At first, Dave was quiet. Nervously, I filled the empty space.
“Oh, and the reason ‘the hair thing’ is relevant, is at one point, I started to run my fingers through his hair, and Stafford said, ‘Careful. I have a piece,’ which was so fucking funny to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Dave said.
“No, it’s funny to me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry about the whole thing. Honestly, I am sorry.”
At the time, Dave’s sympathetic words washed over me, but listening to the playback a week later, I was grateful. Dave took the moment seriously and didn’t allow me to end it with a punch line. (I reached out to Stafford before my book was published in March 2018, and he has never responded.)
There were two additional points that I wanted to make. First, that I never beat myself up over the incident. I knew I’d been taken advantage of before I made it to my car. Second, I told Dave that the thing that still irks me the most is that I’m sure Stafford walked away believing our sexual contact was consensual. That belief ignores the power differential and the hold he had over my livelihood.
I compared the situation to a bank robber brandishing a gun. The robber shouts, “Everybody down!” and people hit the floor. Was their act consensual? They could have remained on their feet, but the implicit threat makes people react on impulse. Who wouldn’t go down?
I scanned Dave’s face to see if my metaphor resonated, and he was now reassessing all his workplace liaisons. Not a flicker. Instead, he gently hinted at the question that most people have at this point in my story. I provided the answer.
“I didn’t get the job, by the way. Which was fine because the last thing I wanted was to ever be in a room with him again.”
Dave agreed it was a “winless position.” Then he shared a story he’d heard from around the same era about a writer who liked to watch episodes of the variety show he worked on and point out to others on the set which dancing girls he had bedded. “So it was repellent,” Dave said. “But isn’t that the ugly history of Hollywood and show business?”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling uneasy. Dave was sweet to commiserate with me over TV’s Golden Age of Ass Grabbing, but he was also oblivious. Still, I do feel a slight sympathy for men who were led to believe that they were kings with unlimited powers. In 1995, Rolling Stone’s comedy issue named Dave Man of the Year while a cover line proclaimed: “It’s Dave’s World, We Only Live in It.” When you’re used to doing whatever you want, following the rules feels like a cock block.
The discussion moved on. We chatted about our mutual love of Albert Brooks and his movie Defending Your Life. We admired Malala. We mocked Andrew Lloyd Webber. We took a photo and said goodbye. Within hours, Dave’s assistant had set up calls with the two hilarious women who should’ve been writers. The next day, Dave spoke to both and apologized.
I always thought Dave could be an ally to women. Maybe I believed he had the capacity because he recognized Merrill’s talents long ago. The two were also a couple, although Merrill later learned that before they broke up, Dave started dating his now wife, who—–surprise!—–worked on the show. In retrospect, my optimism might have been misplaced. As the saying goes: You can lead a host to water but you can’t make him drink.