Lookin’ Right At Me, Baby.
In the eighties, sexism was widely accepted by society – meaning, most women just put up with it. Any episode of 1980’s television will provide multiple examples of the commonplace sexist slurs and innuendos that were barely questioned.
Though the “Me Too” movement lifted one eyelid to see what’s been here all along, I doubt that any progress has been made in biker culture, even in the 21st century. There’s an understanding by all biker chicks that, upon taking one’s place on the back of your “old man’s” motorcycle, it’s okay to be treated by men in a sub-human fashion.
For me, this started with Larry’s inability to use my actual name. Larry introduced me to other people as “my old lady.” And for everything else, Larry called me “Baby.”
So I originally thought “Baby” was a term of endearment. And with Larry, that term of endearment rolled off his tongue like Italian in Italy.
Larry’s gravelly “Baby” sounded beautiful. I felt appreciated, special, loved. No one had ever nicknamed me before.
Deep down, a part of me worried about the implied reference to an infant. Larry was old enough to be my father, and sometimes I questioned his reasoning for calling me by the same word that, I’m sure, he likely once used to refer to his daughter, who was almost my age.
But I squashed that thought every time it surfaced.
Then I started to notice that I wasn’t the only person Larry called “Baby.”
When he talked to his male friends and colleagues – heck, even when he met guys at Mount Union – Larry always said, “Hey, Man.” Sometimes this was followed by “How ya doin’?” in a jovial manner. Men were always called “Man.” Sometimes they were called “Buddy,” but only if “Man” had already been used.
But women were never called anything but “Baby.” Their ages were irrelevant. All the women at the bar were Baby, including the owner. All the women requesting songs from his band were called Baby.
To the cashier at the 7-11: “Gimme a pack of Winstons, Baby, and a beef jerky.”
To the gas station attendant: “Ten bucks on seven, Baby, and I’ll be back for the change.”
To the bartender: “Gimme a Miller Lite, Baby, and one for my ol’ lady. And keep ’em comin’!”
We ate breakfast out nearly every day. I thought eating breakfast with Larry was the cutest thing I’d ever seen, his communication techniques unique and adorable. I’d never been with someone so self-confident or self-sufficient, so I had no idea he was often just arrogant.
The waitress would come to our table and she’d say, “What can I get for you today?”
Larry would say, “Number two with bacon and hash browns.”
She’d say, “How would you like your eggs?”
And Larry would say, “Lookin’ right at me, Baby.”
Then he’d smile broadly, as if this were the singularly most brilliant description of eggs ever.
He did this every, single time we went out for breakfast: Lookin’ right at me, Baby.
Interestingly, the waitresses all seemed to know what he meant. If they didn’t, he would just repeat it with the word “up” included.
“Two eggs up. Lookin’ right at me, Baby.” Then the smile.
I am not sure what would have happened if we’d ever had a male take our order at a restaurant. He may have been forced to order pancakes.
If he knew how to do that, I never saw it happen.