Citizen Girl (11 page)

The heat makes me woozy and I tune out, surreptitiously
scanning the real estate section of the
Village Voice
for free apartments.

‘Can I just ask a question?’ A large woman in a heap of crinkled velvet speaks up from my right.

‘Apparently,’ Nubby pushes up his glasses at her, ‘you can.’

‘I’m a singer. I’m classically trained in opera and musical stage but I’ve only been to a few gigs in the last month. I’d say three – no, four – wait.’ She digs into her overstuffed patchwork duffel, rooting out a desk calendar covered in photographs of red-eyed cats lounging on radiators. ‘Umm, I would say four, because even though the fourth was my cousin’s bar mitzvah, they were going to pay for my transportation to and from the hall. And I’ve gone to tons of voiceover calls – do they count?’

‘Do you receive a paycheck?’ Nubby stares at her.

‘Well, yes, if that’s what you’d call it. Sometimes I just take the work for the connections. I got a great gig in Boca Raton from a Buick voiceover last year —’

‘Your question?’ Nubby grips the white binder in front of him like a homicidal caroler.

‘I don’t have all the contact information for every call I went on, even though I put the time in and made the effort to go, which hasn’t been easy, because my brother’s been sick and I’ve been watching his parrot, who I sometimes take to auditions, but sometimes I just have to feed him. I’d go back to Boca if I could, but mostly I prefer the opera work and there’s just limited venues in Southern Florida for quality opera.’

He blinks. ‘So?’

‘So, should I not list those calls? Or do I list them? Or don’t they count at all, because I think the work I do to take care of my brother’s bird should count for something, because Lord knows that’s work – anyone who’s had to change a birdcage knows there should be some sort of salary for
that
…’

Sweet mercy at long last arrives in the form of Hair Gel Man, who extends his arm up into the air. ‘I just want to confirm that this meeting is an hour and a half.’ His tone is pleasant, as if, unlike the rest of us civil hostages, he’s been getting a full spa treatment. ‘I have a pretty promising interview scheduled and would sure hate to miss it.’ He smiles winningly.

‘Oh, yes, yes,’ Mrs Kamitzski concurs coquettishly, turning back to Opera Lady. ‘We’ll have to resolve your issue in private when the session is over.’

After Nubby drones on for another forty-some minutes, we’re instructed to bring our forms up as our names are called. Another half-hour and it’s down to me and Hair Gel Man, who covertly scrawls on the corner of his desktop.

‘Girl?’

‘Here!’ I step to the front, hand over my form, and pull on my coat. ‘So, exactly how much longer do you think before I receive my first check?’

Mrs Kamitzski scans the paper and then points out something in her binder to Nubby. Nubby smiles thinly. ‘Your claim was denied.’

‘What?’ I break into a new kind of sweat. ‘How is that possible? I was fired.’

‘Record shows that you lost your position due to misconduct and that disqualifies you.’

‘What record? There was no misconduct. I was fired!’

‘Well,’ Mrs Kamitzski chirps, ‘you can always appeal if you want to get yourself a lawyer and register for a hearing, but you have to do that over the phone. If you take your seat, we’ll get you the number, just as soon as I take care of this patient young man so that he can make it to his interview on time.’

Hair Gel Man waltzes up, debonairly straightening his tie. I wedge myself into his vacated seat, too stunned to protest.

‘You sure have been nice to accommodate me with all you have going on here!’ he says sweetly, launching Mrs Kamitzski into a fit of what I’m sure she believes to be girlish giggles as the three walk out together.

I start to see spots. I am utterly out of money. Game over. I’m going to have to move back home – and spend the rest of my miserable life enduring ceaseless ‘Just start your own ——’ pep talks while my chore list exceeds Cinderella’s. I look down at my shaking hands, noticing Hair Gel Man’s prescription for Mrs Kamitzski, thoughtfully inked in a long column down the desktop. ‘Mrs Kamitzski, you fat whore, you need a cow’s shlong shoved straight up your sagging ass.’

‘Here.’ Nubby thrusts a new booklet at me. ‘You were right. You didn’t need to be here.’

I grab it from him, dashing out to the frigid streets, past the desperate souls lining up outside, and all the way to the subway platform before stopping to catch my breath. I lean against the cold tile wall, staring down the long hallway of the Fifty-Ninth Street station. My breath is labored and my cheeks are wet.

‘Shitshitshit,’ I mutter to my sneakers. Wiping my nose with my coat sleeve, I heft the thick booklet, at least fifty pages long in its explanation of the hearing process involved in contesting Doris. I eye the numbers listed on the back cover and walk over to the payphone while digging deep in my bag to pull up a dog-eared card worn soft with worrying.

‘My Company. How may I direct your call?’

‘Guy, please.’

‘Hold on.’ There’s a pause before another woman picks up the line. I clear my throat of all signs of sniffles.

‘Hello, this is Stacey.’

‘Yes, is Guy in? I’m calling to speak with him regarding an interview I had with Rex. There was a misund —’

‘Hold on, please.’

I grip the phone with both hands, praying she returns within three minutes as I’m now out of change. I’m going to beg him.

‘Hey, Girl.’ Guy comes on the line. ‘Yeah, so you wowed the fucking pants off Rex at your meeting. He
loved
you. We’ve been meaning to get a call out, but we’re crazed with this client we’re pitching overseas. Can you come in at uh … say, twelve thirty on Friday?’

‘Yes! Yes, I
absolutely
can. Um, sorry, for a second inter—’

‘See you Friday.’ The call disconnects.

A bolt of sunshine cracks through sixty tons of New York City concrete and shines directly onto my head.

5. By Any Means Necessary

Retracing my steps over the cracked cobblestones of far-west Chelsea, I nod confidently to the security guard, flash my license, and sign in. But when the elevator slides open onto the musty loading dock, my spirits falter. So help me God, I’m leaving employed or throwing myself out their perfect windows.

‘Girl, hey.’ I startle as Guy strides up from behind, tossing a coffee cup into a nearby dumpster.

‘Hi!’

‘Great.’ He continues past, his booming voice filling the dank air. ‘Glad you’re here. We’ve got this thing I want you to be a part of.’ A welcoming Virgil, he holds the door open to his sunshine-bathed offices.

‘Thank you. Yes, I’m happy to be part of a thing —’ His cell rings and while he nods and yeahs into the minuscule appliance, I fall violently back in love with all that is My Company, filling with childlike yearning for every bonsai tree and brushed steel recycle bin.

Clicking his phone shut, Guy stops abruptly just inside the doorway of a small glassed-in conference room, blocking my entrance. ‘Hey, folks, this is Girl. We’re looking at her to head up the initiative.’ Squeezing in around him, I smile at the expectant faces as I roll out a mesh titanium-colored chair. ‘Girl, some key players to
impress in the MC, Inc. family: Matt – Design, Stan – IT, Angel, our office manager, and Joe here is the People Department, killing us with all the HRbullshit.’ Joe, his beard a soft gray, looks to be the eldest employee. ‘You made me a promise, Joe. All My Company policies should fit on one index card. Like running a hot dog cart.’

Joe laughs nervously, while the other men give me a half-hearted wave.

‘Let’s just jump right in,’ Guy continues. ‘The issue on deck is what’s going to bring in the
Ms.
woman; this is an incredible opportunity for everyone here. Incredible.’ He slaps the top of his chair arms. ‘Girl?’

‘Yes.’ I nod enthusiastically, eager for details. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Right. Girl, take it away!’

Everyone turns expectantly. I flash to the dream where I’m taking the biochemistry final, never enrolled in the class, and am naked.

‘Well … I assume you’re all familiar with the
Ms.
community.’

‘Me?’ Angel asks.

‘You mean online?’ Matt asks.

‘No,’ I correct him politely, ‘I mean real-life, their readers.’ Blank looks all around. So totally butt naked. Guy’s cell rings and he blessedly steps out, leaving me to flail unobserved. ‘Well, let’s see, from what I know, these readers are politically savvy, socially active, and vested in gender equity across the board. So if you were them —’

‘Who?’ Angel interrupts.

‘The
Ms.
readers.’

‘If we were women, you mean,’ Joe helps me out.

‘Yes! Yes, if you were a woman who fit the description I’ve just given —’

‘Did Guy say how long we had to be here?’ Stan hooks a lackadaisical finger through the neck of the tee escaping from his Oxford collar. ‘’Cause I have a dentist appointment.’

Joe stands, his knees cracking, and lifts the whiteboard from the floor to the table with a thud. He writes ‘WOMEN’ in squeaky felt-tipped strokes. The others stare at me.

‘Maybe we should approach this in the reverse.’ I look from male face to male face. Stan glances obviously at his watch. ‘What aspects of My Company do you think would particularly appeal to the type of women I described?’

‘The bathrooms!’ Angel perks up. ‘We give free tampons.’

‘We do?’ Matt asks. ‘We don’t have anything free in the men’s room.’

‘Maybe let’s focus on content. How do we take all the information on beauty and health that our company has to offer –’ my heart misses a beat at the proprietary ‘our’ – ‘and leverage it to capture the typical
Ms.
reader?’

Silence. Matt shoots Stan a look. Perhaps they’re fomenting a rebellion to get free condoms into the men’s room.

‘Okay, whadda we got?’ Guy returns and swiftly takes in the empty white board and silent group.

‘Sorry, Guy, bit of confusion here,’ Joe explains.
‘Maybe it would grease the wheels if you speak to what MC wants from the
Ms.
woman.’ Thank you.

Guy sighs in exasperation, tugging at the skin on the bridge of his nose.

‘Totally unnecessary,’ Stan says, suddenly animated. ‘As you were saying, Girl.’

‘Right,’ I scramble, ‘you know, examining what interests the
Ms. Magazine
crowd … culture, politics, social issues … basically the agenda of many social service organizations.’ Whitneywhitneywhitneywhitney. ‘So,
maybe
we could reach out to those organizations dedicated to serving women, find out how what
they’re
researching can benefit from our expertise.’ Whatever the fuck that is.

‘Go on.’ Guy leans forward on the balls of his feet as I offer the one professional notch on my belt.

‘I’m thinking My Company should sponsor a conference, get these organizations together, and … tap their brains.’ I flash to approaching Doris’s wiry curls with an ice pick.

Guy claps twice and smiles broadly. ‘I love it.’ You do?

Taking their cue, Stan and Joe stand. ‘Awesome,’ Matt yawns.

‘Awesome.’ Angel makes a beeline for the door.

‘Yes,’ I smile, feeling the unfamiliar flush of acknowledged competence. ‘Let’s leverage what they know.’

‘Sure, awesome.’ Stan follows Matt out, with Guy bringing up the rear.

‘Excellent, just excellent,’ he says. ‘Thanks for coming. Got time for a bite? I’m starved.’

‘Yes, me, too, starved.’ For. A. Job.

‘That was great,’ he says, dialing.

‘Thanks, I couldn’t be more intrigued by this initiative.’

‘Great. Let me just grab my coat.’

Guy returns to collect me at the reception area, slurping from a Coke can and animatedly conveying a point into his cell, ‘Well, they’re fucking me … No … fucking
me
. Their retention ratio has me grabbing my ankles …’ For three avenues I walk beside him, getting a blow-by-blow on how the next quarter will relate to Guy receiving said fucking – in what positions, with which accoutrements, and whether his mother’s going to be involved. He slaps his phone shut, returning it to his corduroy pocket as we cross Ninth Avenue. ‘So,’ he grins, ‘like Italian?’

‘Love it!’

‘Didn’t used to be a decent place to eat around here for miles, then a ton sprouted overnight.’ He holds the door to a little sliver of a restaurant, sleekly decorated with blown-up photographs of pasta against black and white marble. ‘Most didn’t make it, though.’

‘Totally.’ I automatically match his tone of insider skepticism.

We both order the special before Guy crosses his arms on the Carrara tabletop. ‘So, Girl, what’ve you been up to?’

‘Oh, you know, I’ve just been —’

‘Actually, I want an espresso – want one?’

‘Sure.’

‘Waiter!’ He flags him down. ‘Two doubles!’

‘Yeah, I’ve just been
out there
.’ I steady my voice. ‘Trying to find the right environment for the skill set I’ve developed over the last few —’

‘Bread?’

‘Thank you,’ I nod.

‘Yeah, things are massively shitty out there, which is why I think it’s so important that the MC, Inc. family helps the people at the bottom of the food chain, the people who traditionally get fucked when times are hard: women and minorities.’ With that he tears off a hunk of sourdough, drenches it in olive oil, and tosses the whole piece into his mouth. ‘People need resources, information. Or they fall between the cracks. My Company was built on giving women information. You have a problem? You type it in – bam! Information.’ Clumping mascara, the roadblock to civilization.

‘And where does the profit come from?’ I ask, taking a sip of ice water.

He explodes in hard laughter, tears dampening the dark circles under his eyes. ‘You just cut right to it, don’t you, Girl? Great question. You’re always thinking – I like that.’ He takes a long swig of espresso. ‘Advertisers. Plus the magazines pay us a fee to keep their archives current and accessible.’

‘And Rex?’ I ask. That’s me again, ‘thinking’.