I have two master’s degrees. Twice in my life, I’ve completed my final work for graduate school. This story concerns the first time that happened. Hence, the very literal title.
It was early May 2012. It was so hot in Boston that it felt more like July.
I showed up in person at Lesley University to turn in my final project. It was an organized notebook that included several sections. Hence, it needed to be dropped off in person. You can’t email a notebook; technology isn’t there yet.
My supervisor looked at it briefly. “Good,” she said. “Acceptable. You’re done.”
I’m … done. No more work. I get to graduate in two weeks, and I don’t have to do anything else.
“Really?”
“Yup. Congratulations!”
Oh god was I relieved! I’d honestly thought she was going to make me do it over.
I decided to celebrate by treating myself to a long-ass walk, from Porter Square in Cambridge, to my home in Jamaica Plain.
Again, it was very hot. And at nearly 31 years old, I had earned some wisdom the hard way. That is: you don’t take a long-ass walk on a hot New England day without seriously hydrating.
I stopped at several convenience stores along the way to buy water. I stopped at a bar to use the bathroom, had a quick soda, and went on my way. Look at me, acting responsibly!
I had just crossed the bridge from Cambridge into Boston, when it started to rain.
You know what, I’ve walked plenty and I’m almost home. If I hail a cab right now, it’ll cost like … ten dollars? Treat yourself, Alaina. You’ve earned it.
I hailed the cab.
And then.
It started to rain harder.
And I started to feel those multiple waters, and that one soda. The single pee break had not been sufficient. The pounding of the rain against the cab’s windows was making it ever so much worse.
We were in the part of Boston where there’s no easy access to a bathroom. I couldn’t just ask the driver to pull over, pay him, and find a restroom. I had to make it at least one more mile.
Oh god. I don’t know that I can.
Unless.
Okay, so it’s not the most dignified thing in the world, but it beats wetting yourself in semi-public, right?
I said to the driver, “I apologize. I just … really don’t want to pee in your cab.”
And I put my hand over my skirt. For some reason, applying pressure to the bladder helps the bladder do its job of keeping urine contained.
He started saying disgusting things.
I told him I had a boyfriend. I told him I wasn’t masturbating. Both these things were true.
He ignored me and continued to pay me “compliments”.
I realized I had to go UNDER my skirt. Note: not under my panties, just under my skirt.
I made the mistake of making eye contact with him in the mirror. The lust in his eyes was scary enough, but listening to him talk was torture.
Finally we hit “civilization.” I had him stop at a bar. I paid him and GOD HELP ME, I TIPPED HIM. I’m angry at myself for that.
I rushed out of the cab and barely made it to the bathroom in time. But I made it, with maybe two drops of urine spilled upon my panties, if that. Sure, I “broke the seal.” But it could have been so. Much. Worse. My underwear was essentially dry, my skirt entirely so.
I ordered myself a well-earned beer, happy to be safe. But still feeling dirty, and more than a bit guilty. As if I’d behaved in a perverted manner, rather than an entirely respectful one.
Honestly, there really isn’t much of a moral here. For years, I would tell this story as proof of how awkward I am.
But this story isn’t about me being awkward (I assure you those stories exist). Rather, it’s about me being sexually harassed. Which is much less empowering, honestly. At least awkward women have agency at that moment. Their awkwardness gives them some Larry David-esque gravitas.
As is, I’m just some … victim. Ew! Boring! Who wants that? I’d much rather be hilariously awkward! Cue the Curb Your Enthusiasm calliope music, rather than the Charlie Brown pathos victim downbeat chords.
I guess what I’d do differently next time is I’d say, “oh, you don’t believe me? You really think I’m masturbating?”
“Enjoy cleaning my piss, you horny creepy fool.”
And then I’d remove my hand, and let nature take its course.
Of course, given my luck, that might have turned him on further. Damn, being human sucks sometimes.