by Jamie
A guy died last week. His name was Joe. I have been thinking about him since the news of his passing.
Joe isn’t his real name. It’s the name I have assigned to him (for reasons of convenience, discretion, and respect) in order to write this piece. To be honest, I don’t know the guy except in the most random and fleeting way. And yet, I think in some ways I do know him. I think I have been him.
Sophie and I were out on a date recently when she had one of those “oh gawd” moments. Some dude had found her not-private-enough photos on a social media platform and had reached out. We’re talking regular photos. I’m visiting my home town. I’m at a show. I got a new tattoo. I colored my hair. He had reached out some months prior to strike up a conversation, and she responded with some version of Do I know you? For whatever reason, he didn’t respond again until we were enjoying our relatively upscale meal.
Joe’s comments provided a humorously cringy counterpoint to the evening. He offered her money to spend time with him. Now, two things about that. One, Sophie’s needle of the offensive is hard to move; and two, well, he couldn’t have picked a more practiced and disinterested recipient of what he undoubtedly saw as a shocking suggestion. He was a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
After chuckling and shaking her head, Sophie decided to be curious. She asked questions. Why would you say that? What do you hope to gain? Has this ever worked for you? She was doing blog research, you see. Confusing her responses with actual interest, Joe bulled forward by first suggesting he was just kidding, and then saying he needed to keep things on the down-low. Ah, the obvious and stereotypical situation. A dude with a spouse or partner feeling brave behind his presumed anonymity.
Sophie quickly poked a hole in that presumption. Dude, she said, do you realize I know where you work now? And suddenly, for Joe it was no longer an innocent game. Rather than lobbing sexual grenades at a random woman from a safely anonymous distance, he now had his own consequences to consider. And to be honest, Joe didn’t handle it well. He didn’t apologize or ask forgiveness. He didn’t demonstrate any awareness of the line he had crossed. He threatened Sophie with the ability to Photoshop her pictures in an unflattering way. And then, bizarrely, he said he was passing the phone to his girlfriend – yeah, right – who then said they were both really interested in her and would she like to come over?
Please. We laughed and opted for dessert.
If you’re a woman active on social media in any form, you probably don’t think this story is as funny as I’ve portrayed it. And most likely you know it isn’t a bizarrely random occurrence. It happens all the time. Women get accosted by men online, men who think they’ve invented the chat-up, men who think their clumsy gestures aren’t transparent, men who, when being rebuffed, become verbally aggressive toward a recipient who didn’t invite or encourage the conversation. I have talked to women who use social media for personal and professional reasons, always within the community guidelines, and the onslaught can be relentless. I thought the collapse of Craigslist personals and similar avenues might have something to do with it, but no, apparently men have been dumb, clumsy, and horny since way before then. A friend of mine recently claimed she has never been accosted that way, so I told her where to find messages on Facebook from people with whom you are not friends. Sure enough, there in the queue sat an unsolicited dick picture from a complete stranger. I ruined her day.
A few days after her conversation with Joe, Sophie shared the story with a friend. When Sophie said Joe’s real name, the friend did a double-take, pulled out her phone, and said, Is this the same guy? Apparently she and another friend shared a connection to Joe online. And that is how Sophie learned that Joe had died over the weekend. And that is how I learned that Joe was not just a clumsy creeper using social media to test his sexual courage. The memorial words indicated that Joe was a good guy and a loyal friend who donated time and money to worthwhile causes. Sophie and I marveled at how random and bizarre this turn of events had become. We marveled at how small our big town is.
Joe probably has more good traits than the ones listed by his grieving friend. He may have had darker secrets than a lame and offensive stab at online sexual prowess. But the fact is, he’s gone now. And whatever chance he had to become a worse or better person, to sow chaos or make amends, is gone with him.
In my recent #metoo essay, I talked about going back through the mental rolodex as a guy, working through memories in light of this more exacting critique of sexual behavior. And while I have always tried to be honest and open about my desires and intentions, always tried to be respectful of the word “no,” the truth is that I am much better at it now than I was as a young adult. And technology, such as it was when the modern Internet first took shape, was a useful and intoxicating tool. It’s easy to reach out to recent lovers and flirtees with whom I am still in touch to clear up any possible misunderstandings from back in the day. And yes, that has gone unfailingly well. But there was a time longer ago, when a now-extinct email server allowed conversations with strangers, some of whom might not have appreciated the overture. Those names are lost in the mists of time, and no apology can be offered to them directly. And I doubt I would be received as positively by at least some of them.
So yes, I feel that I know Joe. I feel that I’ve been Joe. Joe was a dick and a douche, a symbol of so many things wrong with current society. And while he irritated me by disrespecting and objectifying and threatening Sophie (not that she needs my protection), Joe was also a human with the capacity to learn, to grieve and to grow, to make amends given the time. But that can no longer happen because Joe is dead, and I am sad that he won’t have the chance.
amaranthine border 