Citizen Girl (18 page)

Stacey looks up distractedly as she pulls off her headset, dislodging her top knot. Her eyes focus in on me. ‘Can’t. Guy needs me – last-minute accounting meeting.’ She nods at his crowded office before her fingers return to the keyboard.

‘You’re kidding.’ I drop the bags on the cement floor, papers sloping out onto my feet. ‘You’re my Neutral Facilitator.’

‘Guy’s orders.’

‘But there are supposed to be “s
at least
two Neutral Facilitators in the room for every fifteen participants”—’ I pedantically repeat Rule Twelve from
Focus Groups for Dummies
.

‘Girl,’ she cuts me off with exasperation.

‘Sorry.’ I’ve become the passenger complaining about turbulence to the flight attendant. ‘Okay, I understand.’ I quickly regroup. ‘Then I just need the cash for the participants.’

‘Accounting said all cash requests now have to go through Guy.’

‘Stace.’ Guy sticks his head out the door, a clover-leaf tie, dangling his piece of St Patrick’s Day flair. ‘How’bout a round of water?’

‘Guy, hey!’ I flag him as she rushes off. ‘I need the six hundred for the focus group.’

‘Get it from Stacey.’

‘She said accounting needs your sign-off.’

He turtles into his office to snap his fingers at the accountant sitting over the Book-of-Kells-sized checkbook. ‘Here.’ He steps back through the door with a check made out to cash, adding a bank visit to my tightly planned itinerary.

‘Thanks. Guy, who can you spare to help me run this focus group—’

‘Gyirl! Gyirl!’ We both turn as Moldova arrives for the cleaning job I finally finagled with Angel, wearing a skimpy crocheted sweater over her rather large breasts and Spandex jeans over her rather small hips.

‘Moldova, hi! Guy, this is the young lady I’ve been telling you about.’

‘Nice.’ He circles around Stacey’s desk, hand extended. ‘How’s it going?’ he asks.

She flashes a pretty smile, barely marred by Eastern European dental hygiene, while I check the clock to gauge what kind of teller line I’ll be facing. ‘Did Angel get everything set up for you?’ I ask.

‘I nyeed to talk the job,’ she says forcefully to me, still holding Guy’s hand and gaze.

‘Sure. I’m just leaving, so why don’t you walk me out?’ I angle around them in the direction of the door.

She twists to face me. ‘I want work with you. I no clean.’

‘I’m so sorry, Moldova.’ I adjust my grip on the bags.

‘The cleaning position is really all that’s available at the moment—’

‘Yeah, no, that’s great,’ Guy interrupts, ‘Girl, take her. I think it’s perfect. Opportunity, that’s what America’s all about!’ With a last eyeful of the opportunities in Moldova’s sweater, he drops her small hand and turns back to his office.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful! Moldova, if you wouldn’t mind waiting for me by the exit,’ I say, ‘I’ll be right there.’

‘Thank you! You are very nice man,’ she calls over her shoulder to Guy as she sashays off.

‘Guy, thank you
so much
for giving her a chance,’ I say as Stacey hands him a stack of messages and steps past us into his office with a tray of glasses. ‘She can help me today and then I promise I’ll train her – she’ll make a great receptionist.’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, there.’ He flips through the pink squares, tossing the majority in the trash. ‘Just for today. I’m not paying your salary
and
some Russian hooker’s.’

‘The Balkans, actually. And she’s not—’ Forget it.

As I approach the reception area, Moldova leaps from the bench, reaching to take the bags off my hands. ‘Thank you, Moldova, I
really
appreciate it.’

She looks at me squarely, one overly plucked eyebrow arched. ‘See, I no clean.’

Moments later I’m leading the way against the early rush hour tide to the bank. Moldova keeps a brisk pace as I hustle to follow. Despite being half a foot shorter, she
dangles two of the straining bags as if they were empty lunch boxes. When we finally cash the check and are able to flag a cab, I use our ride to NYU to explain the finer points of focus groups as I’ve gleaned them.

‘One of us needs to be taking notes and analyzing the information as it comes in, so it would be helpful if you could ask the questions. You can read them right off the sheet.’ She nods. I tentatively follow up, ‘Can you read English?’

‘I have the Zen book, with the motorcycle. Back home American soldier customer gave it me. I learn.’

‘That’s wonderful. That you learned it, I mean. So, right, just read the questions and stay neutral.’ I peer through tightly locked traffic in search of a building number.

‘What
neutral
?’ she asks, bumping me sharply with her elbow as she reties what I recognize as Julia’s camelhair coat, the fabric bulking up around her diminutive shoulders.

‘Um, no opinion. Like, Switzerland. Uninvolved. Not …’ I gesticulate wildly to demonstrate being partial, then flat-line my hands to show neutral, my gaze locking in on a young blond with Buster’s build standing beneath a streetlamp, gracefully balancing his vertical skateboard with his fingertips as he flirts with a woman on Roller-blades. Suddenly he does a sharp three-sixty around her and zooms off, leaving her mid-sentence. The cab lurches onwards and I replay Buster’s awkward departure. I’d replay his phone messages, but I can’t. Because there aren’t any. Which, combined with the fireman’s exit and
the lunch-no-drinks volley sends a clearer message, in the dots and dashes of the Boy Telegraph:
only available for sex – full stop
.

The flood-lit Washington Square Arch glows above the bare tree-tops as we arrive at the Silver Center for Humanities to find the classroom mercifully filling. Moldova, looking much like the incoming students with her pierced belly button and dark roots, flops down at a desk to read over the question sheet. She stares intently at her list, chapped lips moving, while I set the materials on the front table. With every swing of the door the classroom looks more and more like a radio contest at the mall; at six in the evening, almost every student seems to have devoted the entire day to getting ready: there’s the cowgirl, the pimp, the hip-hop star, more than a few Britneys, and a solitary Cher. And nary a backpack or sneaker to be seen among the leather, pleather, feathers and fur, all arranged to most flatter the obvious implants and an impressive array of God’s own nipples. Moldova stares slack-jawed, ogling those who’ve opted to do Allure’s four-step smoky eyes instead of last night’s assignments. The only exception is, like everything else about this crowd, extreme. A cluster of women who look like they’ve just escaped from basic training take seats at the front, turning their scrubbed faces and bald heads in my direction. And just as I’m testing MC, Inc.’s tape recorder, the proudly token male arrives in a black body suit, his skin powdered a clownish white, and irises hidden beneath one red and one cataract-milky contact. Marilyn Manson, completing the tableau, bounds up the stairs,
past rolling eyes, to the seat that requires stepping over the maximum number of female classmates.

Collecting my notes, I approach the lectern. ‘Thank you all so much for coming tonight. Before we begin, I just need to confirm that you are all Gender Studies majors. Can I see a show of hands?’ Everyone. ‘Excellent. As you know from the flier, tonight we’re going to be discussing contemporary feminism and My Company—’

‘To help the beauty site?’ A woman with sparkling peach eyes seeks confirmation, as the other painted faces light up with interest.

‘Technically? … Yes.’

‘Cool.’ They nod approvingly, while the scrubbed-face, shaved-headed cluster in front sighs and heaves out copies of
Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter
.

One woman holds the book in the air.

‘Yes?’ I acknowledge her query.

‘Just to check, you said on the fliers “users” of the site. We haven’t
used
it.’ She gestures to her friends, who nod emphatically. ‘Our professor showed it in our How the Media is Fucking Women Up class. Do we still get paid?’

‘Absolutely. We’re looking to attract a new kind of user, basically you, Gender Studies majors and
Ms. Magazine
readers.’ There is a marked shift; the midriff majority of the room exchange looks with each other, some crossing their arms over their wrap sweaters. The scrubbed, whom I’d lost a moment earlier, stick Simone de Beauvoir back into their messenger bags and return their attention to me. ‘First we’re going to have a brief discussion and then
I’m going to ask you to fill out these short questionnaires. Sound good?’ They all bob their heads. ‘Great. Now I’d like to introduce my colleague, Moldova. She’ll be asking you a few questions, while I collect data. Moldova, whenever you’re ready.’

‘Okay-dokay.’ She approaches the lectern, clears her throat, and peers down at the paper gripped in both hands. ‘What is the num … ber-one issue you have as a woman?’

In the brief pause, I try to guess if they’ll kick off with equal pay or choice. A student wearing a Playboy necklace over a Playboy tee shirt, cut just low enough to reveal the Playboy tattoo, jumps in, ‘Sexual freedom.’

‘Sexy freedom?’ Moldova echoes.

‘The right to have sex with whoever I want, whenever I want, however I want, without being judged by society and, you know, my roommate,’ she expounds, her tongue piercing catching the overhead fluorescents.

‘That freedom?’ Moldova’s hand lands on her jutting hip.

‘Moldova?’ I lift a finger and wave it at her discouragingly.

‘Americans chain women to bed!’ she blatantly overrides me.

‘For her own pleasure,’ Marilyn Manson asserts.

‘You chain them for
you
!’ she glowers.

‘Dude, I refuse to be pigeonholed by your hate.’ He tosses his black-lacquered nails at his indifferent classmates. ‘As usual, no one here is paying consideration to the ugly truth that Gender Studies only studies
one
gender.
I’m charged the
same
tuition as everyone else and
no
space is given to the pain of the American male—’

‘Oh, that is
it
!’ declares a slight blonde in the front, hauling an enormous monogrammed tote over her shoulder, from which a pair of tap shoes is dangling. ‘Eight semesters! Eight!’ She throws her hands up, the weight of the bag pulling her backwards. ‘You’ve followed me from class to class chattering on and on about
male
oppression and
male
bashing, monopolizing the whole discussion – you just talk and talk and
talk
. Listen, Jason, when you make eighty cents on the dollar, get thrown into a rape camp, or pass a baby out your ass, I will convene a special class just for
your
pain!’ There is a round of scattered applause as she crosses towards the exit, the traverse requiring a few beats longer than her dramatic moment warranted.

‘See?’ Jason/Manson implores as the door shuts behind her. ‘See what I have to endure? Hypocrites and sexists and they don’t even know it.’ All eyes roll to the asbestos tiles.

‘Okay, thank you for sharing. Moving on,’ I encourage Moldova.

‘Okay-dokay, I have question.’ She flicks her fried blonde hair. ‘Why Americans so fat?’

‘Moldova?’ I interrupt. ‘Neutral, remember?’ I do my crazy arm dance, then level it into a smooth, gliding motion. ‘Just ask the questions.’

‘It
my
question.’ She glares at me. ‘What cur … rent wo … men’s is … sues do you want more in … for … ma … tion about?’

‘Abortion legislation,’ a scrubbed-face young woman in the front says forcefully.

A student in Hello Kitty pigtails rolls her eyes. ‘Puhlease. I can’t read another thing on abortion.’

‘Well, I support abortion,’ Jason/Manson pipes up. ‘I bet that surprises you.’

Moldova shrugs. ‘Of course you want kill baby after you fuck girl with the chains.’

‘The questions, Moldova,’ I say through clenched teeth.

Hello Kitty braves on, ‘But I totally want more info on birth control in general, like, the pill, and lubes and toys and stuff—’

‘Oh! Oh!’ Jason/Manson splutters. ‘She wants toys, but I can’t tie anyone up?’

‘You, shove it,’ Moldova scoffs.

‘No, you shove it,’ he growls back, his black hair falling in his face. ‘You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!’

Moldova throws her shoulders back. ‘I know the fat American men in the brothel.’

It takes only a moment for everyone to process the implications of her knowledge before a Juicy-fied J-Lo hopeful nods her head in approval. ‘Okay, so, see? You were workin’ it. Ain’t no shame in that game.’

‘I’m Chrissie and I think it’s awesome,’ adds a tentative voice from beneath a feathered fedora, incongruously working the pimp look. ‘I just saw this really hard-hitting documentary about Nevada’s Moonlight Bunny Ranch on HBO and it’s just so cool that these women are so in
touch with their value. They love having sex and they love getting paid for what they love and—’

‘Yeah,’ another student pipes in, as I step back to the blackboard to record their insights, struggling to maintain my own neutrality. ‘They make
so much
money bucking the societal constraints that say we should feel shame.’

‘Much money?’ Moldova asks.

‘Hell yeah. Six-figure salaries, all of them. Man, you might as well get paid for it.’

‘They all seemed so happy,’ sums up Chrissie. Practically every woman in the room is nodding along, elaborate dos cocked to the side, as if reminiscing about the finale of
Friends
.

The hold-outs are the scrubbed-faced cluster in front, who clench and unclench their fists. ‘Yeah, I think you should look into it, Chrissie,’ one spits. ‘You’d make a great whore.’

Moldova, her face knotted in confusion, steps from the podium and points at Chrissie. ‘Who happy?’

‘It was on HBO,’ Chrissie shrugs.

‘I go house on the long island,’ Moldova challenges her cable-fed congregation. ‘You take papers. And then chains.’ She pulls her cardigan sleeves up to reveal her scarred wrists. Her face impassive, she shakes off my hand. ‘And fat American men make the fuck.’ A few people stare intensely down at their platform sandals as the sound of traffic seeps in through the auditorium walls.