The Creep Man: A Personal Encounter

An Unsettling Meeting and the Impact of Patriarchy

My previous list in this section, which discussed the Creep Man phenomenon, sparked a heated discussion in the comments. But it didn’t stop there—I received very personal, heartfelt, and moving responses via email. Most responses didn’t touch him personally, but one in particular struck a chord because the writer asked about the identity of the director of the literary events I mentioned.

Since the event happened a long time ago, I didn’t remember all its details. What I did remember was that as soon as I returned home from that meeting, I wrote about it meticulously and published the story in my personal column in Time Out Tel Aviv magazine.

After some searching, I found that article. I was afraid to read it, and in retrospect, rightly so. When I read it again, I was horrified by the details. After calming down, I concluded that it’s worth republishing here because it answers one of the recurring questions from the comments: the phenomenology of the creep.

This column is dedicated to all the readers who found my previous examples opaque and couldn’t understand what I and the sympathetic commenters were talking about. It was written 11 years ago, in January 2009, right after the event. My daughter is 14 and a half today. The spouse mentioned is my husband and partner of 12 years. The character known as "Wolf" will remain a pseudonym because the point I want to convey is bigger than him; it concerns what we talk about when we talk about the creep.

"What do you think Little Red Riding Hood made for her grandmother?" I asked Ella. "She made sweet potato soup, calamari salad, and lots and lots of sweets," replied the little girl.

We lay on her bed and read two bedtime stories. It looked idyllic, but in reality, it was a race against the clock. I had to go to a work meeting, the babysitter was due to arrive, and Ella—against her wishes—had to go to bed. But it was impossible to skip reading two stories and discussing them in depth.

"And who did she meet in the forest?" I asked. "You're the bad wolf!" Ella said, curling her sweet pink fingers in the scariest way she could imagine.

The doorbell rang, startling us both. I left Ella's room and opened the door for the babysitter. Ella followed me, nearly in tears: "No, Mom, don’t go, don’t go. Stay with me for five more minutes!"

I turned on the TV and went back to Ella’s room. After we asked, "Why do you have such big eyes?" and "Why do you have such sharp teeth?" Ella gently passed her fingers over my lips and asked, "Mom, why did you wear the red scarf?" I shrugged: "I was invited to spend the evening talking about things that interest me and eat at a supposedly good restaurant, so I decided to treat myself."

The Nightmare Meeting

In the taxi on the way to dinner, I thought about how I hadn’t had time to prepare for the meeting. Zeev Greenberg, the older man I was about to meet, introduced himself on the phone as a friend of many people I admire. He told me he loved my father and that my father loved him. He offered to have me participate in an evening about two of my favorite poets. What’s not to like?

I waited for him outside the restaurant. I recognized him from a distance. In Oscar Wilde fashion, he handed me a biography of Nissim Aloni with a personalized dedication. I smiled appreciatively: "I just gave this book to someone I really like," I said. To me, it seemed like a good sign, but Zeev, for some reason, frowned.

When we went inside, I looked at the dedication. "I allowed myself to change your name because I don’t like it," he said, and immediately ordered the wine menu.

At this point, I should have understood, but I didn’t. I tried to discuss Nissim Aloni, but the conversation quickly turned to how much Aloni thought Zeev was a genius and how many women left their partners because of him. He also managed to mention several times that despite his looks, he wasn’t gay.

The waitress came to inquire about the wines. I subtly hinted that I wasn’t interested in leaving anyone for him and mentioned a man I met last year who made me appreciate good wine.

Zeev threw the menu down in anger: "I know who you’re talking about, and I ask you to stop mentioning him. It annoys me. If we’re going to work together, I want to feel that we’re building a little world where it’s just you and me, that you’ll love and protect me and not let anyone come between us!"

The waitress, embarrassed, started walking away. Zeev stopped her: "Is she beautiful in your eyes?" he asked, pointing at me. She mumbled quietly: "Of course." "Don’t just tell me what you think I want to hear," he scolded her. "Look at her and tell me if she’s beautiful in your eyes."

A Nightmare Continued

The waitress dodged and went to order the wine, then came back to ask what we would like to eat. I ordered two starters. Zeev, hugging his hands angrily, looked at me and then said to the waitress: "Now she's really taken away my appetite."

When she left, he attacked me: "What a lack of flow this is. Why didn’t you wait to see what I wanted to eat? How can I turn you into a creature on stage if you won’t even let me order food in harmony?"

I swallowed and said: "Look, considering the amount of emotional energy required of me in the last half hour, and that’s before we even started talking about work, I don’t think it’s likely we’ll work together."

He was furious: "I’m giving you a gift. In my mind’s eye, I saw you sitting on stage under a blanket, holding a small lantern, reading poetry like a girl left alone in her room." "I believe you saw it in your mind’s eye," I told him, quickly sipping the second glass of wine, "but it has nothing to do with me."

Like the wine, the shrimp dish suddenly appeared, and I stuck a fork in them. "Look how you eat," he said disdainfully. "Shrimp with a fork and not with your fingers. You have no passion; all evening you just bring me insights. I don’t think we can work together; you’re not enough of a street cat for me," he said, curling his fingers as if about to pounce. He might have hissed "ssssss" between his teeth.

This nightmare continued for another two hours. I wanted to bury myself under the table, stab him with a knife, or get up and leave, but thousands of years of patriarchy pinned me to the armchair. At the end of the meal, outside the restaurant, he suggested we go to a bar to play pool and talk about work. "I’m sorry," I said, "I promised the babysitter I’d be home by midnight." "It’s a shame," he replied. "I wanted to see how you play pool to know how you move your ass." I stared at him, stunned. He quickly added: "So I can imagine how you’ll move on stage."

I got into the first taxi that approached, anxious and exhausted, wrapping myself in the red scarf. He waved at me through the window. Through the dark glass, I saw the silhouette of a wolf and my reflection. As the taxi pulled away, I finally allowed myself to breathe. Through the fog, the driver’s voice reached me: "So where do you need to be, Little Red Riding Hood?"