Whitney (PG)

Our accounting firm has a high turnover in receptionists. It's hard
to find someone professional, competent, friendly, and organized who
is willing to work for such low pay. Therefore, we often hire young
women fresh out of college who have other career ambitions but who
are willing to take such a job for a few months while they consider
their other options.

Such was the case with Whitney. Petite, blonde, and perky, Whitney's
dimples, sense of humor, and long, pink fingernails tended to obscure
the fact that she was a great worker. Within a month she had figured
out every system in the office and had become the glue that kept us
together. We all loved her...except John, a thirty-something senior
accountant who wasn't amused by her sarcastic wit and never gave her
a break. He was the only one of us who ever found fault with her
work or her personality. But somehow they coexisted, until...

It was early summer, and we had gathered together for an office-wide
lunch in our spacious conference room. Laughing, eating, friendly
conversation: the mood was pleasant. I was sitting across from
Whitney, who was telling several of us about the kickboxing class she
had been taking at the YMCA across the street. John, sitting nearby,
happened to overhear the conversation, and he butted in.

"Kickboxing? Girls? Huh!" It wasn't so much the words but the tone
of his voice that showed his utter contempt for Whitney, and for
women in general.

"What do you mean by that?" Whitney asked. She was cute and
friendly, but also assertive enough to force someone's hand.

"I mean girls kickboxing? That's a joke," he said.

Smiling, Whitney stood and took two steps to John's seat. She
assumed a boxer's stance. Clearly she was doing this for a laugh,
and it was pretty funny. The table broke up into chuckles. Even
John laughed.

But when the laughter subsided, Whitney was still standing over John,
her small fists raised in front of her. It was quite incongruous:
wearing a pink, sleeveless blouse, an above the knee skirt, and open-
toed high heels that displayed her painted toenails, she looked like
anything but a fighter. And yet the smile dropped off John's face
when she said, "Are you going to defend yourself?"

John didn't answer. At this point, I think Whitney was still joking
around, but when he turned away gruffly and snorted, I think she
decided to take things to a higher level.

Quickly her left fist flicked out to within an inch or two of John's
ear. He flinched. "What'cha afraid of, Johnny?" she asked in a
little girl's voice, obviously mocking him.

He didn't answer. Again she flicked out a left jab and again he
flinched, this time so forcefully that he almost fell out of his
chair. Laughter from the rest of us. John had turned red. "What'cha
afraid of, Johnny?" she asked again. She was now bouncing on her
toes, smiling.

"I just don't want you to break a nail, bitch," he said, glaring at
her.

Her right cross caught him squarely in the nose. I think she had
tried to pull it, but he was leaning forward with his insult and
threw her timing off. Immediately he covered his nose with both his
hands, a trickle of blood coming through his fingers. Whitney
bounced up and down, still ready, but shaking her right wrist, not
used to the impact of actually hitting somebody.

There was general pandemonium. We couldn't believe our
eyes...Whitney had just punched one of her bosses! A million
thoughts went through our heads: would she be fired? Was he
embarrassed? Did she mean to? Was his nose OK? Was he going to
kick her ass now?

Through all these thoughts and shouts, nobody bothered to restrain
either John or Whitney. He had risen from his seat and was now
squared off against her. Blood droplets covered the front of his
white oxford cloth shirt, and his face was as red as the stains. He
was nearly a foot taller than her, but she didn't back down.
Strangely, she didn't apologize or offer to help clean him up.
Instead, Whitney kept her fighting stance.

Without warning, John launched a punch at her. It was a big sweeping
haymaker. Apparently Whitney's kickboxing classes were pretty good,
because she put up her left arm as if by instinct and blocked most of
the force of the blow, even though he still cuffed her a little on
the side of her head. Without pause, and while he was still extended
from his punch, Whitney sank her shin into his groin. John dropped
to his knees like a sack of concrete.

We were in stunned silence. John looked confused, nauseated, and
furious all at once. On his knees, his face was at Whitney's chest
level. Whack! Whack! She peppered him with two left jabs. The
sound of them was like a smack on a leather sofa. His head snapped
back twice. Whack! A louder noise as her right fist found his nose
once again, sending John backward to the carpeted floor.

"What'cha afraid of, Johnny?" asked Whitney as she placed her high
heel on his neck and raised her hands over her head. John writhed on
the floor, helpless beneath her slim foot. The room was silent,
until I started clapping. Then there was applause all around.