Citizen Girl (2 page)

‘Girl! GGIRRRRRLLLLLLL!’ Doris screams me back to reality from her office down the hall. ‘GGIRRRRRLLLLLLL!’ She fills the doorframe of the overheated janitorial closet, retitled the Speak-out Room. ‘What did you do with that number?!’

‘Sorry, which number?’ I bookmark the pile I’m collating with my hand.

‘That number … for the woman … from that program –
you
know!’ Doris takes it upon herself to shift my piles to search for the number. Which I logically would have buried beneath three hundred reams of paper. I dive
to save the lilac from toppling into the powder blue, but it’s too late. ‘Come on, come look by your desk. I know you kept it.’ I swipe my coat before she jerks me down the long row of cubicles and back to the hot-flash provoked arctic sector of the office.

‘I’m sure we’ll find it,’ I say, my breath hovering in little frosted cloudbursts as Doris stretches out my sleeve. ‘If you could just tell me which program she was—’

‘Well, if I remembered that, then I wouldn’t have to disturb you from your origami. I gave it to you this morning. Here, look around your area.’ She points at the child-size school desk that’s been allotted for my full and luxurious use. The very same desk on which I’ve had to store six hundred copies of fifty-three handouts because Odetta, the office manager, ‘just plain can’t stomach people leaving all their junk’ in the Speak-out Room overnight. Reaching for the binder in which I’ve learned to keep a detailed log of every single phone message, I flip to today’s date and run my finger down the list.

‘Um, are you sure it was this morning?’ I gingerly detach Doris’s clam-grip from my now distended, coffee-stained coat. ‘Because I don’t—’

‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’ She drops to her knees and shoves herself between my legs to root through the garbage can. ‘If you would just keep things a little more orderly out here, Girl.’

‘Right. It’s just that with all these conference materials – maybe it might be more efficient if,
maybe
, we could store them in the clos— Speak-out Room. And I’m glad you grabbed me because I’m really eager to get your
feedback on my presentation.’ I flip through yesterday’s phone log. ‘Do you mean Shelly from the Oregon YWCA?’

She jumps up, knocking over the full can. ‘Yes! Yes, that’s her. See,
I-told-you
,’ she singsongs.

‘Um, she actually called yesterday and I left the message right …’ I walk into her office. ‘Here.’ I pull the Post-it off her computer screen and hand it to her as she shuffles in after me.

‘Humph.’ Doris takes it with a slight blush.

‘Super! So, have you had a chance to review my presentation?’

‘Girl,’ she says sternly, ‘that’s a premature conversation. I feel there’s another issue you need to address first.’ She points with her nose to the sagging chair across from her and my stomach sinks. ‘Go ahead, have a seat,’ she instructs firmly.

I detest this office; it has no windows and is covered with crumbling collages made by Doris’s
Step Up and Speak Out!
adolescents of yore. I always end up eye level with the cut-out of a woman carrying a big floppy hat from a Summer’s Eve douche box circa 1979 pasted beside yellowed advertising copy that proclaims, ‘
Sisters are doing it for themselves!
’ But even that is less cringe-inducing than the framed
Ms.
cover of Doris bleating into a megaphone.

‘Girl,’ she says, ‘I want to share with you that I’m really quite troubled by something that I think would be a disservice not to bring to your attention.’

‘Oh?’

‘You seem to be abnormally preoccupied with space.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Space. Having it. Needing it. Wanting it. You talk about it all the time. I’ve told you on several occasions that we’re operating with a commune perception here at the Center. I believe we’ve discussed,
ad nauseam
, that you need to make peace with your allotted area.’

‘I’m, um, fine with my desk. It’s just that these conference packets had only ten handouts for two hundred participants a week and a half ago. And I’m working with a lot more paper now, so—’

‘See, Girl, I think it’s pretty unhealthy that you choose to deflect responsibility for your own inadequacies right back onto me.’

‘Sorry?’

Doris leans in and places her hands on my knees. The Summer’s Eve woman does a slow hula behind her as I lose air. ‘I want you to work on this. Maybe work on it in your own life. This is a sign of further – deeper – issues, I feel, for you. It’s really why I don’t like working with you young twenty-somethings – you’re all just so …’ She tilts her face to stare intensely at me over her bifocals. Instinctively I mirror her, leaning forward. We slowly continue to move in towards each other while I await my sentence. ‘Needy,’ she finally pronounces before nearly planting her face in my lap. She leans behind me to retrieve a stack of crumbling leaflets, momentarily suffocating me with her cleavage. ‘These should be added to the packets. I’m thinking fuchsia, lime green, and orange.’

I stand up.

‘Wait, Girl – not the light orange. I want the bright one.’

‘Okay! Sure.’

‘No, no, maybe the pale orange is better. Make copies of both and bring them in for me to decide.’

I glance down at the first thirty-year-old leaflet. ‘This one might be too old to Xerox. It’s almost illegible—’

‘Yes? And?’ Doris smiles at my idiocy. ‘So, you’ll need to retype it. Come on, Girl.’

I check the rusted school clock above her shoulder. ‘I think I mentioned this yesterday, but all these materials have to be in the mail by Monday. It’s just that the copy machine has been kind of temperamental. So if, maybe, we could, you know, not add too many more – because so far I’ve only been able to make fifty out of the six hundred and twenty-two—’

‘Six hundred and
thirty-four
! I just got a group from Des Moines!’ Doris claps her hands like an excited child.

I dig my fingernails into my palms and don’t roll my eyes. ‘So the six hundred and thirty-four packets—’

‘Well, Girl, the point is the content. We aren’t going to tailor a national conference around your social life now, are we? I’m not going to call the funders in Washington and tell them we can’t do it just because you can’t put a few more papers into a folder or two.’ OR S IX HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FOUR! She smiles coyly. ‘I think you had best plan to be here over the weekend if you’re managing your time that poorly.’

The phone rings and I wait to remind her again about my presentation. Smiling out into space, she lifts the
receiver to her ear. ‘This is Doris!’ she chimes. ‘Hello, Jean. Before I answer your questions, are we getting Sunday coverage, or not? Uh-huh, uh-huh. Well, I appreciate your challenge, Jean, I do, but if you set this as a goal for yourself – engaging with your editor is a growth opportunity for you, as you reframe for him that this year’s conference is going to be an
unprecedented
gathering … Oh, now, don’t take me the wrong way, I’m only saying that when we silence ourselves, Jean, we suffer. And I know you know this. As I was saying, an unprecedented gathering of the pre-eminent thinkers in the field of teenage-oriented public policy and community outreach … I
may
have said that last year, I can’t recall … No, I don’t think my “brand” of feminism is outdated … Well, of course I’m participating. Why would you even ask that? … A different angle? What kind of angle? …
Where are they now?!
I’m right here!… You’re questioning my
relevance?
That’s an idiotic paradigm and a right-wing distraction tactic and I won’t participate in it.’

Doris drops the phone and turns to me, her dimpled hands splaying across her hemp-swaddled belly. ‘Silenced, Girl. We’re being silenced.’ She glazes over as she fingers her trade beads. ‘All my hard work getting this summit funded for the
back page
.’

‘Maybe this isn’t really suited to the
Times
. Why don’t we reach out to
Mother Jones
, the
Atlantic?
Or if you want local coverage, I can call the
Voice
—’

‘Light orange. Definitely.’ She waves me brusquely from the room.

*

‘I’ve brought you re-in-force-ments!’ Doris singsongs the next morning from the hallway outside the Speak-out Room where I’m surrounded by piles of copies and boxes.

She sashays in wearing her black corduroy culottes and vest, looking every bit the Peace Corps elf.

‘Great!’ I reach for enthusiasm, praying she’s pulled in a few of the other beleaguered yet able-bodied assistants.

‘Yes, our very own office manager has graciously volunteered to come to your rescue.’

Wheezing, Odetta squeezes in around the far side of the table to join me, her polyester pants still stuffed into the tops of her snow boots. ‘She’s not leaving this stuff in here overnight, is she?’ she inquires suspiciously as she heaves her girth up onto a stool. ‘I can’t stomach that.’

‘Oh, no,’ I quickly reassure her. ‘I have a desk, my own desk, and it’s all the space I need. I put all of this back in my area every evening. Because it’s mine, my space, and I love it.’

Doris rolls her eyes at Odetta.

‘So what am I doing here?’ Odetta asks her as she hasn’t addressed me directly since I dared speak ill of the fax machine’s penchant for not faxing.

‘Start here,’ Doris instructs her with complete authority, while rearranging everything I’ve already arranged.

‘Actually, Odetta,’ I finally interrupt after Doris has made a collating order that requires nine circuits of the table to fill a single folder, ‘maybe you could put the name stickers on. That would be super-helpful!’

‘All right, boss!’ Doris salutes me and my fingernails find their way back into my palms.

Odetta then proceeds to laboriously center each sticker before applying it.

‘Why is this orange?’ Doris thrusts a paper at me as I squeeze past her.

‘That’s the color you wanted.’

‘Well, it’s all wrong for this topic. Orange for menstruation? How about magenta? Odetta, what do you think?’

‘You’re the one who knows colors, Doris,’ Odetta coos.

Doris checks her Swatch. ‘Now, I have to run to a meeting in Brooklyn. I’ll be back after lunch. Be nice to Odetta and don’t work her too hard – she’s doing you a favor.’ She hustles out of the closet and Odetta sends me a look that lets me know she’s not putting up with any of my funny business.

‘Thank you so much for helping out with this!’ I beam, eager to boost her sticker per hour ratio. ‘The fax machine has been working
like a dream
lately. You really have a way with it. And I hear your plans for the Self-Esteem bake sale are going really well!’ I collate around her immobile frame. ‘I’m so sorry I’m going to miss it – I’m presenting at the conference that day—’

‘Nope. You’re working the table from nine to noon.’
No. I’m not
. Before I can correct her, Odetta’s cell rings and she pulls it from her stretched elastic waistband. ‘Thought you hung up on me … Well, you should carry more change. I was saying that I just don’t feel like you’ve been there for me lately. You didn’t call me on Christmas. Or New Years. Hold on,’ she says, acknowledging my waving hands.

‘Sorry, but I’m going to be in Toledo,’ I tell her. ‘I’m presenting this year.’

Odetta shakes me off. ‘When my sister had that Pap smear, I spent lots of time thinking about what’s important in my life, and I have my husband, my cats, and us. You and me. I felt like I couldn’t count on you at all this week—’ I tap her hulking shoulder. ‘Don’t touch me!’ She puts her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Yes, you
are
working the table. Doris signed you up yesterday.’

‘Yesterday?!’
No! Nonono!
With rising panic, I accelerate my collating, squeezing quickly past her mammoth butt with each orbit of the table. Odetta shrinks from the contact.

‘When the cat’s feet are acting up it makes my rash come back. I’ve been awake every night itching and taking oatmeal baths. Well, I should be able to call you when I get to work and if you aren’t there – I’m not saying you don’t have things to do … no, I’m not saying that. I said I’m not saying that. If you’ll listen … I’m saying that I had to take the cat …’

The radiator clanks aggressively, Odetta’s motionless hand leaving a sweaty smear of ink on the forgotten folder, rendering it, and her, useless.

Trudging back from lunch, I unbutton my coat, prepared to do battle. My heart stops as I round the corner to find that my desk has been pillaged. ‘Shitshitshit.’ Every single thing has been moved: files are gone, piles have been rifled, my carefully constructed packing lists for the conference materials are nowhere to be found, and the binder
with my notes on who’s available to sub for me at the bake sale has gone missing. I start to see spots.

‘Um,’ I call out in greeting as I stumble to Doris’s office, ‘I think my desk has been—’

‘Cleaned. Yes, it was a disaster. I don’t know how you were getting a single thing done out there. You’ve been whining about help, so I took it upon myself to make some order. You’re welcome.’ Doris has my binder open on her desk, which is in its usual state of disarray. ‘I really don’t know why you keep all these messages, Girl. It’s a little neurotic. “Not a baking enabler.”’ She snorts and tosses the binder back to me. ‘What does that even mean?’

I consciously close my open jaw. ‘Right, I wanted to ask you. There seems to be some confusion with Odetta. She’s under the impression that I’m working the bake sale while we’re at the conference.’

Doris just looks at me.

‘So am I?’

‘What?’

‘Working?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘Right, no. I meant the bake sale.’

‘Yes.’

‘But that’s the day I’m supposed to be presenting—’

‘Your behavior hasn’t indicated that you’re ready to present. If you can’t manage the assembly of a few packets …’ She shrugs, helpless against my incompetence. ‘Besides, you never gave me a draft of your presentation and we leave in two days. Did you see my note?’ She reaches for the phone.