By Paul Beckman
There are creeps everywhere. I hear my female co-workers talking about them over their cubicle walls. I sit on my bar stool nursing my gin and tonic staring straight ahead or doodling on a bar nap and listen to the women after work complaining about the creeps in their life. I don’t know what makes a guy a creep. One of the four women next to me at the bar looked up and our eyes met in the back bar mirror. She motioned for her girlfriends to follow her and pointed to a table. “Creep,” she said, passing behind me.