The fight against the “little lady” gets exhausting. Time to
erase stereotypes.
***
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| Photo credit |
“Don’t worry, dude. We’ll get you taken care of and back on
the road fast.”
The mechanic finishes typing my personal info into the computer
and hands my driver’s license back. “These imports are all the same. We replace
half a dozen fuel pump relays a week, easy.”
“Great.” I force a smile. It isn’t the guy’s fault that the
relay blew out and I’m without a car. “And you’ll have it done today?”
“Sure thing. By 4:00 PM, easy.”
“Appreciate it, thanks.” I tuck the receipt, which details
what the mechanic plans to do and the estimated cost, into my pocket and then
pull out my phone to text my buddy. I hope he can pick me up. I’m already late
for work. The thought of the pile of torts on my desk and the anxious
co-workers who will undoubtedly trail me—questions streaming—as soon as I set
foot through the door, makes me bite my tongue to keep from groaning out loud.
Another mechanic pushes through the door behind the desk.
“Did you see that pretty little piece I left with last night?”
I glance at the guy. He’s probably around my age,
mid-twenties. Even though it’s only 7:30 in the morning, his shirt is already
stained and his hair looks like he hasn’t combed it, let alone washed it. His
sneer makes me turn toward the window again, but of course I can still hear
him.
“Man, she was hot. And with hooters like that, I just knew I
was in for a good time.”
I almost turn around to ask how one has anything to do with
the other, but I don’t want to get into the middle of the conversation. I
consider stepping outside, but the temperature hasn’t even hit double digits,
so I have to put up with these skeevy jerks if I want to keep my ears.
“Did you get some?” My mechanic asks.
I close my eyes hoping a lack of sight equates to muffled
hearing.
“Well, practically,” the slime ball answers. “Enough to try
again anyway.”
My mechanic’s response is garbled as they walk into the shop
together.
Crisp air blasts across my cheeks and I open my eyes to find
a girl – woman? What do you call a female in her early twenties? – push through
the front door.
My phone buzzes. Sure. Give me about a half hour. I
want to growl at the amount of time. Dale could easily be here in fifteen
minutes. But I’m at his mercy. I’m sure I woke him up, so he probably growled
at me already.
I type my thanks and hit reply just as my mechanic comes
back into the office to greet the girl.
“What can I do for you little lady?”
I peek over my shoulder with an eyebrow raised. The term
“little lady” makes him sound about sixty years old instead of thirty or so. I
shake my head and stare out the front window. Half an hour! While the “little
lady” talks behind me, I text Rebel, at work, to let her know when to expect
me.
“Oh right.” My mechanic snickers. “You’re the—how did you
put it—rattle, thunk, rattle, thunk noise.”
I turn and lower myself onto the leather couch, squinting at
the mechanic and his condescending attitude, but he’s too busy leering at the
female in front of him to notice. I cock my head to the side. The change in his
behavior from me to this young woman is fascinating, if repulsive. He looks
almost primitive. Like he might sniff her hair.
She clears her throat. “Well, yes, that’s how it sounds and
it hisses before it starts doing that.”
“I’m pretty certain that what you’ve got is a failing water
pump.”
I shake my head automatically, because that isn’t what it
sounds like at all, though admittedly I’m not really much of a car guy. The
guy’s eyes flicker in my direction, but re-focus on the woman he plans to drag
into his cave.
“If we have to replace the water pump, it’s suggested by the
manufacturer that we do the timing belt at the same time. We won’t have those
parts in until tomorrow, though. We have a courtesy shuttle service. Can I take
you somewhere?”
They don’t have a shuttle service. I’m about to speak up,
when she says, “No. I have a ride.”
“Let me get the job req filled in then. Name?”
“Belle Sorenson.”
“Well, isn’t that appropriate? Belle means pretty, doesn’t
it?” The mechanic is mouth breathing while he smiles and leers and types. I’m
astounded by his ability to multi-task. “Sure fits a pretty little slip of a
thing like you.”
I smirk when Belle doesn’t bother to reply.
“When do you think it’ll be ready tomorrow?” she asks.
“Well, I don’t know for sure. We won’t know until we get in
there and see what’s really going on. I’ll call you and let you know.”
I wrack my brain trying to remember if there is some sort of
best-practices law that says he has to give her an estimate. The situation with
her car isn’t much different than mine. They should know exactly how long it
takes to replace a water pump—if that’s what is really wrong in the first
place. Something tells me he knows as well as I do that isn’t the problem, but
he’s leaving his scamming options wide open.
I scan Belle from head to toe. Even standing straight as an
arrow, she probably only tops off at 5’2”. She’s thin and her thick wool coat
and the scarf coiled around her neck makes her look fragile. Because she has
her back to me, I can’t see her expression, but I can hear the frustration in
her voice.
The mechanic hands her the license and the receipt at the
same time.
“If I have it ready at 1:00 PM, would you like to take me to
lunch?” He winks at her. “I’ll throw in a free oil change.”
I pop up from the couch. “Unbelievable. You cannot be
serious.”
When the mechanic glares at me I realize I just signed my
car’s death warrant. “Did I ask you?”
“Did you ask me to lunch? No. Did you offer me a free oil
change? No. Did you treat me like a bubble headed blond? No.” Now the girl is
scowling at me. “But what I don’t get is why you think it’s okay to do all of
those things to her? Is it just because she’s a woman?”
Anger seeps across the guy’s face. His entire body starts to
shake. “I’m certain this is none of your business, fancy boy. You and your
skinny jeans can just leave with your boyfriend when he shows up and keep your
nose out of my business.”
I stare at the guy while I contain my anger. There is so
much I want to say about his assumptions and his attitude, but I don’t want to
put the girl at further risk by pissing him off more. Finally, I drop my gaze
and find her staring at me with a terrified expression on her face. I use my
soothing mediator’s voice. The one that coaxes shell-shocked victims into
opening up. “Is your car drivable?”
She shrugs and nods.
“Is it the hatchback out there?”
She nods again.
I pick up her keys from the counter and hand them to her. “I
suggest you take your car to Happy Trails on 9th. These guys
specialize in imports, but Happy Trails is great with American made cars. If
anyone treats you like this over there, go somewhere else. Promise me you’ll
never let someone treat you like this again.”
Her expression is ironic. “You think I let it happen? You
think I have control over this?”
“Okay, no I don’t. But promise me you’ll start fighting
back. Jerks like this will never learn different if women don’t speak up.” My
gaze takes in her conservative hairdo, professional, expensive clothing.
“You’re educated. You’ve already worked for so much, don’t let these jerks
demean you just because you’re a woman.”
Her shoulders slump. “You’re right. I used to speak up, but
it’s been a lifelong fight and I think I got tired somewhere down the road.”
She squares her shoulders again. “But no battle was ever won by giving up.”
Dale pulls up in front of the shop and I’ve never been
happier to see him. I smile at her, slip a business card from my wallet and
turn toward the pissed off mechanic. Sliding the card onto the counter, I say,
“If anything is wrong with my car when I pick it up, or anytime in the next six
months, I’ll own this place.”
He looks down at my business card and snarls at the long
list of attorney’s-at-law that make up the firm’s name.
I turn toward the door and say to Belle, “Can I walk you
out?”
With a tentative smile she nods and walks through the door I
hold open for her.
“9th street, huh?”
“9th and Herald.”
She heads to her car, but then stops and turns toward me
again. “Why did you do that?”
I shove my hands in my coat pockets and stare back into the
office. I’m not really sure why I stood up for her. When I look back, her nose
is already bright red from the cold. “I guess I realized that jerks like that
will never learn different if men don’t speak up, also. If I stayed silent and
watched it happen, it would have made me just as guilty as those douche bags.”
She laughs, probably at my choice of words. Then asks
hesitantly, a touch of shyness that makes her look younger. “Can I get one of
those business cards?”
I realize I can’t pull one out fast enough. Like I’m afraid
she’ll change her mind and reject it after all.
She studies it before giving me a parting smile. “Thanks,
Declan.”
“Anytime, Belle.”
I slide into the passenger seat and I know I’m smiling like
a schoolboy.
“Did you seriously score a date at the mechanics?” Dale says
by way of a greeting.
“I don’t know. I’ll leave that up to her.” I slip down in my
seat and lean my head back. “But I hope so.”
“I don’t know Dec. I think she looks too smart for you.”
I smile contentedly. This is exactly how a
conversation between two guys about a girl should go. “She probably is. Let’s
hope I fooled her.”
***
Author’s Note:
I had a different story planned for this month, but I saw a
post on Facebook by Maggie Stiefvater about how
she’s always treated like the little lady, regardless of her extensive car
knowledge and overall success and capabilities. I’ve also had a lifelong fight
against condescension because of my lack of height and sunny disposition.
People are often surprised to learn I’m intelligent and strong. This isn’t a
situation that women can or should fight alone. Men need to get involved.
Examine their own thinking. Stand up when they witness ill treatment or
unearned disrespect. Parents need to raise their children (boys and girls)
without prejudice and preconceived notions. Women need to act with respect if
they are asking for it. For more on gender equality, visit He for She.
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