It was a hard day, a bad day. There are days that make you want to stop being a nurse and this was one of them.
We’re in the tavern when Estelle, in all of her exquisite grandeur stands up on her chair, more than slightly inebriated after a few SoCos and lime, points her finger at all of the white guys and says: “No! You do not get to have a say over our bodies. No!”
Most of the guys can’t be bothered because they really don’t know what she’s talking about and don’t care, but one, a middle-aged dude with curly dark hair knows what she’s saying and takes offense.
“You’re not smart enough to deal with moral issues. You need men like me to tell you what to do with your body.”
Not only did Estelle stiffen, but we all did. We looked at each other, thought back to the day we had and stood up, solidarity strong.
Estelle looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her voice strong. “I didn’t quite hear what you said. Could you repeat that?”
The man was numb or dumb or drunk because he said: “You’re weak. You need guidance on your body. We will make it our business to see that you get it.”
Obviously, he didn’t get it, but Estelle set him straight, which is why we are waiting outside the county lock-up for an attorney.
Mr. middle aged-white guy strides past me, but then stops, his eyes wandering over my body, nondescript in my scrubs, and he extends his hand, his voice tinged with slime. “I’m Tony. I could make your day…and your night.”
“I seriously doubt it.”