The elevator groaned its way to a high floor in the old office building, to the place where the corporate Information Technology demons worked their keyboard magic. Me, I was a salesman. I lived in the light of day. The IT gurus practiced their dark arts in windowless rooms lit by the glow of LED screens.
I gripped my expensive Tumi leather briefcase in one hand, feeling unaccustomed sweat from my fingers on the handle grip. The other hand held my laptop; back at my desk, I had deliberately removed it from the Tumi and replaced it with a heavy binder to give substantial weight to the briefcase.
It was part of my plan.
I frowned at the illuminated floor numbers walking across the display above the door inside the elevator cage as it ascended. What I felt was not fear, or dread; only a vague uncertainty about how the next half hour would unfold.
A Help Desk referral
My company laptop had something wrong with it. I had no idea then, and no recollection now, of either the symptoms or the solution. But it was a problem, and the Help Desk gods had decreed I should physically carry the device to a technician.
The laptop issues were the least of my concern.
The technician in question — I’ll call her Brandi — was a cute, fit 20-something; a recent divorcee. I had no idea why her marriage had soured, only that she and what’s-his-name had split up about two years into their union. There were no children. Beyond those thumbnail facts, it was none of my business.
This could be trouble…
I was twice Brandi’s age, happily married, and one of the senior-level managers at our location.
When I had occasionally run into her in our office building, Brandi seemed nice, personable, friendly and competent. Others seemed to respect her. She appeared to have the makings of a capable IT professional, and her career was on the rise.
Brandi’s office, I knew from working with a previous group in the floor space she now occupied, was a small room to one side of a huge bullpen area. The open space was used as a call center, offering a sea of work surfaces and short cubicle half-walls for a group of maybe 60 call-takers. It was a predominantly female population.
As a manager, Brandi had been assigned a private, sheetrock-wall office by faceless corporate architects who were just trying to keep everyone housed. Her office had an actual door that closed.
That door was the story.
The door was of heavy, solid oak, on industrial-grade spring-loaded hinges that pulled it shut by default. This probably had to do with air conditioning or some such indecipherable plan of building engineers from a bygone decade. Little sound escaped that small office with the door closed.
The door had no window.
Spending an extended period of time in a small, sound-proofed office, behind a closed door, with an attractive single girl half my age, while dozens of observers could see — and discuss — the visit, was a recipe for career ruination.
There was not a thought in my mind — nor, I was sure, in Brandi’s — that anything untoward would occur while we were in each others’ presence. But the facts would not matter. What would matter would be the inuendo; the knowing glances and muttered comments.
This could destroy her promising career. And mine.
It is some great cosmic joke that one could lose everything of value and not even be compensated by the brief thrill of actual misbehavior. Such is life.
Into the fray
When the elevator dinged and the door opened, I strode out, nodded a smile at a few familiar faces who turned toward me, and walked purposefully to Brandi’s office. Tucking the laptop under an arm, I knocked on the door.
“Come in,” announced a cheerful voice, muffled by the oak.
I pushed open the door, held it against the pressure of the hinges with my foot, and took the laptop from under my arm. I pushed the door open to maximum and set the heavy Tumi down in front of it as a doorstop, then handed the laptop to Brandi with a smile.
“Here’s the beast,” I said cheerfully. “I hope you can fix it.”
She smiled. The girl was in fact quite pretty. “Have a chair,” she said, gesturing to a guest chair by her desk. I seated myself in plain view of the open door and resisted the impulse to glance at the interested people working a few yards away.
Brandi opened the laptop, powered it up and got to work.
As I had anticipated, it took about 20 minutes. She asked questions. I answered them. She clicked some keys and asked more questions. I gave more answers.
Whatever she did seemed to work, and at length, she announced, “Okay, all done. You’re now upgraded!” With that, she snapped the lid closed and handed it back to me as I rose. I took the machine, retrieved my briefcase and left for the elevator with a light heart.
End of scenario.
No laughing matter
Despite my usual glass-half-empty fears, the contact had worked seamlessly. A little forethought goes a long way toward defanging a situation that could bite badly.
The Pew Research Center has done extensive work focusing on broad public attitudes regarding the impact of sexual harassment allegations. Such accusations are devastating for the people involved, even if later proved false. The social and professional fallout can be severe. See their 2018 article, "Sexual Harassment at Work in the Era of #MeToo."
Fortunately, such public ruination is rare. But when it occurs, it can be very bad.
“A wise man sees the evil coming and takes steps,” says the Proverb, while the unthinking ox lets himself be tantalized by the company of a sweet young thing, only to see his reputation crash and burn. (This is something of a paraphrase, which you probably already surmised.)
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