Citizen Girl (4 page)

‘You’re up.’ I stick the phone out at him.

‘Yeah, uh-huh … yeah, Mom,
I know
. I will … Yes, a list. Heard you at the train station … Yeah, you, too.’ He hits the off button and drops the phone beside him on the futon.

‘Oy,’ I mutter, my mouth full of muffin.

‘When was the last time you changed these sheets?’ he asks, distastefully lifting the duvet.

‘You were eleven. Want one?’ I hold out the rapidly dwindling stash.

‘If I have another muffin I’ll puke. Got any more Mallomars?’

I motion him to scoot over as I pass him a fresh yellow package. We sit and munch, glancing about at my living room-cum-bedroom-cum-kitchen-cum-shower, the two hundred square feet that, in a previous incarnation, was my neighbor/landlord’s closet. Jack reclines, his baseball cap tilting up as he takes in the peeling paint, tattered ceiling, crumbling exposed brick, and duct tape that blocks the draft. ‘You’re
totally
killing every desire I have to live in the city.’

‘If it’s any consolation –’ I reach for another muffin – ‘I’m killing my own, too.’

‘Ever consider working
for
profit?’ he asks.

‘Every day, asshole, every day.’

‘Language. So what’d Grace say?’ he asks, licking chocolate off his fingers.

‘She wants me to start my own organization.’

‘She wants me to start my own soccer league,’ he shrugs, passing back the package as he jumps off the bed. ‘She suggest a nonviolent coup?’

I smile, happy to be talking to someone who isn’t a beleaguered receptionist. ‘This is nice.’ I tap the brim of his cap. ‘Ooh, I think I have a packet of popcorn left.’

Jack looks at his watch. ‘Nope – no time.’ He claps his hands. ‘Hit the shower. We’re goin’ out.’

‘Out?
Out
out?’ I stuff the remainder of the muffin in my mouth.

‘Just get up.’ He tugs the duvet off and proceeds to strip the cloud-patterned flannels from the futon with me still on them.

I grab the remaining corner of the fitted sheet by its elastic. ‘Jack—’

‘G, I am the emissary. I have the power of Grace behind me.’ He yanks the cotton from my grip. ‘You’ll feel better when you’re clean,’ he adds, unconsciously mimicking her.

‘No, actually,’ I ball up the sheets he’s tossed to the floor, ‘I’ll feel better when I’m employed.’

‘
I’ll
feel better when you’ve brushed your teeth.’

Dumping the bedding in the hamper, I attach the hose to the kitchen sink faucet, turn on the hot water, and pull the step stool over. ‘You know the drill.’ Jack turns away and tugs his Cubs brim low as I clamber gingerly into the old porcelain sink, toss my bathrobe, and pull the eyelet
shower curtain closed. ‘So, did Grace give you a budget for this rescue effort? ’Cause I’m in the mood for Chinese.’

‘We’re going to a Job Fair,’ he calls from the other side of the plastic.

‘What! No – not tonight. Come on, let’s eat Chinese and watch
Schindler’s List
.’ I stare at the plastic, hoping for an answer. ‘Jack, I got six rejection letters this morning. Six. What do they do in person? Spit on you? I don’t know if I can.’ I lather my hair. ‘So, it’s what … like in a gymnasium? With tables? … What kind of jobs? … Jack?’ I stick my sudsy head out to see him flipping disdainfully through my CDs.

He holds up the
Chicago
soundtrack and rolls his eyes.

‘
Hello?
What kind of jobs?’

He waves a torn announcement from the newspaper circled in the familiar red ink. ‘We just have to go. It’s a job thing. You need a job. I need a weekend, so let’s get on with it. We have to make a list.’

‘Of what?’ A rivulet of shampoo drips into my eyes and I pull my head back under the water. ‘Why?’

‘Grace,’ he answers definitively. I blow a raspberry to the chipped paint. ‘One: find job,’ he prompts. I offer him my middle finger through the gap in the shower curtain. ‘Two?’

‘Two: start an organization. Three: start a company. Four: secede from the Union. Five: cure cancer. And, uh, six: free Tibet.’

‘Six: free Tibet. Done!’

I coax the conditioner out with the last dribble of hot water. ‘Avert!’ I climb down from the sink, wrap myself
in a towel, and reach over him for my suit. He unfolds the extended liner notes of the Rolling Stones compilation while I get dressed behind him.

‘How’d you get your old job with Dorisistryingto-killme?’

‘Career Services,’ I say, smoothing down the hanger crease with my hands.

‘So do that.’

‘Jack, that’d be like getting sent back to the “start” square! If I went back to Wesleyan, I’d be conceding zero progress in two and a half years. No.’

‘Fine, cure cancer, then.’ He tosses the CD onto the futon before scribbling, ‘Seven: Career Services’ on the list. He folds the paper down to matchbox size and slides it into his back pocket. ‘A plan of attack!’

We skibble out of my cheapy nail place an hour later, me waving my fresh manicure, Pink Slip, in the air, Jack tucking my pleather résumé portfolio under his arm and indicating the way with his hooded head.

‘Wait. I need to buy a ponytail holder first.’ I glance around the narrow street for a pharmacy.

‘The thing’s going to be over before we even get there.’

‘Jack, I can’t do an interview with my hair all down like this. It’s not professional. I’m not projecting an image of—’

‘Move it.’

On Stanton, nestled between abandoned sweatshops-turned-dot. coms-turned-sweatshops, we locate what looks like a garage entrance. ‘Okay, where’s a safe place
for you to hang out?’ I slide my portfolio from him and nervously smooth my hair back, while looking hopefully down the desolate street for an open library or YMCA.

‘Nice try, I’m coming in.’

‘I have to look professional. What’ll they think? That I have a teenage business partner? That I got pregnant in fifth grade? No. You have to wait for me. How about over there?’ I point to the flickering lights of the Laundromat across the street. Jack tilts an eyebrow. ‘Fine,’ I concede, ‘but at least stand a few feet behind me at the tables. We’ll start at the front and work around to the back.’

Following the networking hum, we locate the entrance, no more than a rusted metal door cut into a corrugated garage wall. I quell my misgivings while together Jack and I shove the door until it gives, spilling us into a noisy warehouse space packed with twenty-somethings shouting to be heard above pulsing rave music. We creep along the concrete wall, shrinking from the denim and Adidas-clad denizens angling so their messenger bags can hang. There must be five hundred people here. And not a single brochure-covered table in sight.

A young woman in a skimpy red camisole and jeans is released from the sea of Xtreme Networking to cheer from the sidelines with flushed cheeks. ‘Grab a Remy Red! Make a Bluelight connection!’ she shouts, pointing to the crowd.

‘Remy Red. Cool.’ Jack grabs a paper cup from a passing tray and quickly downs it. I give him a withering look. ‘G, gimme your jacket,’ he responds, hanging his
down vest over someone else’s on a precariously overstuffed coat rack. A gaggle of trendy Seven-clad women squeeze between us on teetering heels as I stuff my passé professional blazer inside my coat and hand it off. Triaging, I unzip my portfolio, hide it behind a stack of crates, and fold the résumés into my purse, scanning my Generic Employee Ensemble for quick-change possibilities.

‘Jack, I need five minutes in the ladies’ room.’ I point over the mass of heads at ‘toilet
’ spray-painted by the stairs. ‘Meet me by the arrow.’

‘Gotcha.’ He salutes with the empty paper cup.

‘And you’re already past your limit. I’m watching.’ He flips me off.

I race down the rickety stairs to the unisex bathroom, where I undo two more buttons on my shirt, ditch my stockings, roll my skirt, and rub my Nars highlighter onto my brow and cheekbones. I go to wash the makeup off my fingers, competing for mirror space with a man appraising his goatee and a woman with pink highlights wiping away the day’s mascara flecks. Our eyes meet in the reflection and Mascara smiles tentatively, stealing a furtive glance at my chest. Her vintage Pat Benatar shirt is adorned with a blue flashlight sticker. I glance over at the goatee stylist, who’s sporting identical sticker-wear. Stepping back to give the person behind me access to the sink, I look pointlessly for something to dry my hands on.

‘Guess it’s an air-dry night!’ Mascara remarks with an odd amount of cheer.

‘Yup,’ I agree as the throb of music filters down the
stairs. We shake our hands vigorously while people squeeze past.

‘So …’ She smiles anxiously as Goatee joins in, hands flapping. ‘Who are you with?’

‘With?’

‘Who are you recruiting for?’ They peer at me with laser interest.

‘Oh, no, I’m—’

‘Uch, you’re not wearing a sticker.’ She wipes her hands curtly on her cargos. Goatee rolls his eyes before turning on his heel to leave. ‘You really should put one on, you know. There’s
a system
.’ I roll my skirt one more notch and squeeze up past the queue of chattering people lining the stairs, smacking into Jack as I round the corner.

‘You need a—’

‘Sticker, I know.’

He does a Vanna White across his sweatshirt. ‘Yellow Crown: recruiting people. Blue Flashlight: unemployed people. White Smiley Face: onlookers.’ He presses a Blue Flashlight over my heart. ‘That’s all you need.’

A Dockers-sporting Flashlight passes us, pausing his stride as he catches sight of Jack’s Crown and then looks confused as he takes in the Flashlight and Smiley Face flanking it. He jerks forward and backwards before ambivalently moving on, unsure if he’s just blown it with the world’s youngest CEO. Jack doubles over in hysterics.

‘Jack, that’s not nice,’ I admonish. ‘People here are fragile—’

‘WHAT’S UP, YOU UNEMPLOYED PEOPLE?! HOW WE DOIN’ TONIGHT?!’ A whooping cheer
goes out from the crowd as we strain to see the woman in the flimsy red camisole steadying herself, one hand to the wall, a microphone in the other as she teeters atop a bar table.

‘WHAT’S UP, DEBBIE?!’ A man beside me cups his mouth and belts into my ear.

She collapses in self-conscious giggles before tapping the wand, sending feedback splintering through the strobe-lit air. ‘Can you all hear me?’ Everyone claps. ‘Cool!’ She grins. ‘Okay, so thank you all
so much
for coming out and making tonight our
biggest
attended Blue Light event this year! And it’s only January! We have over
ten thousand
members in the metropolitan area and we’re growing by leaps and bounds. Every. Single. Day.’ She dips down into one hip, as if skiing, her uncontainable excitement contracting her muscles into a downhill shoosh. ‘And big props to Remy Red for sponsoring this week’s event! We would be
nowhere
without our refreshment sponsors. We’re very excited to be trying the Passion Fruit flavor next week and the Avocado Guava next month! And especially, thank you to the recruiters who came out tonight!’ Heads whip around in the crowd, searching for the coveted yellow stickers. ‘We’re thrilled for last week’s successful placement, Wendy Finn. If you want to swing by Dean and DeLuca on Sundays or Tuesdays, Wendy will be happy to give anyone with a Blue Flashlight sticker free refills on tea. Now, she did ask me to stress that this is for tea only, no coffee beverages. And be sure to check out our mention in this week’s cover article in
Time Out New York
, “Unemployed and Loving It”! Thank you,
Time Out!
And
remember
, you’re
all
Blue Light Specials! Now you only have forty more minutes in the Blue Zone, so hit the floor!’ At that, the music level rises to an unhelpful pitch as a switch is flipped and all gradations of depth and color disappear, leaving the room a wash of phosphorescence, punctuated by blaring white.

‘Great, a black light. I’m job hunting at a seventh-grade dance.’

‘Cool,’ Jack says, his teeth radiating, every fleck of lint on his sweatshirt standing out like electric rice kernels. I follow his locked gaze to the glowing bra of the woman on our left, who clutches at her suddenly translucent shirt and makes a beeline for the coat rack. ‘I’m gonna see how many losers’ll beg me to take their business cards. You’re on your own.’

‘Don’t leave with anyone and don’t drink anything.’

Nodding, Jack disappears into the throng.

All around me Flashlight stickers emit a neon blue beam as people do-si-do through the floor in search of a Crown. I jostle into the long queue for a free drink.

‘Oh, Thirty-Fourth Street is the best one.’ The woman ahead of me touches the arm of her friend’s pulsing Union Jack shirt to emphasize her point. ‘They have couches
and
wireless connections. And they’ll totally turn a blind eye if you bring your own sandwich. We should meet there. I’m serious about us starting this closet-organizing business.’

‘I’m still hung up on the book idea – your boss was as big an asshole as mine.’

‘We can decide Monday. How’s ten?’

‘Oh, that’ll be tough. I used to have that hour between
The Today Show
and
The View
free, but I can’t miss
Ellen
.’