“I gave you your chance to run a column five years ago, Samantha. You turned it down.”
“To take care of my sick father. Who died shortly after, by the way.”
“Tough luck.” Mr. Dreyfuss lacked the empathy gene, a common male trait when raised on phrases like boys don’t cry and man up. “The job’s already taken.”
“By a man who doesn’t know what he’s talking about!”
“He’s a doctor, mind you.”
“Look at this.” Sam thrust out last month’s issue, page open to the latest advice column where a reader confessed about her husband beating her over burned meatloaf, asking if she could justify divorce. “Your columnist told her to take cooking lessons and learn how to do her job as a housewife better. What kind of advice is that—to stay married to a wifebeater? She’ll probably end up dead before she ever learns how to master meatloaf!”
Sam leafed through another issue, aiming her finger at even more absurd advice. “And this one validates an employer for firing a girl when she refused his sexual advances!”
“And I’m sure she flirted heavily in the first place to get that job. You can’t blame a guy for acting on it.” He swatted the magazines away. “There are two sides to every story, Miss Stanton. You should know that if you ever plan to be a journalist. Which you clearly are not equipped for.”
Certainly Mr. Dreyfuss could see the injustice so blatantly splayed across the pages. It disgusted her, hearing the same story with different characters again and again. Sam—and all the other women before her and those who would endure it after her—were sick and tired of feeling sick and tired.
“Do you think it’s rational to solicit an unqualified man’s advice to answer distinctively women’s dilemmas?” she inquired.
Mr. Dreyfuss’s eyes glazed over as if Sam were explaining the antimicrobial properties of lemongrass instead of basic human rights.
“I don’t see the problem with this advice,” he said bluntly. “One is a tease who deserved to get fired, and the other is a bad cook. Which makes her a bad wife. She’s lucky to have a husband who would keep her.”
“Keep her—like she’s a pet? That’s exactly my point! Do you think your readers want to hear this? You claim this magazine is for women, but it’s not written by women.”
“That’s because men know better what women need than you do. We pay for your extravagant face creams and overpriced wardrobes, so we deserve a decent meatloaf in return. After all, isn’t the way you dress, the way you act, the way you look… it’s all in order to find and win over a man who will take care of you.”
He yanked a magazine from Sam’s hand, his wrist glistening with a thick gold chain that probably cost as much as her Impala still parked in the street six floors below. He jabbed a finger at the name credited to the article—a Dr. Something-or-other, as if the Dr. gave the writer license to prescribe bad advice.
“Only a man can help guide you in achieving that goal.”
The goal of securing a mate was why every article was paired with an advertisement for the latest cooking class, or hair product, or anti-aging makeup, or fashion brand. Because according to Mr. Dreyfuss and Dr. Something-or-other, and possibly all men in 1970, women lived for men. Cooking for them, cleaning for them, and raising their brood.
“You don’t think women are capable of determining our own happiness?” It was a question Sam had only recently come to terms with. She had always relied on the validation of her father to pursue her dreams of becoming a writer—or botanist, if such a career existed—but when that stopped with his death, she simply gave up at the first obstacle. But not anymore. She had become a different woman since then, a woman who would not only make her father proud, but herself as well. This, here and now, was the first step toward that. And an arduous step it was proving to be.
“Women have no idea what they want or need!” Mr. Dreyfuss retorted. “Look at how fickle you are—one day you want men to pay the bills and put food on the table, and the next day you’re complaining when all we ask for is a decent meatloaf. Men give women stability… and yes, happiness. You should be thanking us instead of biting the hand that feeds you.”
“Thanking you?” Sam recoiled.
“With that said, I’m done here. Either get these nutjobs out of here, or face the consequences.” Mr. Dreyfuss turned to the receptionist who had yet to resume typing. “Twyla, call the cops on these terrorists. Now!”
“I believe the meter maid already took care of that, sir,” Twyla replied with a wince, a meek apology to Sam written on her face.
“Then I hope the New York Police Department has enough room in the holding cells for all of us,” Sam dared.
“So you’re willing to risk all of these women’s freedom just to make a point?”
“You call this freedom? It’s 1970 and we can’t even get a loan without a man’s signature. We can’t get birth control if we’re single, but we can get fired for getting pregnant… and since we can’t open up a checking account without putting a man’s name on it, it makes being a single working woman nearly impossible! Tell me, in what world do women have freedom?”
“Why would you want to do any of those things on your own when a man can do them all for you? In this world, all you have to worry about is raising kids and looking pretty.”
“No, sir, that’s your world, not a woman’s world. Has it ever occurred to you that we want to work, and not all of us care about looking pretty?”
He scrutinized her up and down. “Yeah, I can tell that’s not something you concern yourself with. Maybe if you dolled yourself up a bit you’d find a husband and wouldn’t be so disgruntled. A new haircut and some lipstick can go a long way. Well, maybe not that long of a way for a homely gal like you, but you know what I mean.”
Behind her she heard the snicker of the cameraman. Would he ever bug off? She couldn’t wait to file her complaint against him to his superiors… which would inevitably be dusted under the rug. Pivoting around, she found him filming their conversation, still wearing that smirk she hadn’t managed to slap off his face. That smirk only widened as the distinct piercing sound of sirens six floors below drew everyone’s attention to the window.
“Someone called the pigs!” Argyle Gal cried.
Another woman cried out, “No one told me we could be arrested for this! I have four children at home.” And a fifth on the way, Sam realized as she noticed the woman’s huge pregnant belly beneath her pink shift dress.
“My husband will kill me if I’m not home before school lets out,” a flowy-skirted hippie cried out.
It was in this moment that Sam realized she had taken an entirely wrong approach. She could never convince someone like Mr. Dreyfuss that women should be the ones representing women’s wants and needs in his magazine. But there was one thing that spoke to businessmen like him more than human rights or logic. If she was right, they could revolutionize the entire publishing industry. Perhaps even change the world.
But if she was wrong, the swish of the glass office doors opening, the beat of heavy footsteps, and the mass of blue uniformed officers predicted their fate.
“NYPD! We got a call about an illegally parked car blocking traffic. Who’s in charge here?” an officer yelled. A glint of silver handcuffs hanging from his hips evoked visions of cuffed wrists and jailcell bars clanging shut.
“And who is causing all this ruckus?” another officer added to the pandemonium.
Everything rode on this moment. Sam—and that ever-daunting muscle car payment—could not afford to lose the only thing that mattered: freedom.
