Episode 56: Women Can't Take A Joke

In 1975, I started working as an editorial assistant for the American Gas Association in Rosslyn, Virginia. The association represented transmission and distribution companies. By 1978, I was editor of the riveting AGA Monthly magazine. The association was populated by good old boys, many of them not so good, but retired from the military with modest pensions which allowed them to take the low pay AGA offered. They were often poorly educated except in the ways of racism and misogyny.

My hiring as editorial assistant was hailed as a first: only men had held this job before. Wowee! I’m sure the decision to hire followed discussions along these lines: If we hire a man, he’ll get bored, take another job, and quit. If we hire a woman, she’ll get pregnant and quit.

What to do, what to do.

The building was 12 stories, with the last floor– the penthouse – reached by a spiral staircase. On my first day, I noticed a sleazy looking man standing under the spiral staircase looking up women’s skirts. Turns out he had been warned several times but never punished.

There was so much more to come.

My penultimate boss was the director of public relations, Bill M. He roared around the office scratching his buzz cut hair to the point of sending showers of dandruff wherever he went. At the same time, he smoked horrible, cheap cigars, leaving billows of toxic smoke in his path. (Bill’s wife was a drunk -–no wonder—and made passes at young men at association get togethers.)

“Women wear perfume, so why shouldn’t I smoke wherever I want!” He declared frequently.

One day I was passing through the lobby when Bill hailed me.

“Hey, you never told me you were moonlighting!”

“What? What are you talking about?” I was suspicious as to where this was going.

“Well, I picked up a Playboy out at the annual meeting, and there you were, right in the centerfold!” He announced, leering at me. “I showed it around and the boys agreed, ‘specially when I pointed out the little mole under your right arm.” As if he would know it was there.

Suspicions confirmed, I was stunned at his temerity. I was 22 years old and having college professors as parents meant I had had a look at some of the undersides of things. This was just as the women’s movement was burgeoning and I knew Bill wouldn’t be fired for this.

At least Bill never laid a hand on me, which was something in those days. I was sure if I confronted him, he would say he was just funnin’.

Without a word I turned away and went back to my desk. Over the next few days, I heard Bill in the background, sniggering as he told his salacious little story.

Then one day, we were in a staff meeting, populated by all men except for me and the diminutive Jane M. Bill started to tell this by now really old story when Jane leapt to her feet and grabbed my arm, pulling me off the couch. She then delivered a tirade that tore Bill a new one and made all the men deeply uncomfortable.

We stormed out of the crowded office leaving a stunned silence behind us.

Eventually, as I was working at my desk, Bill came chugging out of his office and paused next to me.

“The problem with women is they just can’t take a joke,” he blurted out before moving on with his characteristic plume of smoke trailing behind him.

That was a s close to an apology as I was going to get.