the towel about his waist. He lay back down, sipping his drink and closing his eyes. I retreated to a far corner of the garden and returned to my weeding, trembling and breathing rapidly.
I vaguely recall being paid for my work and hurrying to my bicycle for the long ride home. It was hard for me to focus, to stop at the red lights, push the pedals rhythmically, and watch for cars. The money I had made seemed tainted. It never dawned on me to tell Mr. Exhibitionist where to get off, to call the police, run for the hills. “Just say no” was not in my vocabulary. Or anyone else’s at that time.
