There Was A Man Who — by Nicole R. Zimmerman

Once upon a time there was an old man sitting in a ballet school hallway, palm outstretched with sweets, preying on little ballerinas like me. Once and once more, again, and. There was a neighbor leaning casually naked upon his window on my way to school, up on there, and a stripper lingering in a swimming pool, calling my sixth-grade body sexy, I should come close, closer, so he could show me. Come here. Once there was an uncle pretending to kiss me, bending me backward like that photo of a soldier except his hand covered my mouth, a joke, just joking there. Once a stranger stood pants to ankles pumping his prick with a silly grin pasted to his face, that summer I traveled by train, and another sitting in a park on a pleasant day, yanking a woman’s hair so her head fell into his lap like a kickball, yet no one said anything while she screamed. And some more. Once an adolescent on a bus slapped a girl who spat on him, hitting her harder, harder until I yelled stop and the driver kicked him off. Off there. Get off. Once my older brother told me to shut up then smacked my face when I defied him, just that, and a decade later after a long absence punched my arm and bent my fingers back. Ouch. Once there was a corporate climber remarking on the body fat of a female colleague while I silently typed, temporary, listening while he taunted, calling me little girl since he was all grown up while I was just out of college. Once a student flirted with me, amusing, until someone saw him slipping into dormitory showers unasked, more than. Once a restaurant manager sniffed the hair of another waitress at the register. Once and once and once again. There was a customer who hovered too close, claiming public space when I said private. No. Once a drunk someone at a conference slurred words and slouched over my shoulder, just friendly you know. Once there was a father who kidnapped his son with a gun then, all coked up, tried to snatch him at the preschool where I taught, shouting at the boy’s mother, I’ll make you pay, make you, as I escorted him out. Once a man dismounted a streetcar, following a fellow passenger and saying he’d rape her. Just once. Another one caressed my hand on a subway, didn’t he, didn’t? And another. Another took the seat next to me on a nearly empty car, blocking my exit. Over there. Once in the middle of the night two young men pointed a gun then grabbed my last dollar when I asked what the fuck—a robbery, not a mugging, a cop corrected, and next time don’t try to be a hero. Once a man at the county fair called me sweetheart, teasing he would tickle me, over and over. Once a guy at a commune touched my midriff after I played naked in a clay pit then stalked me on the trail, lick-lipping all the way back to my tent. Once a person of undisclosed identity called the rape crisis line where I worked and described scenes in disturbing detail including the size of the hard-on, then hung up as I explained: It’s really not about sexual attraction. So.

            Once upon a time there was a man who. There was a man. There was. There. Once. Again.

Nicole R. Zimmerman (she/her) is a Brazilian-born, queer Jewish American writer with an MFA from the University of San Francisco. Her literary work appears in publications such as The New York Times, Longreads, Sonora Review, The Rumpus, Creative Nonfiction, and Litro. Nicole lives with her wife in Northern California where she leads workshops using the Amherst Writers & Artists (AWA) method. She is working on a memoir entitled Just Some Things We Can't Talk About.

Artwork by James Keul