Humans At The Movies: Fists Of Fury

The Role: The kind of well-heeled, ultra-feminine lady who — when her virtue is affronted — draws back one uncalloused palm and settles the dispute with a (surprisingly strong) maidenly slap. Think of a slightly more uncorseted Vivian Leigh in Gone With The Wind, or the librarian-foxy stenographer in every black and white movie ever.

The Actor: As a fairly miffed, if not outright angry, feminist with an urban upbringing, I’m hard to shock. On the rare occasions that a man harasses me, I remain a perfect lady: politely ignore his comments, flash a sunny smile, and pleasantly tell him to go suck a used tampon.

The Scene: A lovely lunchtime stroll through the vibrant borderline-cesspool neighborhood I work in. Said office is surrounded by public housing, a public hospital, public sidewalks — it only makes sense that a good majority of the usual street loiterers have a hard time with the concept of private property. Like a woman’s body. On a particularly muddy day, it’s not unusual for me to pop out for the 500 yard dash to the bank and return with as many as six separate sets of handprints visible on my person.

But this girl is nothing if not adaptable, so I’ve taken to swaddling myself up like a polygamist compound refugee.  And when the dude in front of the 7-Eleven gets all grabby-grabby, I intercept his hands with a friendly knuckle-bump. No big deal. Until one day a few months ago.

As a west-coast transplant, I have one firm weather mantra: “Dress for the weather you want, not the weather you’ve got.” Which is how I ended up on an unseasonably snowy day in a short-sleeved sweater and slightly abbreviated skirt, exposing the only visible flesh in the whole downtown area.

Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not one of those lithe little beauties men hit on all the time. But due to some confluence of the neighborhood and the lack of other street-flesh, within 30 seconds I’d already been eye-bukaked like the last doughnut at a Weight Watcher’s meeting. At one point, I literally looked down to see if sometime since breakfast I’d accidentally changed into a g-string made of banker’s bonds and Vicodin prescriptions.

Still, a girl’s got to eat, so I skipped to the grocery store, distracting myself from my insurance company’s hold music by playing a mental game of “homeless or hipster?” Out of nowhere, Contestant #3 forced himself in my path.

“Give me a cigarette!” he requested, firmly but not unpleasantly. Just then, my insurance representative picked up the phone, so I waved him away while talking to her. “Screw you, bitch!” yelled my charming interlocutor, simultaneously reaching his hand up my skirt.

“Can I call you back?” I chirped to the insurance girl. Then calmly dropped my cigarette, slipped my phone in my purse, and slapped the jerkwad so hard my palm went numb.

The Review: While my life didn’t flash before my eyes in the next 30 seconds, I’ll admit a few visions of my death did. Slapping a stranger in the face: satisfying; empowering; really friggin’ stupid. Fortunately, he was too stunned to make any other moves toward me, so I scampered to the grocery store in relative safety. However, while this is obviously a movie trope best left to the screen, indulging in it did give me a greater sense of confidence when dealing with future jackasses. Now every time I get harassed, I can spin my rings around and think, “Hoo boy, if you only knew the brand of justice I could unleash on you…”

Photo Credit

“The Slap”

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