The Wake

Long after the bright lights have faded, after the reporters have stopped knocking on my door, I still think about my time with Gropey.

It was an instant, really. Our eyes locked as I approached the bus stop. I could see his mouth moving to form comment, but my headphones stopped me from ever knowing what those likely enticing words were.

I turned, eyes drifting to the church across the street that must have only recently emptied of Sunday worshipers.

And then – an unexpected warmth – a pressure from behind. It was Gropey. His hand had found it’s way between my buttocks and hadn’t quite stopped there.

I was being goosed!! Goosed not in a dingy bar or a dark alley—goosed in full view of God’s house on God’s day, God’s sun shining down on me.

I spun, “WHAT THE FUCK!! I can’t believe you just DID that!! Don’t EVER fucking touch a woman like that!! That’s fucking ridiculous!”

He made his words count, “I… uh… I’m sorry… uh… I won’t…” I glared at him for another 30 seconds to make sure he meant it.

He didn’t.

The next bus came; Gropey stayed behind. I was pissed, but by the time I got to work, the hilariousness of the situation was beginning to replace my initial indignation. Maybe I was mistaken when I thought I was a feminist. My coworkers agreed on the hilarity. Privately, I rationalized that my ass is just that irresistible.

But as it turned out, Gropey was not the faithful admirer I perceived him to be.

Days later I relayed my funny-story-of-the-week to coworkers at my second job. My boss’s eyes widened, “Oh my God, we were JUST talking about that! This guy is going around doing that to girls all
over campus! It was in the paper!”

My heart sank. I was not special. My luscious booty was not the sole object of Gropey’s affection. I was just one on a long list. I was the Unidentified Fourth Victim. Everything I had believed about our relationship was wrong.

Work was slow, so I thought it might be funny to call the police and get Gropey back for his cheating hand. A rather butch police lady took my statement. “Did ya punch him?” she asked.

“No – I should’ve!” (lying, unfaithful bastard.)

Two days went by and my phone rang. Gropey had been caught. He had a name—Phillip William Acosta—a local schizophrenic who my representative in the sex crime unit said “did it once and then couldn’t stop.”

Couldn’t stop. Please. I had been double-victimized in a way only a woman can be—he exploited me throughout our entire relationship and then ended things on his terms, with someone else. It reflected so many past relationships that both myself and my friends have experienced. Only in this rare case, the law was stepping in to punish him for his misdeeds. If only that were true with my longer-term relationships. As angry as Gropey had left me, I recognized that there was more crime in those other sad ends. Those boys couldn’t claim a mental illness.

Less than an hour later, there was another call, this one from KSTP News. “I bet you know what I’m calling about,” she said. I was comforted in knowing that the press was so adept at finding the identities of sex crime victims.

When they arrived, she asked me if I wanted to be in shadow. I agreed, mostly because she also informed me that the other girls interviewed had done so. I didn’t want to be the weirdo who was like, “Hey check me out! My ass got grabbed!” (Oops looks like I’m a hypocrite.)

Of course I immediately texted all my friends and family to inform them of my newfound celebrity. I could tell who my real friends were by their reactions—bursting out laughing was the appropriate response, asking me if I was okay was not.

Slowly life went back to normal, but I haven’t forgotten about Gropey. Even though he wronged me, it saddens me to think that while I am enjoying the coming spring, he is sitting with his schizophrenic self in a jail cell. I’ve begun to feel that the vengeance laid upon him was not proportional to his crimes. Crazy butt-grabbing man is rotting in jail, while Chris Brown hangs out with P. Diddy.

Twisted as it may be, I wish I could lend Gropey my moral support now.