He Said, She Said

Back in the 90’s, this is the photograph that used to run in my weekly column,”Social Studies.”  (Sorry about all the cracks.  I actually found this copy in a cook book.)

I wanted you to see it because the current Cosby rape allegation scandal has brought a certain delicate matter to my attention.

It’s the question of victims of sexual abuse worrying that no one would believe them if they go public with their disturbing experiences at the hands of a famous, powerful man.

I get where they are coming from.

Here’s why…

In the mid-nineties, I was the happily-married (or so I thought) humor columnist for the Pioneer Press. We were owned at that time by the Sun-Times, and there were forty-six weekly papers that went all throughout the Chicago suburbs.

If you lived in Winnetka, or Lake Forest, or Park Ridge, or Evanston, or Skokie, or Highland Park, my column came to your mailbox every Thursday.

The Pioneer Press had a big circulation, and I was read- happily, I hope- by thousands of people every week.

Two of those people reached out to me because of two different columns that I had written. Both had enjoyed the column, thought I was talented, and wanted to meet me.

At least that’s what they told me at the time.

Two different columns.  Two different men.

And both were famous, powerful and could help me with my career. And both offered to mentor me.

Case 1:

This reporter and very successful author called me and suggested I come to his office in the Chicago Tribune building.  On a Saturday at one in the afternoon.  He told me that he could help me, and would I be interested in meeting with him?

Of course I was interested.  He had made a big name for himself doing exactly what I was doing.  He knew all the right people, had all the right advice, and he was taking an interest in my work.

Great.

Of course I told Bill.  His reaction was exactly the same as mine.  “He can help you.  Go meet with him.”

So arrangements were made and I drove in from Winnetka for the meeting.

(I remember that I was late- a rare occurrence for very-prompt me. But a bridge was up and I got stuck waiting for it to go down before I could cross Wacker or something.)

Finally, I parked and ran into the Tribune Tower.  I had expected a scene right out of The Front Page or All The President’s Men.  You know, bustling, busy, noisy, phones ringing, people running and yelling, “Get me a copy boy!”

But there was dead silence.  There was nobody in the lobby save one lone, bored security guard at the sign-in desk.

Strange, I thought.  The building was deserted.  But I had an appointment to keep and I signed in.  The guard directed me to the floor and said, “You can’t miss it.  He’s got a glass office.”

Ok.  That sounded pretty harmless.  After all, what could happen in a glass office?

From the moment I sat down in front of my idol, I knew something was up.  The very first question he asked me was, “What does your husband think of you coming here?”

I was really taken aback.  What did that have to do with writing a newspaper column? Every time I tried to deflect his personal questions to more appropriate work-related subjects, he would just go right back to intrusive questions and comments.

(To be fair, he did give me two decent pieces of business advice: Write a book and syndicate.  That’s where the money was back in those days of print journalism.)

Finally he cut to the chase.  Would I join him now in a nearby hotel for a little afternoon delight?

Hell no.  Let me repeat that.  HELL NO!

Do I have to tell you guys why?  First of all, I was married.  I had a handsome, successful, powerful husband of my own back at home, and a meaningless tryst with a horndog of a stranger was not at all what I had in mind when I drove in that morning.

Second, I was truly shocked.  This guy had made big bucks writing books about his wife and kids- and how much he LOVED them.  His image could not have been more squeaky clean.

And even though I am not naive enough to confuse the artist with his work, I could not believe his bold-as-brass proposition.

I got up to leave.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m going to Ultimo.  They’re having a sale.  Then I’m going home and going to a movie with my husband. ”

“Why don’t you come back after you’re done shopping?  I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Don’t bother. I’m not coming back,” I said.

And I left.

(I bought a very cool greige-colored coat with a faux leopard collar at Ultimo that day.  Don’t remember the movie.)

I was pissed.  I had wasted an entire afternoon on this, and came away with nothing but a bad taste in my mouth.

But I want to make one thing perfectly clear here.  I also knew in my bones, that this had NOTHING to do with me or the way I looked. This guy had done it all before.

Lots of times.

It felt practiced, rehearsed, polished.  I just knew- from the moment he started in on me- that he would have done it to any woman who showed up in his office that day.

When I got home, Bill asked me how it went.  I told him.

His reaction was one of disappointment that the guy wouldn’t be mentoring me after all. (He wasn’t particularly het up about it.  But that could have been because he had no idea of this guy’s rep as a big family man.  Or perhaps it was just that he didn’t care two pins about me any more and so it was no biggie.  I’ll never know, and now it doesn’t matter.)

But precisely because I got no change out of him, I told my very dear friend, Henry.

Who did NOT believe me.

He just couldn’t get past this guy’s public image of a devoted husband and family man.

Henry scoffed, laughed, made excuses, thought I had misread the signals.

And as hard as I tried- and he knew I was no liar- I could never get him to buy my story of the inappropriate, sexually-charged personal questions and the follow-up icky proposition.

Until years later.  When this exposé came out.

Then I got a whopper of an apology from Henry.  But still, if my best male friend wouldn’t believe me, how could any woman in a case like this think she will be believed by total strangers?

As for Case 2:

Nah, you wouldn’t believe it.