Citizen Girl (14 page)

The entirely female crowd arrives in small sackcloth clumps, most in their mid-to-late fifties and all tilting beneath equally aged canvas totes proclaiming their allegiances to literate wildlife facing extinction on public broadcasting. Stationing myself under a large MC, Inc. banner, I direct each attendee to the buffet for coffee and pastries.

‘Sorry.’ Stacey returns red-faced and out of breath. ‘I forgot to give you these. Guy wants everyone who attends to fill one out.’ She pulls a stack of questionnaires from her bag. ‘Bye.’

I glance down the first page, my eyeballs slowly emerging from their sockets.

1. When it comes to undergarments, what kind of woman do you consider yourself?

a) Victoria’s Secret

b) Frederick’s of Hollywood

c) Hanro

d) Maidenform

e) La Perla

2. Of the following companies, which one have you purchased from in the last six months?

a) Victoria’s Secret

b) Frederick’s of Hollywood

c) Hanro

d) Maidenform

e) La Perla

3. Your lingerie makes you—
‘Is Doris Weintruck here yet?’

‘No,’ I say, looking up from the questionnaire I’d rather eat than hand out. ‘She’s not coming.’

‘Yes, she is,’ the woman asserts, blinking at me from beneath her oversized Gorton’s Fisherman hat.

‘No, she isn’t.’ Not invited, not coming. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps there’s something I can help you —’

‘Yes, she is. I spoke to her this morning.’ She plucks her hat off. ‘A conference is just stale bagels in a ballroom without Doris.’

‘The bagels are fresh,’ is all I’m able to manage before walking directly back into the ladies’ room and locking myself inside the handicapped stall. I don’t need this job. I’ll collect cans, move back to Waterbury, join a cult. Anything is better than watching Doris tell Guy I’m a neurotic, immature co-dependant with a space problem.

No. You know what? Fuck her. Fuck her and the horse she rode in on. She’s not running this show. I am. I’m running this show. She’s just a guest. An uninvited guest, at that.

I emerge just as Guy comes striding down the hall, loosening his blue tie and ranting into his cell. And I love him … the ranting, the adjusting himself, the swearing, the clean masculine self-absorption of it all. I point at my watch and then into the conference room. He nods and waves me off. I hold up the forms and shrug questioningly. He turns his back on me. Yup, love him.

Unable to wait any longer, I take the lectern to introduce myself, the women pausing momentarily from
schmearing their fresh bagels. ‘ … And it’s a great pleasure to welcome you today to this gathering —’

‘Christ!’ We all hear Guy from just outside the French doors.

‘Between meeting your program goals and procuring the funding to pay for next year, you’re all working, well, endlessly. You are busy. Too busy —’

‘Rex could give two shits!’

‘It’s rare to have an opportunity to pause,’ I modulate louder over Guy’s ranting, ‘come together, and pool what we’re learning about the needs of those we’re working so relentlessly to support.’

‘Don’t blow hot air up my asshole!’ Guy’s hand pushes the French door open, his voice hammering obscenities into the room, and Doris enters, waving and mouthing, ‘Hello’ to those seated nearby. ‘Sorry to disturb. Please, don’t stop on my account!’ My face beats as the room fluffs up and I’m unable to deny the stamp of legitimacy her attendance carries. She takes a seat by the exit, all the while staring me down, her gaze sending a familiar message:
idiot
. My eyes dart around for a safer place to land, and I find myself speaking to a striking fifty-something woman in a pale gray suit who, uninterested in Doris’s arrival, smiles encouragingly at me.

‘With an eye towards a joint future, My Company is looking forward to providing you with a structured day in which to share your successes, findings, and organizational strategies. A day that will hopefully provide the foundation of a lasting, mutually beneficial relationship. We are confident that you will leave today secure in the
knowledge that My Company is here as a resource for you and your sister organizations.’ Spread the word, ladies. ‘Now I’d like to introduce you to the Chief Executive Officer of My Company.’ I look to where Guy’s Rolexed wrist still grips the open door. The women all follow my gaze, except Doris, who’s fixed on me like a sniper rifle.

‘No … I don’t give a
shit
… No, I’ve been running numbers all week and I’m telling you
for the last time
to stop sending flowers and candy to the fucking fashion magazines. We’ve got to
cut them loose
. Focus every resource on this new account —’

‘Guy,’ I say, my mouth closer to the mike, feedback piercing the room. A satisfied smirk creeps across Doris’s face. OhdearGod, get your ass in here. ‘Guy!’ I aim for perky. ‘You’re up!’

‘Right!’ Trench slung over his arm, he strides to the podium, waving at the unimpressed room like a young Kennedy. Tossing me his coat, he pulls the microphone from its holder. ‘Women, thank you for coming.’ He slides an empty chair out from a nearby table and props a foot on the seat, leaning his elbow down onto his raised knee. ‘It’s such a
thrill
for me to be here for this moment when My Company can begin to give back to those who matter most.’ Taking his time, he shares an impassioned story about his first Gender Studies class at UC Santa Cruz and how it awoke him to the struggles women face. Struggles he had long taken for granted as a ‘privileged male’. ‘It’s an incredible feeling, almost fifteen years later, to be able to devote my professional life to doing something about this unjust inequity.’

He seems about to tear up; I glance around and am surprised by the sea of maternal smiles, with the exception of the striking woman in the pale gray suit, whose eyebrows are knit. Guy clears his throat and stands fully upright, gripping the mike with both hands like a choirboy. ‘I’m enormously proud of many things in my young life, but this moment in which My Company has achieved such success that it’s able to give back to its oppressed clientele – this has to be close to the top. For three years now, MC, Inc. has helped women get their beauty and health questions answered. But
you
help women access information even more tantamount to their survival …’ He glances down at the front page of the conference folder on the lectern. ‘Info on … housing and, uh … childcare, and,’ he stammers, ‘legal and … and civil support.’ He looks back to them. ‘The time is now. Let’s stay connected!’ Everyone claps. ‘And I want to thank Girl here for the incredible work she’s done in preparing this great event.’

Doris rolls her eyes, but she can’t quell the buzz of pride at my first public acknowledgment since they called my name at graduation. The applause dies down as the women turn to speak amongst themselves.

‘Thank you,’ I say to Guy as he steps back from the podium.

‘Have to run. Great. Fantastic work.’ He exchanges the mike for his coat.

I turn it off. ‘Can I just ask you about these questionnaires?’

‘I need them.’

‘Okay, sure. They just seem a little off point—’

‘Girl.’ A cloud of annoyance passes over his face. ‘If I ask you to get’em filled – get’em filled.’

‘Of course.’ My heart speeds from his reproach and I cast my gaze to the mike while I steady myself. ‘Guy, I know we haven’t really had time to review our objectives for this conference, but I’ve structured the day so these women are going to leave speaking positively about My Company, an organization they otherwise wouldn’t have known has a vested interest in their issues. It’s just,’ no way in hell am I asking them about their underwear, ‘that I’d hate to have the group get off track.’

‘Uh-huh, uh-huh, I see.’ He nods at his watch before looking back to my face, which is fighting consternation. ‘Girl.’ He pats my shoulders. ‘You
single-handedly
threw this whole thing together – these forms are a doddle! A doddle!’ He flips his phone open and jogs out of the room.

Inhaling the evaporating confidence fumes left in his wake, I flip the mike back on. ‘Okay, so today we’ll be working in four groups …’ The morning session, devoted to current research and future goals, flies by.

After lunch, during which Doris and I avoid each other, I turn their attention to a session of obstacles and suggested solutions. Group One’s obstacle sparks a lively discussion about a certain city councilman and guerilla tactics for fiscal triumph. Group Two focuses on union relations and is offering imaginative strategies when a pruny child-sized hand shoots up.

‘Parking permits,’ Doris interjects, apropos of nothing. ‘I don’t think we’ve addressed that issue yet, Girl.’

The room curdles with tension.

‘Thank you!’ I say, ‘I think we’re trying to stay with the macro, but great work, Group Two! Which group’d like to go next?’ I glance hopefully at my silent audience, sitting stone-faced amid layers of marked-up poster paper. ‘Okay, I’ll pick somebody! How about Group Four, what’s your obstacle?’

‘Since you brought it up,
Doris
, I’m just going to say how I feel.’ Group Four’s elected speaker, Maxine, stands with her hands clenched in tight fists, her yin-yang earnings swaying menacingly below her small face. ‘When
some people
clamor for parking permits, and then
get
them,
they
should be prepared to give up a few of their
other
city perks to
those
of us who might really need them. Instead,
some people
use those parking permits to take staff to a certain social activity on Staten Island —’

‘Those parking permits are
sanctioned
for social activities!’ Another woman pops up like a demented prairie dog. ‘I suppose you prefer we twiddle our thumbs on the ferry!’

‘I don’t give a fig where you’re twiddling your thumbs!
We’re
not having parties on Staten Island or Roosevelt Island or any other island because
we’re working
!’ Maxine shouts, the room congealing into divisive resentment.

‘Oh-kay, we’re getting a little off track,’ I intercede shakily.

Prairie Dog is red-faced with rage. ‘That space was donated!’

I yell to be heard over the rumble of erupting hostility,

‘
I think we’re losing sight of the incredible work you all do to just keep women, um, alive
—’

A third woman jumps to her feet beside Prairie Dog, spittle spraying from her mouth. ‘If SOME people would be more proactive in their fiscal planning, they wouldn’t have to ask OTHERpeople for their parking permits when those OTHERpeople have to go all the way to Staten Island on a
Tuesday night
when it’s
below
freezing and those people still have to get
their
children from daycare in
Queens
and those people will begrudge me
A SINGLE GODDAMN PARKING PERMIT!!!
’

It’s a face-off, the women eyeing each other, panting like patients in a psych ward. The room pulses with misplaced emotion as those still seated rock slightly in their chairs, frozen in collective trauma.

‘
I … Hate … You
,’ Maxine hisses through clenched teeth.

Doris pulls her worn NARAL tote onto her shoulder, salutes me triumphantly, and slips out unwitnessed.

‘If I could borrow your attention!’ The woman in the pale gray suit steps to the center, making sweeping eye contact as she speaks. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Julia Gilman of the Magdalene Agency, which aids victims of international human trafficking. And the remaining time spent together will determine whether this day we’ve all taken from our programs was a productive one or a complete waste of time that none of us has to spare.’ Julia clasps her hands at her slender waist, and smiles calmly. ‘If I may?’

I nod as those standing reseat themselves to look on
with curiosity. Julia walks gracefully through the chairs to the front of the room, grabs a Sharpie, and scrawls on a fresh piece of poster board, ‘In the next three years, we would like to unite with My Company to bring information on —— to our target population.’ There’s a grudging silence. She turns to me. ‘Is this all right?’

‘Of course!’ She steps back, allowing me to once more hold the floor. I take a breath. ‘So, let’s each spend the next eight minutes generating as many ideas as we can. Go!’ Ohpleaseohpleaseohplease. To my amazement, the rage dribbles away as the women drop their heads and begin to scribble as instructed. Within a few moments, everyone is fully absorbed in the task.

Having survived the long day, I slide towering boxes of materials back onto my desk, rolls of poster papers tumbling onto the floor with fifty unanswered lingerie questionnaires. In the soporific darkness, illuminated only by the red glow of the peripheral exit signs and a dim light spilling through Guy’s glass walls, I step out of my heels and pull a Post-it off my monitor. ‘Bring me the forms.’

Shit.

I look up at the large Nelson ball clock. Eight thirty-three. I’ve
got
to get home; the move begins tomorrow at the ass crack of dawn and not a single thing is packed. Not a single solitary thing. Before Guy can spot me I duck, grab my shoes and materials, and sneak through the maze of desk clusters to the ladies’ room, my time-honored clandestine workspace. Only now I get to flick
on a row of recessed halogen lights, drop my boxes on an immaculate sea-glass floor, and spread out my workstation beneath a row of polished stainless-steel sinks. Rummaging through the boxes for as many different kinds of pens as I can find, here goes …

4. What item do you buy most frequently?

a) panties

b) bras

c) nighties

d) tedd—

The door to the men’s room opens on the other side of the wall. I freeze.