I know his name, but I’m not going to tell it you. I’m only going to tell you that he tormented me.
Many years ago, he saw me standing on the platform as I waited to board a trolley to go to work. He was an older man in his seventies. He wore a suit, appeared to be a professional, and I thought he was harmless. He wasn’t.
Every day, he deliberately stood beside me on the platform so he could follow me into the trolley to sit or stand next to me. Once positioned, he would press himself against me. No matter where I went, he was there. If there weren’t any seats available and I had to stand, he would get behind me and rub himself against my back. He would do the same to my shoulder if I were seated on the aisle. The worst was if I sat next to a window because he would press his elbow into my breast as hard as he could and pin me against the side of the trolley.
At first, I gave him the benefit of the doubt and figured he was a dotty old man who didn’t know what he was doing. I tried my best to move away and ignore him, but he grew bolder and his intentions became clear. If I tried to push him away, he would grin and press harder. A few times I got so angry I elbowed him as hard as I could, but that aroused him and made him breathe heavy. He disgusted me.
I was afraid to say something out loud because nobody else saw what he was doing, and if I confronted him, I feared people would think I was being paranoid and picking on an old man. So I tried to avoid him. I altered my schedule every day and arrived a little earlier or later to catch a different trolley, but he was always there. He waited for me. I couldn’t escape him. I also couldn’t afford to drive downtown and pay for parking every day.
I finally called the Port Authority Police to complain. The officer sounded bored as I described what this man was doing.
“Is that all he does?” he asked incredulously.
I insisted he was harassing me. The officer told me he would send an investigator to meet me at the trolley stop the next morning. Nobody showed up. I wasn’t surprised.
I cringed when I saw the old man driving down my street one day, and was grateful that he didn’t see me. Later I drove around the neighborhood and found his car parked in a driveway. One of my friends lived close by and I asked her about him. She knew him and could hardly believe my story. She kept asking me if I was sure it was him.
I was.
Eventually, my tormentor went away and I didn’t think about him for many years until the recent #MeToo campaign sparked my memory. I did an online search and found that he died last year. I read his obituary, which made him sound like a lovely man. He was a respected professional who was married for 55 years and beloved by his family. I can accept that he was all those things to his family and friends.
To me, he was a pervert.
Abusers like Donald Trump, Roy Moore, Harvey Weinstein and Charlie Rose have always counted on their power, position and money to get away with repulsive behavior. They deserve to be impeached, fired and/or jailed. But when they die someday, their families and friends will only read about the glowing attributes that led these abusive men to power, position and money.
Some predators don’t have power, position and money. They just live in the neighborhood and ride the trolley to work.
I’m still not going to tell you his name, but I will tell you this:
His obituary lied.
***
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