Poles Apart (21 page)

At the same time, a dozen cameras would emerge from protestors’ pockets, and a new refrain would echo across the street.

“Smile, you’re on
Candid Camera
!”

“And on YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.”

“Great shot! Looking good!”

Welcome to Shame-apalooza. The effect was quite startling. On several occasions, men ducked back into their cars and peeled away. Some others pulled their suit jackets up over their heads for what looked like a classic perp walk into the club. Still others didn’t even stop their cars. They would slow down, see the protestors and placards, and speed on by. Brawn was getting visibly steamed. Business was slower than usual, due in no small part to the effective antics of this neighbourhood group. By this time, there was a police cruiser there to
keep the peace and to keep Brawn from going completely ballistic.

At nine, a local news station satellite truck pulled up. Ten minutes later, a rival station arrived. This was getting interesting. I had a perfect, front-row seat for all the action. If I craned my neck, I could just see Brawn below me talking into his sleeve and pressing his earphone a little deeper into his ear canal to block out the boisterous chants. I figured he was in touch with the big man himself. Twenty minutes later, that suspicion was confirmed when the big black Bentley eased up to the curb. I couldn’t see who was driving, but the back door opened and a young, attractive, well-dressed woman, with tied-back dark brown hair, emerged, followed almost immediately by Mason Bennington himself. He turned to face the protestors and held his hand up to quiet them. He took a step forward so that he was standing right at the curb.

“Give me five minutes to set up a microphone here and then I’ll be out to respond formally to your concerns,” he shouted across the street.

With that, he turned and walked into the club. The Bentley pulled away and was gone.

This momentarily flummoxed the protestors, but they soon renewed their marching and chanting, and even seemed to kick it up a notch. I was supposed to be writing a new blog post and responding to emails but I was glued to my front window. A few minutes later, a smiling Lewis Small carried out two
PA
speakers
and mounted them on tripods to give them some elevation. Finally, he wheeled out a handcart bearing a small
PA
board and a microphone and stand. In a matter of moments, he had the microphone and the two speakers plugged into the board. He plugged the whole thing into the exterior wall outlet and the red light on the board lit up.

“Test, test,” he said into the mike, adjusting the volume until he was satisfied. Then he disappeared back into the club. Another police cruiser had pulled up. Three police officers stayed with the protestors to make sure no one got out of hand and started across the street. A fourth officer stood on the
XY
side of the street, but well out of reach of Brawn. Probably wise. There were now three camera operators and several reporters with microphones and digital recorders gathered around the microphone in a tight semicircle. To get that kind of a media response, I suspect Mason Bennington’s publicity team had swung into action hoping to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

Right on cue the big double doors opened and out walked Mason Bennington, as usual dressed for an awards gala, the young woman by his side. She looked a little like a deer in the headlights. But she stepped smartly up to the microphone. I slid my window open a little more to ensure I heard everything.

“Hello, hello. Is this thing on?” she asked.

For some reason, I liked her immediately.

“We can hear you just fine,” someone shouted from across the street.

“Oh, right. Okay, then. Well, I’m Megan Cook. I’m on Mr. Bennington’s legal team. And Mr. Bennington would like to say a few words.”

She then lowered the microphone slightly and stepped aside with some alacrity. Mason Bennington took his place. The bright lights mounted on the cameras all clicked on, blinding anyone in a two-mile radius, including yours truly. Mason Bennington raised his hands in front of his face until he grew somewhat accustomed to the lasers shining in his eyes. Then he lowered them and tried to smile. The reporters pushed in to seize the prime real estate around the microphone.

“Good evening. I want to address this to the people who have assembled across the street, I assume to protest the recent opening of the newest private, members-only
XY
Club. I know you’re concerned that we’re located just across the way from a residential neighbourhood, your neighbourhood. I want to assure you that we will never give you cause for concern.”

“We’re already concerned! You’ve opened a sleazy smut shack in my backyard!” a voice shouted.

“With these lights in my eyes, I can’t see who said that, but let me address your concern. The only part of
XY
that will ever be visible to anyone who is not a member is this beautiful hand-carved wooden door. There are no windows. The employee entrance is at the back of the building. I’ve invested nearly $2.5 million in this property, employing dozens of local tradespeople and creating more than a hundred permanent jobs. I’m committed to cleaning
up what has been a notoriously corrupt and immoral industry and replacing it with a clean, well-managed, safe, and secure operation that I hope will see the end of the sleazy strip clubs that have dominated the business for decades. The young women who perform within these walls are paid, on average, thirty per cent more than the industry standard. They have access to financial planning counsel, a jointly managed retirement fund, full health benefits, and many other perks, including tuition support if they pursue higher education. No one touches anybody in this club. The performers are separated from the club members at all times. This, my friends, is the future of men’s entertainment.”

“You don’t fool us for a second!” a woman’s voice shouted. “You can dress it up all you want, but women are still undressing for men’s pleasure, right in our neighbourhood!”

“I admire you all for coming to express your concern and promote your community,” Bennington said, trying to regain the floor.

“Don’t give us all that crap about community. You’re only after more money, made on the backs of women who have nowhere else to turn. It’s a disgrace! You’re a disgrace!”

I’m not sure I’d have phrased it quite that way, but the protestor’s point was valid.

Bennington held his hand up for silence. It looked to me like he was working hard to maintain his civil exterior.

“Please, could I just finish?” he started again. “I can see you’re upset. But I want you to know that you do not have a monopoly on concern for this neighbourhood. This is now my community,
too, and I’m going to invest in it and make it even better. Jackson Park, a few blocks north of here, will soon have all-new state-of-the-art playground equipment, and the pool will be refurbished within the month. The in-line skating trails will also be repaved. I’m trying to do my part.”

“You can’t buy us!” a man shouted. “We’ll be here every night. We’re not going away until you do!”

Bennington seemed about to lose it then. He turned his back on the crowd, looked to the sky, and clenched his fists and his jaw. Then he relaxed and turned back to the microphone. The reporters were getting edgy, positioning themselves to hurl the first question.

“Thank you again for coming. We’ll keep you all updated as our community investment program progresses. I hope I’ve assuaged your fears, a least a bit, tonight. My attorney will handle any reporters’ questions. Good night.”

“Why don’t you say goodbye instead, you reprobate!”

Bennington waved, stepped back, and then leaned in to Brawn.

I was so close, just above him, that I heard him say, “Shut down the
PA
. We’re done.”

Bennington then brushed past Megan Cook and back into the security of the club, the heavy doors closing silently behind him. She was clearly caught off-guard when he threw her to the media scrum. She looked around, I’m not sure for what – perhaps deliverance – but then inched back up to the microphone. I know nerves when I see them.

Just as she was about to open her mouth, Brawn snatched the microphone and unplugged the board, leaving her facing just the array of reporters’ microphones. My window was just above where she stood, so I could easily hear what she was saying.

“Um, yes, are there any questions I can try to answer for you?”

“Does Bennington always travel with a lawyer?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “I flew in from Washington for meetings with Mr. Bennington on other matters unrelated to this
XY
location.”

“Are there local bylaws being contravened by this so-called private men’s club? You can’t just open any kind of business wherever you want, can you?”

“I can assure you that all local, county, state, and federal rules, regulations, laws, bylaws, legislation, and statutes have been scrupulously observed in choosing all
XY
locations. Moreover, as Mr. Bennington himself stated, this operation has created dozens of new and lasting jobs, caused a significant increase in business for local contractors and suppliers, and cleaned up what was a moribund block of real estate.”

I thought she was doing pretty well, under the circumstances.

“Yeah, but there are still naked women shaking their moneymakers inside,” a reporter noted.

“Be that as it may, this business is completely legal, has secured all of the appropriate approvals, respects all laws, and exceeds all legislative employment standards. And he’s investing in this
community in ways that really only benefit this neighbourhood and have no real return on his own balance sheet.”

As the questions flowed, Megan seemed to find her feet, in a strictly legal way. I wouldn’t say she was comfortable with everything she was saying, but she knew her stuff and spoke well.

By this time, the protestors had started to disperse. There were kids to bathe and put to bed.

“How long have you been Mason Bennington’s lawyer?” an older woman reporter asked. “You can’t have been practising that long.”

“I’m just one of a team of lawyers at Mackenzie Martin serving Mason Bennington’s legal needs. I just happened to be here in Orlando today.”

A few of the reporters drifted away then to make sure they snagged a few interviews with the protestors. As the final reporter withdrew her microphone, Megan Cook turned around and bolted through the big wooden doors that Brawn had just opened for her.

I thought about Mason Bennington’s bold move to step into the fray and address the protestors directly, however briefly. Wise move? Not sure. I decided that Mason Bennington was accustomed to being the most persuasive guy in the room. He was used to getting his own way. He had a nearly spotless track record of convincing people to agree with him, to do it his way, to succumb to his charms, or his money, or his “Brawn,” as the case may be. What he was most certainly not accustomed to, if he’d
ever experienced it at all, was a group of protestors who ignored his rhetoric, rejected his vision, and saw right through his grand gestures. This night had not unfolded as he had expected, so he bailed and left his lawyer to mop up after him. I think this knocked him for a loop. Maybe what made it doubly troubling for him was that fewer than fifty savvy protestors, armed only with handwritten signs, some rhythmic chants, and their cellphone cameras, had managed to dampen his business, at least for this one night.

I made myself a box of macaroni and cheese, grabbed a beer, and sat on my couch. My beer was sitting on the coffee table. If I looked closely through the glass of the beer bottle, I could see ripples appearing and disappearing on the surface in time to the incessant beat of electronic music below. I snagged my laptop from its usual spot on the kitchen table and brought it with me back to the couch. Taking its name all too literally, I rested the computer on my lap, opened it, and turned it on. It was a bit of a risk eating Kraft Dinner and guzzling a beer while trying to compose a new blog post on the laptop, but only one spoonful ended up on the keyboard. No harm done. I finished dinner but stayed on the couch to write.

I was working on a post about how influential parents can be in leading their children to embrace or reject traditional gender roles. I’d already reviewed some academic studies on the topic. Even those parents who were committed to creating a completely gender-neutral environment for their kids reported on how
stubborn and tenacious the old roles seem to be. Many families banned toy guns of any kind, particularly with young boys in the house. Yet so ubiquitous is gun imagery and the traditional connection between little boys and toy guns that even those boys who had never ever seen or held a plastic water pistol would instinctively pick up sticks in the backyard and mimic gunplay. Similarly, there were lots of reports of little boys and girls from scrupulously gender-neutral homes being ushered into a focus-group room, with researchers watching from behind two-way mirrors. The room was filled with toys of all descriptions. Almost without fail, within five minutes, left on their own, the little boys were vroom-vrooming Hotwheels around the carpet and wrestling over Nerf guns, while the little girls were burping dolls and playing house. How does one explain it?

Some researchers believe this kind of gender-specific behaviour has always been, or has somehow become, written into our
DNA
. Others still believe that even in the most gender-neutral households, children cannot be completely isolated from the daily onslaught of stereotypes in books, in music, on television, on the radio, on iPads, online, and in countless other aspects of their daily lives. Snippets and glimpses of traditional gender roles are all around us. They’re insidious and propelled by centuries of social inertia. They are so deeply rooted in our society and culture that we often don’t even notice. They no longer register. No matter how dedicated a parent you might be, it’s a steep and treacherous mountain to climb, and few ever reach the summit.