My Patent Red Loafers

Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack I listened intently as my brand new red loafers stomped down the hallowed hallways. My mother had warned me not to wear red shoes on my first day of work, arguing I should aim to fit in rather than stand out, but I could’ve sworn the patent red loafers had screamed my name when I spotted them in the discount section of Woolworth’s. Yelling, “Susie, these will go perfectly with your blue suede dress and Princeton Journalism degree.” I walked quickly as my first-day anxiety set in. I gawked as men with curly hair, short men, tall men, and men with no hair at all whizzed past me in a frenzy. Walking with a purpose as if they had to be everywhere at once. Only stopping to eye me up and down, a specific large bulbous man’s gaze sent shivers down my spine as he slowed his pace, passing me by, and my stomach churned. I was so burdened by the sea of men and their gaze that I tripped over myself as I passed by the newsroom door, my red loafers making a terrible screeching noise on the black and white tiled linoleum floor. The window of the door was plastered with words that read, GAZETTE NEWSROOM. The words so cartoonishly large I giggled to myself as I opened the door, heavy with the weight of my impending success. As I stepped across the threshold, I thought to myself, “This is where your life begins, Susie.”

I was greeted at the door by a bouncy blonde with tall hair and taller heels to match; I was so overwhelmed with her presence I barely noticed when she introduced herself to me, “Hi, my name is Claudia, you must be Susie.” She looked down at my red loafers and grimaced, “I’ll show you around.” She turned and started walking away, so quickly you’d think she was jogging; she looked back at me and said, “Well…are you coming?” I quickened my pace, sticking to her side like a piece of gum to a shoe as she showed me around the newsroom. She barely took a breath as she monologued on and on about printers, coffee machines, and lunch breaks. But I was too distracted by the grandness of the room to pay attention; I stared at the marbled floors beneath my red loafers; I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me as the patterns created shapes before my eyes. Shapes of books and buildings and faces of older men. I gazed up at the lofted wooden ceilings, taking my breath away, feeling as though I was in a museum. The walls plastered with past editors, all men, all with receding hairlines, none attractive. I gazed across the reporter floor, admiring the hardened concentrative lines that had prematurely formed on the young men’s faces when Claudia stopped short, introducing me to an unfortunately recognizable large bulbous man. The same man who had eyed me down in the hallway just minutes before. He was wearing tan suspenders and a poorly shaped sandy brown toupee, his hideous putrid green striped tie distracting from his sweaty short-breathed appearance.

“Davis, John Davis, a pleasure to meet you, young lady.” He shook my hand for a bit too long and pulled me in a little bit too close for my liking; I could smell the stench of cigarettes, coffee, and cheap aftershave on him. As he whispered to me, “But you can call me Johnny.” He released my hand from his clammy grip and said, “Do a spin for me.” I looked at him dumbfounded, “Excuse me, sir?” I said, laughing. Claudia looked at me uncomfortably as I felt hundreds of eyes glued to me like I was on stage, a single spotlight shown down upon me. He stared at me until I did as he asked. I quickly and awkwardly spun around, feeling the eyes watch me intently as if my performance was the most captivating thing they had ever seen. Mr. Davis, seemingly pleased with my performance, exclaimed, “You’ll fit in here very nicely,” as he went on his merry way. I looked down at my red loafers and could feel my face turning a similar reddish shade to match.

Claudia turned to me; her tone had changed, softened; she whispered to me, “Try to fly under the radar a bit, and he will leave you alone.” I looked up at her; her tall blonde hair and compassionate look sent a wave of calm over me; I took a deep breath and said confidently, “Water under the bridge, couldn’t fly under the radar if I wanted to,” and began laughing it off. She continued to look at me as if she knew even I didn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth. Her freshly painted pale pink manicured hand touched my shoulder, and she whispered, “Word to the wise, never be left alone with him.” She then moved her hand and promptly returned to her bouncy self.

Claudia walked me downstairs to the ‘pit’ - they called it - where my desk and every other woman there resided as she said in an annoyed tone, “This is where the researchers - or women - work, and up there is where the reporters - or men - work, separated. You will be assigned a reporter and basically do all the work he deems unworthy to him. Need anything else?” I looked up at her, thinking of a thousand other things I wanted to say - or wished I could say - but simply blurted out, “I think I get how it works around here.” Claudia nodded, smiled a soft smile, and walked away.

I had only been working for a few days when my assigned reporter, Will, came down to the pit to tell me, “Mr. Davis wants to speak to you.” My heart sunk in my chest as I slowly rose out of my seat; my feet felt a thousand pounds as I put one red loafer before the other and took the treacherous walk across the newsroom floor and up to his office. I opened the heavy wooden door, which read John Davis Gazette Editor, and held my breath as I crossed the threshold. His brown leather chair was turned away from me when I entered the room, and he slowly spun it around as he said to me, “Sit down, Susie Q. I want to talk to you about your potential at the Gazette.”

I sat in the farthest chair away from him, and he looked at me and chuckled, saying, “What? Do you think I bite or something? Here take my chair.” I slowly stood up and robotically walked over to sit on the very edge of his sweaty old chair, the vintage leather reminding me of his crackled skin. I croaked, “So what about my potential? I have only been here a matter of days.” He sat inches away from me on the edge of his desk and smiled, “You’re beautiful, you know that Susie Q? How old are you, couldn’t be more than 23? 24?” I looked at him and sternly said, “I don’t think that is very professional, Mr. Davis. Can we please stay on topic?” He whispered to me and traced the edge of my brown woolen skirt with his grimy ring finger, which shown a thick gold wedding band. “I thought I told you to call me Johnny.” I quickly stood up as he moved his face closer to mine in an attempt to kiss me. I ran towards the door as fast as my red loafers could carry me when he said, “Playing hard to get, are we?” I looked at him, trying to hold back tears as I said, “I have to get back to work.” I opened and shut the door quickly behind me. What felt like every head turned to look at me.

I smoothed my skirt down and tucked my hair behind my ears before walking to the ladies’ room to compose myself. I opened the tan cool metal stall door, sat on the toilet seat, and began to weep, “Compose yourself, Susie; you’re strong; nothing happened. You got out.” I whispered to myself. I shut up when I heard a tall pair of heels walk into the bathroom; I waited until they sat down and shut the stall door behind them before I opened the door and looked in the mirror. My hair was in disarray, and black mascara coated the bags underneath my eyes. I combed my fingers through my hair, ripped off a scratchy brown piece of paper towel, and wiped under my eyes. I looked down at my hands and began scrubbing, and scrubbing, and scrubbing until they were red and raw. Thinking that I needed to remove Mr. Davis’ grime from my whole body, I needed a hot shower.

I looked back at my reflection as Claudia exited the stall, “Everything alright, Susie?” I smiled and said, “Yep, just a little bit overwhelmed, but I’ll get the hang of things.” She stopped me in my tracks with her pale pink manicured hands, opened her small tan bag, and pulled out her compact. I watched through tear-filled eyes as she gently patted my face with powder and swiped my eyelashes with mascara. Looking me in the eyes, she said, “You don’t have to tell me what happened; I’m sure I can guess. Do not let him get to you; he’s a monster.” I nodded as she gave me a warm hug, like that of a comforting blanket. What had Mr. Davis done to Cynthia? I couldn’t work up the courage to ask.

I exited the bathroom; my quiet steps became deafening as I walked to my desk. I sat down and began to stare at my red and raw palms, counting down the seconds till I could go home. When the clock struck 5:00 pm, I stood up out of my desk and sprinted my 4-mile walk home, my red loafers not doing me any favors.

I walked into my tiny one-bedroom apartment and sat on the edge of my light green porcelain bath as I ripped off my red loafers, my feet bloody and blistered from the run home. I ran the warm water over my feet and stripped off my clothes as I began scrubbing my entire body raw head to toe in an attempt to rid myself of Mr. Davis’ touch, although I could never rid myself of the look he gave me, burned into my brain like that of a brand.

After I cleaned myself to the best of my ability, I pulled my trundle bed out of the wall and attempted to go to sleep, yet when my alarm sounded at 7:00 am sharp, I felt as though I hadn’t slept a minute. I got ready for work and put on the most modest outfit I owned, an over-the-knee turtleneck black woolen dress, and slipped on black mary janes; maybe my mother was right about the red patent loafers. I walked to work and sat at my desk; the day went on as usual, and Mr. Davis left me alone, at least for the next few weeks.

I was working late on a story, and my reporter, Will, and I were the only two left in the office. Or so we thought. It was 8:00 pm, and Will decided to call it a night; he packed up and asked me, “Do you want me to walk you home?” I looked at him, saying, “I’m just going to work on this a bit longer; you go ahead without me.” He asked again, “Are you sure? I don’t mind waiting…” I assured him again; he nodded his head and left; I worked for another hour until I decided to call it a night and packed up my things. As I walked to the door, I saw Mr. Davis standing there, waiting for me.

He looked at me as though I was a piece of meat and cocked his head, saying, “Working this late on a Friday? I knew you had potential, Susie Q.” I coughed and said, “The paper never sleeps, but I should go home and get some rest.” He edged closer to me, each step of his ugly brown loafers pounding in my head like a ticking time bomb. “You don’t like me, huh, Susie Q? But I like you; I like you a lot.” I attempted to walk closer to the door, but he stepped in front of me; he grabbed my wrists and put his body up against mine. I screamed “HELP!” as he put his grimy hand up my skirt and smashed his face against mine. It felt like forever as I suffered the stench of his cheap aftershave and prickly, poorly shaven face. When he was done with me, he fixed his crooked toupee, buckled his belt, and quickly exited the door, not saying a single word. I sat back on a desk and slid down to the floor laying in the fetal position. I looked down at my shoes and thought, “I wasn’t even wearing my red loafers; I wasn’t even standing out.”

I lied on the floor until light poured in through the wooden shades and the word awoke again. I got up off the floor, smoothed down my hair, and trembled at every male glance I got as I walked back home. I hopped into my light green porcelain bath as the water ran over my violated body. My landline was ringing off the hook with calls from Cynthia, but I simply put my head underwater to drown out the noise.

When I could no longer hold my breath, I shot my head out; the water burned my lungs and rushed into my nose as I hacked up the John Davis-infested water. Grabbing my phone, I attempted to dial and redial and dial again, going from the first three numbers to the first four to the first five, but I couldn’t bring myself to dial Cynthia’s complete number. If I called her, it made it real; it gave him power. Would people think of me differently? Would Cynthia? It was 1 in the morning when I finally worked up the courage to call her, ring ring, she picked up immediately, “Hello? Helloooo? Is this Susie? Please tell me this is Susie.” I breathed into the phone and began to sob, I tried to form sentences, but nothing came out. All Cynthia said was, “I’m coming over; what’s your address?” I managed to utter out my street and number, but nothing else, Cynthia arrived promptly 20 minutes later. Hair curlers in and pink and white striped pajamas on with matching slippers. She ran to my side and whispered, “You were left alone with him, weren’t you?” I nodded, and she gasped as she uttered, “He did the same to me.” We looked at each other, knowing we shared the same secret, the same pain, yet how was Cynthia able to go back to work? How was she able to see his face every single day? I had so many questions, yet the only one I wanted an answer to was, why? Why me? Why Cynthia? Why can’t men keep their hands to themselves? I’d never walk back into that newsroom in my red patent loafers or any shoes at all. I quit.