Citizen Girl (10 page)

‘Nope, can’t say that I have.’

I follow into the bleachers, taking a frosted seat between Buster and Tim, who scream war whoops of glee as the puck goes into play. Rebuttoning my coat all the way up, I attempt to set up my feast, resting the plastic in my lap and pulling out a lobster-sized aluminum swan.

Buster grins at me. ‘Claw?’ I offer, catching the congealing butter with a napkin.

‘Thanks, we ordered in burritos at work. Looks yummy, though.’ He wipes my chin with his thumb. I look down to hide the flush.

‘It’s already cold,’ I admit defeat. ‘I’ll make it into lobster salad tomorrow.’ But Buster’s eyes are riveted to the game. I stuff the remainder of my meal back into the bag and clear my throat. ‘So you guys all live together?’

‘Yeah.’ He follows the darting puck as he speaks. ‘There’re seven of us. That’s Luke down there DOING A CRAP JOB!’ He points indiscriminately at the pile-up. ‘He’s my boy – we all went to Chapel Hill together.’

‘Your boy?’

Buster continues to root loudly at the ensuing brawl another minute before returning his attention to me. ‘Huh? What did you say?’

‘Luke, he’s “your boy”.’

‘Not like
that
. Yo, Trev, pass me a beer!’

‘Okay, ’cause I was picturing chaps,’ I mutter as a brown-bagged bottle is tossed just clear of my head. The opposing team scores and sparse clusters of men seated around the rink cheer and boo. A slow half-hour crawls by on frozen kneecaps, sans hot dogs, as advertised. While frost creeps up my stockinged legs, I pass the time flexing and pointing my toes to keep them attached.

Finally, Luke’s team scores. ‘CUNT!’ a large man behind us bellows, bringing the blood back into my brain. ‘
Cunt!
’

Jostled on either side by my screaming companions, I look up at the domed ceiling.

‘
Cunt! CUUUUUNT!
’ Budweiser spittle sprays the back of my neck.

I wait for Buster to flinch, roll his eyes, or in any way acknowledge the gynecological tirade, but his attention remains firmly on the puck.

The man behind us addresses his companion. ‘My son can’t goal for shit.’

I stand. ‘You know, I’m just gonna go to the ladies’ room and thaw.’

‘Wha? Sure, fine,’ Buster says, effectively shushing me with his waving palm.

Fuck. You.

In the bathroom I hole up under the hand dryer, letting several rounds of hot air bring circulation back into my blue fingers. So, where we going next weekend? Coal mining? Awesome, count me in. And we’ll take your magic carpet? Fabulous. I’ll be waiting!

Moderately warmed, I step back into the lobby as
Buster bursts through the rink’s double doors. ‘Okay, so, thanks!’ I wave goodbye from across the rubber-coated floor.

‘Hey.’ He strides over, his cheeks flushed from cheering, proffering my plastic bag. ‘You’re not leaving, are you?’

‘Yeah.’

I reach out for my dinner, but Buster catches my wrist, holding me and the bag before dropping his voice. ‘Okay, well then, how about I help you get this home and into a salad?’ He grins that grin and I’m sure for him it’s just that easy.

‘I don’t think we’re quite ready to make salad together.’ I exhale. ‘Look, this has been an
insanely
long day on top of an
insanely
long week and I just really want a hot shower –’ I catch myself – ‘which is more than you need to know. If you could just direct me towards a cab.’

‘Will you at least let me walk you? I’d feel better if I knew you got home safely.’ Knee-jerk-chivalrous-bullshit-signifying-nothing. But, facing a long trek through the desolate parking lot, I concede, letting him fall into step with me. We cross the highway and walk over to Eleventh, where we stare in silence down the empty Avenue. Buster ducks his head. ‘I feel like I’ve totally fucked this up.’

‘What?’ I ask, surprised at his acknowledgment. ‘No. No – it’s not like this was a date.’ A glowing cab light makes its way towards us.

‘I have fucked this up.’ The car slows to a stop. ‘You think I’m an asshole.’

‘I don’t
think
anything. I don’t even know you.’ I reach for the door, exhaustion officially setting in.

‘Well, I’d like you to. Can I call you?’

‘Actually, no.’

Buster looks stricken as the cabby raps his window impatiently. I slide into the back seat, the contents of my purse spilling out. ‘I’m sorry. But, um … here.’ I thrust the roll of cotton out the window. ‘Have a tee shirt!’ He takes it from my outstretched arm as the taxi swerves from the curb.

‘
You have-three-new messages
.’

Beep

‘
Message-one-received Wednesday at eleven thirty-four:
Hi, this is Estelle from Tempting Temps. Again, we’re not taking on anyone new right now. As it is, we have
no
assignments —’

*4

‘
Message deleted. Message-two-received Wednesday at twelve thirteen:
Yes, this is Women In Action. With regards to the position, we’d love to hire you. We’d love to hire a hundred of you. But we simply don’t have the funding —’

*4

‘
Message deleted. Message-three-received Wednesday at two forty-three:
Hello, this is Stacey, Guy’s assistant from My Company, following up on your interview two weeks ago. Our chairman, Rex, would like you to meet him at The Club today at four o’clock. That’s Fifty-Three East Sixty-Ninth Street. Please call to confirm.’

*

Running breathlessly up to the mansion, I bypass the liveried doorman loading an octogenarian into a town car and push against the trellised iron doors, falling into the imposing lobby of The Club. On one limestone wall sits a reception desk, on the other, beneath a portrait of Robert E. Lee, a wood-paneled coat-check, both abandoned. Following the sound of gruff laughter and clinking stemware, I race up the double staircase and down a Persian-carpeted hallway, past canvases of cigar-toting founders. Touching my fingertips to the mahogany doors, I propel myself into the dining room, where I’m met with the thick aroma of chicken pot pie and contraband Havanas. Through the smoke I spot Rex at a corner table overlooking Park Avenue, peering at a neatly folded paper while he eats.

‘Rex, hi.’ Tilting like a cocktail bunny, I announce my presence, accidentally brushing the bald pate behind me with my purse. ‘Sorry.’ I spin to apologize to a gin-flushed face made even redder by my contact.

‘Young lady?’ a stern voice addresses me, and I turn the other way to find a phalanx of white-jacketed, dark-skinned men, armed with tongs and dishtowels, poised as if about to snare a crocodile. The room has gone silent.

‘Young lady!’ The offended older gentleman is shaking a freckled fist at me. ‘
You
are
not
permitted!’ A host of heads-in-service nod emphatically behind him, while scores of liver-spotted wattles shake in horror.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, mortified. ‘Was I supposed to sign in? I’m sorry, I didn’t know. There wasn’t anyone at the
front desk.’ I turn to Rex, who’s barely managed to pull his attention away from the editorials.

‘Girl,’ he instructs, calmly laying down his fork, ‘wait downstairs.’

‘I’m so sorry – the message just said to meet you here. I didn’t mean to …’ The head waiter takes my arm firmly. A team in biohazard suits most likely en route, I’m escorted past recoiling members and their staff, who stare stonily at the floor awaiting a flaying worthy of their negligence. I’m led swiftly back down the staircase and released in front of the Ladies’ Lounge.

‘You may wait here,’ my captor announces into the tomb-like quiet. Shit. I sink into a tufted, quilted, ruffled, floral club chair, and catch sight of my beating face in the mirror across the way.
Shit
. I grimace as I replay my entrance. Shitshitshit!

Half an hour perched expectantly in Rose Kennedy’s wet dream later, and it becomes evident that I’m here for the long haul. I slump back against the tufts and pull my mail out of my purse. Bills, bills, bills, an aeropostale letter from Kira – ‘We finally got both tribes to agree on where the well should be dug. Only now they say we can’t dig until they’ve consecrated the ground with – you guessed it – a rain dance, which, of course, is pretty fucking unlikely as we’ve flown six thousand miles to dig them a fucking well’ – the taunting Pottery Barn catalogue, and a hand-written note that must’ve been shoved through my mail slot.

Hey Girl!

It’s been totally rockin’ having you live in our little Annex (hah hah), but Zeldy sold a major piece this week (!) and she’s finally letting me take back the walk-in closet. We’re gonna knock through at the end of the month, but please come over for the ‘knock throug’ party. Zeldy’s gonna make her bourbon cake!

Lots of love,

Eva

I am not. Leaving here. Without a job.

‘Can’t,’ a Carribean voice admonishes me as I head for the door.

‘I’m sorry?’ I glance around a potted fern to find an elderly cocoa-skinned woman in a maid’s uniform, methodically folding hand towels.

‘He said wait. Ladies ain’t allowed in da building, ’cept for wife nights.’ Well, of course. I maneuver my chair to the doorway and stare intently at the bottom of the staircase. And stare. And wait. And stare some more.

Two elder statesmen shuffle themselves to the bench beneath Robert E. Lee to pull on their galoshes. ‘For my money, no one will ever top Connery. But the one we rented had that dark-skinned girl, what’s her name?’

‘A fruit. Berry something.’

‘Yes, that’s the one. She put a bit of a crackle into the picture.’

‘Yes, Jefferson had the right idea.’

I lock eyes with the woman folding towels, who remains stone-faced.

No, I think this is the
perfect
club for the chairman of
a company catering entirely to women. It’s Augusta with sheets.
Shame
, Grace’s disgusted voice rings in my ears.
Shameshameshame.

But, there’s a wad of unpayable bills in my hand and Zeldy’s artistic aspirations for my illegal sublet to keep me focused.

As if a bell’s rung, a throng of cashmere coats and university scarves suddenly swoops down the stairs. I dart into the hall, trying to pick Rex out from the faces stampeding to their pre-theater dinners. Headlights beam through the windows and I run out onto the street. ‘Rex! Rex!’

He pauses, one foot already in his silver Jag, his open Barbour revealing squash whites.

‘I’m
so
sorry,’ I say again as the doorman places Rex’s racquet bag in the trunk. ‘I
really
apologize for my entrance up there. I didn’t know about your,’ I swallow, ‘policy.’

Rex smiles, chuckling to himself as the door is opened for him. ‘Girl, I saw everything I needed to see.’ He folds himself into the car, the glaring doorman slamming it shut.

I stare after the departing taillights, tears blurring their beams.

‘Just fill out the form and take a seat.’ A stick-thin man draped in a nubby green cardigan sits beneath the water-stained ‘State of New York Unemployment Office’ sign and slides a clipboard to me, along with a child-size pencil.

‘Can I just ask – I haven’t received any checks yet. I’ve been trying to get someone on the phone, but I really,
really
need to get paid.’

‘Yes?’

‘So when will that happen? Because in the booklet —’

‘The booklet?’

‘Yes, in the section about payment schedules —’

‘Well, if it’s in the booklet, then it must be right.’

‘So …’

‘So, sounds to me like you have your answer.’ He slides a clipboard and pencil to the person in line behind me. ‘Just fill out the form, take a seat, and wait for the meeting.’

‘So, then you can help?’

He stares at me.

‘Should I talk to someone?’

‘You’re talking to me.’ He arches a tweezed eyebrow without missing a beat in the next hand-off. ‘Just fill out the form and take a seat.’

‘I need to attend the meeting just to talk to someone about getting paid?’

‘Just fill out the form.’

‘Right, but I might not actually need to —’

‘And take a seat.’

We stare at each other.

He slides his Coke bottle glasses up his nose before passing a clipboard and baby pencil to the next person on line. I shift my backpack to my other shoulder. ‘Okay … we’ll resolve this later then! I’ll just go on ahead and fill out the form.’

‘And then you can,’ he points over to where a group of people sit wedged into school desks, ‘take a seat. With your goddamn booklet,’ he grumbles.

Sighing, I do as instructed. Furtively surveying my fellow unemployed, I lock eyes with the dark-rooted blonde from the Big Five interview – the other failed Sheila. I blush and follow her head cock to the overtly gelled hair of the man who seemed to have the whole case exercise thing down. Apparently not down enough.

I smile meekly. Sheila glazes over.

‘Hello,’ Nubby Cardigan drones as he stands up. ‘Hello,’ he repeats as we all look over. ‘Hello. This is my colleague, Mrs Kamitzski.’ A frazzled-looking woman with glasses on a chain steps forward to give us a little wave as Nubby opens a binder and begins to read to us sans inflection, ‘Hello and welcome to the New York State Unemployment Office. You have been required to report in person today … required to report in person today …
today
.’ He pauses, looking pointedly at Mrs Kamitzski.

‘February thirteenth,’ she delivers her line.

‘Today, February thirteenth, for the purposes of a Periodic Eligibility and Employability Review interview. You are required to have been keeping a written record of all job search efforts with the dates, names, addresses, and phone numbers of employers contacted, the positions applied for, and the results. If you have not kept a written record of all job search efforts with the dates, names, addresses …’