Citizen Girl (9 page)

‘
Now
I’m getting my money’s worth.’ Rex swats at Guy’s shins with the fax.

‘I promised you, Rex. She’ll meet with us.’

‘You prick!’ The two of them beam at each other before the man cants his head towards me inquisitively.

‘This is Girl,’ Guy explains while Rex looks me cursorily up and down. ‘I’m talking to her about our feminist rebranding. Girl, this is Rex, MC, Inc.’s Chairman.’

‘Hello, Rex. It’s such a pleasure.’ I step over to shake his hand, but he makes no effort to rise.

‘So you’ve met the Guyser,’ Rex says as he squeezes my fingers, digging my rings into the bones. ‘My number-one shark at The Bank. I’m proud as hell to set him loose on My Company – going to take this place to the next level, aren’t you?’

‘Keep you out of the salvage yard, Rex.’

Taking my cue, ‘Well, I’m here to help you do just that.’

Rex winks at me.

‘Great, Girl.’ Guy nods down into crossed arms. ‘I’m very excited about this. Very excited.’ That’s it – no Dante circles? No Cyrillic typing tests?

‘Me, too. So when should I expect —’

‘Yeah, I’ll give you a call when I get everything lined up.’ Guy sits back down at his computer.

‘Great! Do you have a sense of your time frame?’

‘This is top priority,’ he says, already immersed in the screen.

‘Damn straight,’ Rex mutters, rereading the fax.

I give official confirmation one last try, ‘So, I’m …?’

‘Just head back past the desks. Elevators are outside reception. Oh, wait! Don’t forget this.’ He grabs a tee shirt from an open box and tosses it underhand to me. ‘Gotta fly the banner!’

‘Okay, then, well, very nice to meet you, Rex. Thank you both for your consideration.’ I motion goodbye with the white cotton, effectively waving myself out with a five-inch Vagisil logo.

Lightheaded, I recross the giant room, past the remaining employees humming away at their tasks – tapping keyboards, working phones, flying banners. Holy. Shit. Run it –
run
it! Someone
like me
!! Relief begins to ricochet through my body and I’m dizzy with what to do first. Call home, cry, buy something. I slide my coat out of the closet and tug my scarf off the hanger, but it’s stuck. I tug harder, effectively tightening the noose.
Ms. Magazine,
rebranding … Wait – I snag a nail, ripping a long pink thread out of the knit – face of
what
exactly? I jerk the hanger down, ripping more threads.

‘I have a seven o’clock with Guy.’ Alarmed, I dart my eyes at a striking brunette leaning against the receptionist’s counter to pull off her calf-skin gloves one finger at a time. She drops them into her quilted suede purse as I tug the scarf free. ‘It’s Seline.’

‘Your last name?’ The receptionist calls after her as she turns to sit down.

‘Saybrook.’ She slides a thick sheet of paper out of an elegant leather résumé case, but fumbles, sending it floating to my feet. I bend down, noticing
Ms. Magazine
lightly penciled on a Post-it, which nearly obscures the more alarming ‘Stanford’ and ‘Columbia MBA’. No! This women’s-information-initiative thing, this rebrandingnew-direction thing, this Vagisil-gear-flying-the-flag thing has got
my
name written aaaalll over it.

She clears her throat and I pass the résumé back. ‘Here for the job?’ she asks.

‘I just had an interview.’

‘Well, good luck.’ Okay, I don’t need it, Miss MBA.
I’m
‘the face’.

Downstairs I cross the street to take a last longing look up at the hulking building, and Guy’s silhouette comes into view at the window. I replay the interview. No, definitely, I definitely have it. He loved me. I’m in.

A red light pulses in my periphery, a crimson hammer and sickle projected onto the sidewalk up the block. Bella Russe, a dinner befitting my triumph. Past town cars
depositing their sunglass-toting, baseball-cap-wearing, don’t-notice-me-notice-me guests, a doorman bundled in a Helmut-Lang-Cossack ensemble ushers me in. Moving out of the path of a weaving Hilton sister, I shimmy through the packed bar area in search of the hostess. ‘Welcome,’ she smiles graciously. ‘IMG has the private room. Rene will take you.’ She gestures to her colleague.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a reservation.’

‘Oh.’ Her energy drops. ‘Reservations only, we’re booked.’

‘That’s okay. Then, I’ll just take something to go.’ I lean in to be heard over the ambient music.

‘We don’t do “takeout” here.’ She recoils as if I’ve just asked for a Happy Meal, which is realistically all I can afford.

‘Really?’ But having been forced in the last weeks to evolve into a human ball of unrelenting persistence, I persist. ‘Can you check with the kitchen?’

‘We don’t have, what do you call them?’

‘Containers?’ This is ridiculous. I don’t have this job yet. I definitely don’t have this money. I should just go home and scrape out the peanut butter jar.

‘We don’t have containers.’ She returns to perusing her heavily marked-up seating chart.

But I can’t. I can’t seem to let this go. ‘How about aluminum foil? You can just wrap it up in that.’

Sighing conciliatorily she thrusts a menu at me. I quickly scan my options, my stomach sinking at the prices.

She taps her pen. ‘What do you want?’ she levels at me snidely. ‘The egg noodles?’

No, Miss Thing, egg noodles is assistant-to-the-assistant-color-folders-nights-over-the-copy-machine-working-on-a-toilet-seat. ‘Lobster.’

‘Fine. Wait at the bar.’

‘I’ll do that.’

Maneuvering around the six-foot Fabergé egg, I take a seat on a velvet ottoman to watch Cavalli-clad couples swill vodka out of melting ice glasses. I grab a handful of free dried cherries from a lacquered bowl and wonder how often My Company staffers hit the place for Happy Hour. On the mirror above the bar someone’s scrawled the wine specials in red lipstick. In the smoked reflection my eyes alight on a certain choppy blond haircut.

Dennis Quaid grin.

Grinning at me.

A flush goes up the back of my neck. Shit. Well, I don’t know who the hell he thinks – he’s waving. I look down to my right heel. I study the mock crocodile for scuffs, twisting my ankle left and right. Pleasecomefoodpleasecomefoodpleasecomefood. I look back up – still grinning. I fix a flat smile on my face.

Buster picks up his beer and begins to maneuver over to my ottoman. Not a chance, no way am I going to—

‘Hey! Kerouac’s sister, what’re you doing here?’ He drops down to a squat and we are face to lovely face.

‘Getting dinner,’ I say curtly.

‘Cool. You meeting people?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I didn’t even know about this place and Ygames is only, like, two blocks over. I was supposed to meet up
with some friends at the diner. Didn’t there used to be a diner here?’

I shrug.

‘I feel like there was.’ He nods at his Campers. Whatever, fuckface. ‘So how’s your brother?’

‘He’s fine. I’m fine. I’m going to go wait over there now.’ I gesture to a free booth across the room. ‘And you may be tempted to offer to drive me over there, but just sit with that, okay?’ I stand.

Buster smacks his forehead. ‘Shit! Man, I’m sorry – this work thing came up – I spent the rest of the weekend at my desk. I wanted to call, but I didn’t have your number. Are you totally pissed?’ He grins and pulls me back down. ‘Seriously.’ He rests his bottle on the table and turns his face to me. ‘I’m sorry; it was shitty.’

‘It was.’

He rubs his eyes and his energy drops. ‘It’s just been a killer week – I’ve pretty much been chained to my monitor since a few hours after I left you. We’re trying to fight a buyout. I’ve just been retooling and retooling and the reqs keep changing —’

‘Okay,
please
, no more jargon. I’ve filled my quota for, like, the rest of my life.’

‘Sorry. How’s the job hunt going?’

I scan over his head for the hostess. ‘Killer week as well. I’ve pretty much been talking out of my ass since a few hours after you left us.’

‘Sucks all around.’

‘Yep.’ While my lobster remains missing in action, the crowd conspires to part, giving me an unobstructed
view of Seline Saybrook paying for frozen vodkas. I glance down at my watch. Score! Only ten minutes – she blew it.

‘Hey, why don’t you ditch your dinner, come get a hot dog, and watch a game at the Piers with me? It’ll be totally relaxing
and
jargon-free.’ I look back up as Seline flicks her mane of teak hair, clinks ice glasses with the man beside her, and downs her vodka in one shot. ‘Come on, give me a chance to make it up to you.’

‘Your lobster.’ The hostess, her expression vaguely contemptuous, waves a plastic bag under my nose.

‘I have a lobster,’ I offer apologetically to Buster before the crowd shifts again and I catch sight of the blue and white striped Oxford of Seline’s companion. Ohshityou’vegottobekiddingme.

‘Bring him,’ Buster says, tossing blond bangs at the bag.

‘That’ll be forty-two fifty.’ Square red nails snap me to attention. ‘Cash only.’
I should have had the egg noodles
.

Buster takes the bag as I pull the last few bills from my wallet to pay for the lobster that’s instantaneously morphed from celebratory feast to bank-breaking consolation prize. Out of the corner of my eye I see Guy hold his finger up to pause Seline and cross through the restaurant to reject me in person.

Buster tries again, ‘So —’

I jump to my feet. ‘Great, yes, let’s go!’

‘Hang on a minute while I run out and see where my friends are.’ He disappears toward the door, passing Guy in transit.

‘Girl!’ Guy jovially pokes me in the thigh before I can dive my MBA-less self over the crimson couch. ‘Fantastic place, isn’t it?’ His eyes sparkle. ‘I’ve been eating here five nights a week – almost sick of it. You gotta try the squab. Meeting people?’

‘Yes, yes I am. Doing some work on women’s issues tonight. It’s a brainstorming strategy sort of meal – you know how it is. We meet bi-monthly actually.’ My vanquisher reapplies her lipstick at the bar. ‘So much information women need, so little time—’

‘Solid presentation, today. Just solid.’ Guy shakes his head, aglow from the two brunettes bracketing his evening.

‘Thank you. As I said, I so admire your work and I think if you’ll reconsider, I can add real value.’

He glances back at Seline, giving her a nod. ‘Excellent, Girl. So we’ll be in touch.’ His body is already beginning its orbit back to her.

‘Great, yeah, I should get going, too! Thanks, again, for the interview! And the tee shirt – I’m really just totally looking forward to working for you, so, bye now,’ I call after him as I back towards the exit, smiling and nodding. ‘Just going to check for my women brainstorming friends outside. They might have gotten lost, so —’

The shiny red door is pulled abruptly shut behind me and I am, once again, out in the cold. I sigh deeply and look down at my shoes.

When I manage to lift my head, I find Buster leaning with two other boys against a parked car in a Diesel layout of distressed denim and calculated bed-head. ‘Ready to
go?’ Buster waves, swinging my lobster. Okay, so he’s hot. And I can’t spend the entire evening staring at the ceiling and obsessing over every little crap thing I said, everything I should have said not to sound crappy, and what Seline Saybrook is saying right this very minute to make everything I said sound like total crap. Plus, he’s hot.

I smile at his friends, only to be met with clenched jaws. Buster steps over, his breath coming in steaming puffs. ‘Hey, these are two of my roommates, Tim and Trevor.’

‘Hello!’ I give an encompassing wave.

‘What up?’ they spit, already turning to head out. They set a brisk pace, which Buster matches effortlessly, leaving me scampering along behind while they stride in tense silence.

Catching up at the light I try, ‘Hey, how’s your coat?’

Buster grins. ‘Hasn’t gone home without me this whole week – we’re in couples therapy.’ Tim and Trevor turn around to give us ‘nerd’ glances.

‘We couldn’t find our coats last weekend,’ I offer.

‘Whatever.’ Tim leaps up to grab the high crossbar of a lamppost, his Adidas swinging into my elbow as he lands.

‘Dude!’ Trevor says, hooking his arm around Buster’s neck and pulling him away from me. I surreptitiously inspect the scuff-mark on my beaten coat, which just can’t seem to catch a break. ‘Sam called – he finally found a place near the thing.’ Ah, a place near the thing. He drags Buster along in a headlock while they talk about the merits
of different places near different things. Watching them effortlessly vault the cement road barrier on the West Side Highway, I climb over, the seam of my skirt splitting as I straddle it, unassisted. If Buster were along with my friends right now, they’d be carrying him on a litter and feeding him grapes to make him feel included. With increasingly mixed feelings, I follow my rapidly chilling lobster across the six-lane highway to Chelsea Piers, a stadium-sized sports complex built out over the river. We walk about a block through the dimly lit mammoth parking garage, until I step in an icy puddle.

‘You know what?’ I call out to them, my voice echoing.

‘Yeah?’ Buster yells over his shoulder, not even stopping.

‘I think I’m gonna go. If you could hand me my lobster, maybe it’s better if I just get a cab.’

Buster trots back while his friends disappear into the building. ‘What? No! Come on,
hot dogs
. It’ll be fun!’

‘Thanks.’ I motion for my dinner. ‘But I feel like I’m crashing your date.’

‘No, not at all. Let’s go inside – it’s fucking freezing out here.’ He hides the bag behind his back and simultaneously reaches for my gloved hand to give it a squeeze. ‘Seriously, I’m holding the lobster hostage.’

‘Okay,’ I laugh. We ride, single file, up the escalator and into the fluorescent-lit lobby. My cheeks tingle from the welcome warmth as we cross the linoleum floor to double doors marked ‘Arena’. Buster throws one open and I’m immediately hit by icy air, colder than the winter we’ve just scuttled out of. Oh, sad.

‘Ever been to the rink?’ Buster grins. A player smashes into the Plexiglas inches away and before I can answer, a phalanx of helmeted gladiators rips him back onto the ice.