He'd done it before, taken my picture. The first time caught me completely by surprise. I turned to load my bags into the cart only to discover a man much taller than me and too close for comfort taking my picture with his cell phone.
"Dogs aren't allowed in the store."
He doesn't work there. And a few minutes later, outside by my car talking on the phone to the store manager, I learn that he is well-known for his offense, that he is a self-appointed reporter of dogs in the store. He doesn't ask if the animal is a service dog. He just takes photos. I send the store manager an email documenting my experience, per his request.
A couple months go by without seeing the offender again.
I'm at the seafood counter, taking the package of shrimp being handed to me over the plexiglass. I turn around. There's the guy, taking my picture. I confront him.
"You aren't allowed to take my picture without my permission. You've done this before."
He comes close. Rants about dogs not being allowed in the store. Asks me if my dog is a service dog, what his service is. I lie, and say it's for PTSD. I don't have to tell him anything, it's not about the dog, it's about him taking my photo on private property and me not being ok with it. Him not being allowed to do it.
"I want you to delete that picture." I reach toward his phone. He pulls his hand away but stays put. I tell him to give me his name.
"Bob Dole."
He's much taller than me, by a foot at least. I shout for security. Management. I think he's leaving, and then suddenly he turns and is coming back. I'm not sure what is happening, or what he is saying. I forget about my surroundings and beeline for the customer service phone. Pick it up.
"I think one of the employees is calling a manager," a woman's voice says behind me. I put the phone down and thank her. Tell her he's done this before, that I think he targets women, though I don't have evidence that this is true, and don't know why I say it. Maybe I don't feel I have a strong enough case. I'm scared. I'm not thinking clearly. I just know this is not ok.
There are some men who are unaware of the how frightening they can appear to a woman. This man is aware. This man feeds off that.
A manager appears. I explain the situation. She is familiar with his antics. I call Pilot a service dog, he's not, he's an emotional support dog. I tell her I have a document from my therapist if she wants to see it. I'm defending myself, I don't know why. I'm afraid of getting in trouble for standing up for myself, I suppose. But she is sympathetic.
Another female employee comes over. And then the asshole comes back. He stands next to me. Close. Partner proximity.
"Get the fuck away from me," I mutter, and move myself, my dog, and my cart away.
"Oh, look, now she's leaving," he says. I can hardly believe he is real.
The two women are talking to him. They've asked him multiple times not to take photos of people in the store, they say. They are familiar with him, but he won't give his name to them, either. The head manager, he says, is very familiar with his name. The head manager is male, but I won't connect this with the intuitive statement I'd made to the customer until much later.
I reiterate that I want the photo deleted. He refuses, continues talking at the two women who have come to my aid. He posture is aggressive and authoritative. I tell him I am going to take his photo. He ridicules me, and attempts to block the shot with his hand. But I get a picture.
Then the tears come. The shaking. The nausea. Suddenly nothing else matters but getting the fuck out of there.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I sputter to the two women. "I have to go." I pick up Pilot in my arms and rush out of the store, crying openly like a little girl.
In the safety of my car I sob and dry heave. Pilot trembles. When the surge of emotion subsides, I email the photo to the store manager with a brief explanation of the second incident. Then the emotions come back again.
Maybe half an hour later I am able to drive. I go to a different store. Sob in that lot for a while, and leave voice messages for my two dear friends across the globe who understand this kind of fear. Then, red-eyed and puffy, I go inside and purchase exactly the same items I'd left behind when I fled.
At home I cry more. I can't stop crying. I have so much compassion for myself but it doesn't change the shame I feel over having to run away. The disappointment and anger that I couldn't stay to stand up to that man, to beat him down, to win my right to a sense of safety. I shadow box in my studio. Imagine my non-violent self hitting him, kicking him, bludgeoning his ribs with a wooden baseball bat.
I take a shower.
I call my cousin.
I eat part of a salad.
And then I sit for hours on the couch. Crawl into bed at 4am, sleep until noon, and then sit again for hours on the couch. I don't do much more than huddle under my electric blanket, get up to pee,and walk the dog.
I don't know if I have a case for this incident, but I filed a police report all the same. Both times I've seen the offender he's been without a cart or basket or groceries. My store, which is just a few blocks away. Which makes me think he lives in my neighborhood. I deserve to feel safe. I refuse to feel powerless.
It's not fair that I can't let this go as quickly as some people.
It's not fair that I didn't get to clean my apartment last night like I'd planned.
It's not fair that I felt too overwhelmed to make myself something to eat until 4pm the next day.
It's not fair that the wounds from my past traumas still run this deep.
It's not fair that I can do all these brave and amazing things, like play hockey and go on huge road trips to far away places all by myself but can't follow through on standing up to this asshole.
But I suppose if I was so tough and calloused and impenetrable I wouldn't be the tender, gentle, kind person that I am. I wouldn't be the Crow Lady.
I am grateful that my sense of self-preservation outweighs my need to exact justice all by myself. I am grateful to those two women who stood up to that man on my behalf. I am grateful that I can recognize my own sense of shame over my public display of vulnerability and separate it from the fear and anger so that I may process all the emotions. And, as painful as it is, I am grateful for the flashbacks this incident brought up, which can teach me how to grow and heal.
It's ok if I can't do everything on my own.
And it's ok to be fucking pissed at that piece of shit human being and not want to mindfully consider the bullshit that he's been through that putrefied his soul and have this be my concluding sentence.
All pictures and words copyright Anna Horvitz (me) and cannot be used without my consent.
