Citizen Girl (39 page)

Authors: Emma McLaughlin

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary

BOOK: Citizen Girl

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‘
I
don’t want to be unemployed.’ He stands in the tight space between the bed and the closet.

My face stings. ‘Buster, this isn’t me freaking out about wearing a suit – those women are supposed to be getting raped—’

‘Raped?’ He shakes his head in frustration, droplets splattering me. ‘Your perspective on porn is so fucked up. It’s so easy for you to judge everything!’

‘No.’ I step back from him. ‘What’s
easy
is sticking money in her G-string right along with you and pretending it’s just one big happy, sexy economy for us both to earn an honest dollar in.’

‘I’m so tired of this shit.’ He rubs his face. ‘I’ve never had to work this hard for anybody.’

‘You’re tired?! This is the third conversation I’ve had about this in as many hours. Buster, you asked me to give you the chance not to be “that boy”. Well, this, right here –’ I circle my palms in the space between us – ‘is growing. And it’s messy and complex and confusing. And you’re either up for it or you aren’t.’

‘I want that,’ he says quietly.

‘But are you up for it? I can’t keep getting stuck here from fear of exhausting you.’ My eyes catch the bedside clock, a plan forming. ‘I’m going to the airport.’ I walk to the door, dropping keys and Jack’s clipping in my purse.

‘When will you be back?’ He leans against the bedroom door frame.

‘I don’t know.’ I slide on my sandals.

‘Look, if you need to quit this job—’

‘Buster,’ I cut him off.

His eyes meet mine as I open the door. ‘I think I’m up for it.’

‘I only have room for sure.’

Kira rests her head on my shoulder as we stare out at the row houses along the Grand Central Concourse inching by. Squeezed between her swollen rucksack and a wood fertility statue wrapped in a week’s worth of newspaper, I hold her hand, African dirt still under her nails. ‘You must be in serious culture shock.’

‘My six-hour layover gave me some time to acclimate, but, yeah,’ she sighs, ‘I am.’

I touch the sliver tear in her jeans just above the knee, exposing the scar beneath. ‘War wounds?’

‘Shovel injury.’ She pats my Gucci bag. ‘Remunerations?’

‘That, and this.’ I pull out my bonus check.

‘Whew,’ she whistles.

‘Seed money,’ I say thoughtfully, stuffing it back in my wallet.

She pokes me in the shoulder. ‘You could start
your own
porn site. Actually kill the women.’

‘Genius – have you considered business school?’

‘G, I can’t even dig a hole.’ The cab lurches forward, finding an opening, and we speed all of forty feet before stalling once more behind a Trailways bus. ‘Is that what you’re going to do?’ she asks, her lids drifting shut. ‘Start your own thing?’

‘Don’t know yet. I can’t even free one woman from white slavery. Hey, is there a short cut?’ I call up through the scratched plastic to the driver.

‘Nah, lady. Just sit tight. Holiday traffic.’ We’re quiet as we inch onto the ramp for the Triboro bridge in stops and starts.

‘G?’ Her voice thickens with tears. ‘Is it going to keep being this hard?’

‘Oh God, no, no,’ I rush to comfort her. ‘Well, maybe, yeah.’ I pull her into me. ‘And then it won’t be,’ I say into her hair. ‘At least, that’s what I’ve heard.’

‘From who? Your fairy role model?’

‘Yeah,’ I laugh. ‘Didn’t you get one?’

‘Hold on, ladies.’ And all at once the traffic breaks open and we’re flying into the Manhattan skyline, the wheels thudding rhythmically over the bridge joints, as
the Citicorp and Chrysler buildings come into view, the distinctive toothed silhouette of our little island home.

‘I’m gonna close my eyes.’ Kira nestles against her rucksack, fully succumbing to jetlag. The cab abruptly changes lanes, tipping me into the statue as my Palm Pilot thuds to the floor. I reach down to retrieve it, struck by the satisfying image of it tumbling, end over silvery end, into the East River.

I lower the window. The warm salt air whips the hair off our faces, bringing with it the promise of summer and more flights landing, more compatriots returning, the city once again infused with amity and opportunity, because we’re only twenty-four, for fuck’s sake.

I tuck my Palm safely back in my purse, one souvenir housing another. Suddenly the dark sky is ablaze with Memorial Day fireworks, a glorious burst of pyrotechnics shimmering over the water, making a blurred rainbow as we barrel over the patched tar.

I nudge Kira awake.

‘Look.’

She grins, the lanes clear before us as we accelerate.

*
. Some of the above history of
Ms. Magazine
is quoted from
www.msmagazine.com
Copyright Ms. Magazine 2002–2005.

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