Shy Town Girls (7 page)

“
Excuse me. How much are these case
books?” He looked up at me, startled, as if he never even saw me
come in. I figured he was writing the next War and Peace behind
that little desk of his, judging by the length of that
beard.

“
Fifteen dollars each,” he
croaked.

“
I’ll give you twenty for both of
these,” I bargained, holding up a First Amendment and Due Process
case book.

“
Meh,” he nodded and waved me over.
I smiled on the inside. I loved it when I got my way.

“
Case books, huh?” he asked
insincerely. “Law student?”

“
No, I was a political science
undergraduate. I guess I just like to read justified arguments,” I
said honestly.

“
I was a law professor for years.
You’re young. Go live your life. Law schools aren’t going
anywhere,” he responded bitterly, seemingly ignoring my response. I
wondered if he sensed that I had impulsively decided not to go to
law school in my senior year of college. Today, his comments were
reaffirming my decision.

“
Twenty bucks,” he barked, “I
misplaced twenty bucks today. That’s what happens with old
age.”

I looked at him, puzzled, “Thanks,”
I said and walked out.

Chapter 7

There are four distinct seasons in Chicago, and each
brings a new personality to the city. Folks say there is no greater
adventure than the thrill of discovering what the Windy City will
blow in one day and out the next. Weather develops suddenly over
the city, so you can’t plan too far ahead because the forecast
changes by the moment. You could be enjoying fairly warm days
toward the end of fall and then suddenly be facing a snowstorm the
next day. It’s not uncommon to start the week out with temperatures
in the 50s and then close it out with a bitter cold freeze.

And my life was rolling along at much the same
rhythm as Chicago’s seasons—fast and sudden, just like a Chicago
breeze. Several weeks had passed since I mustered the strength to
leave Charlie and move in with the girls. Aside from that one
moment of weakness on the first day, I kept my promise to myself. I
wasn’t giving in to my weakness for Charlie, no matter what he did
to convince me otherwise. Not being one to admit he’d been dumped,
Charlie remained moderately persistent, keeping up a steady
presence in my life, reminding me of his existence whenever
possible. Fortunately we were both swamped with work and too busy
to play games.

The office was silent, the way I preferred it. I was
working lateone night, trying to get caught up. But when my phone
buzzed three times in a row, I decided to answer. Can’t someone
take a hint?

“
Yeah?” I snapped.

"Roberta, honey, how are you?"

"I'm good mom, busy at work. . ." I sighed. I loved
her dearly, but I was in no mood to have a conversation with my
overly analytical psychologist of a mother.

"Well, I was just checking in to make sure you're
taking the move-out move-in situation okay."

"Yes, mother, everything is working out fine," I
said. “How are you?”

"Well, my shoulder’s bothering me again, but other
than that. . . so, how's the boyfriend?"

"His name is Charlie and not good. I'm slowly ending
things with him."

"It seems a bit unorthodox to be slowly ending
something, doesn’t it? I can understand things can seem
complicated, but in my day things were pretty black and white: you
go steady or you don't.” When I stayed silent, she pushed, “So
what’s going on with you, Bobbie? I think there’s something you’re
not sharing with me.”

"It's different nowadays, Mom. I really don't want to
get into it. My feelings and attitudes towards love are a little .
. . exhausted.”

"Roberta, attitudes represent generalizations about
phenomena based upon extrapolations from previous experiences—”

Here she goes.

“—
and usually take the form of
cognitive generalizations, so yes, your attitude toward love is
most definitely what I would call askew... In order to have a
tabula rasa effect on your life, you'd have to literally be reborn,
and that is not happening, so I suggest you start creating new and
better experiences for yourself, because that will determine the
outcome of your future. Find yourself a man who demonstrates
consistency. That's my best advice, honey."

"Okay, Mom, thank you," I said, trying to keep my
cool. I wanted this conversation to end. Unfortunately, it didn’t.
Not without another ten minutes of analysis.

At 7:30 p.m. on the dot. I cleaned up my desk, logged
off my computer, packed my bag, and locked up my office. On the way
out, I heard pounding, slamming, and a few swear words coming from
the copy and blueprint room.

“
Hello? Is everything okay?” I
looked in the room, but didn’t see anyone.

“
Oh, umm, hi,” a high voice
stuttered. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” She was crouched on the
floor, short boyish bleached blonde hair, bright big bug-eyes, and
pink little lips. I noticed she was trying, unsuccessfully, to cram
photo paper into the copy machine.

“
Do you need some help?” I asked.
“You do know that paper doesn’t go in there, right?”

“
Oh yeah, I knew that,” she lied
with a big smile as she stood up, turning completely pink,
obviously embarrassed. “I’m trying to make copies of these photos
by...” she read the memo. “Oliver...Price, no wait— Oliver
Prince.”

“
Olly’s photos?” I took the blue
prints and began sifting through them. Excellent work, as usual.
One photo caught my eye, and I pulled it out of the stack. A
handsome older man embracing an older woman who held his face
tenderly in her hands.

I sometimes forgot what an amazing photographer Olly
was, with his uncanny ability to capture real life moments, evoking
even more emotion from a two-dimensional photograph than even
reality exposed. His photos hinted at someone much deeper than the
lighthearted Olly I knew.

“
I’m Lilly. I’ve seen you in and out
of the office,” she said, and extended her hand for a shake. “I’m
an intern.”

“
How long have you been interning
here?” I asked, surprised. I’d never noticed her before.

“
All summer,” she replied. Woops.
“And I’ll be here for the rest of the fall.” She leaned in close to
me. “You smell really good.”

She was a quirky one, with her wild hair and the way
she was blatantly invading my personal space, something that just
didn’t happen at Fordham Agency. Here, if you got too close to
another body, you ran the risk of getting slapped silly. She kept
touching her hair out of nervousness. Her body was lanky and
awkward, as if she hadn’t grown into it yet. I figured she must
have been about nineteen. Her sporadic, ungraceful movements were
strangely amusing.

“
Thanks. It’s Coco
Chanel.”

She smiled and nodded; she seemed to be taking mental
notes. “Expensive, huh?”

“
Don’t worry about the photos,” I
said, changing the subject. “The photographer is a friend of mine,
and he’s pretty easy-going. I’m sure you can pick up where you left
off tomorrow.” I watched her relax, and I handed her back the
photos. “Nice to meet you,” I said and walked out. I made my way to
the elevator and hit the star for the lobby floor.

As I walked through the big glass and marble lobby, I
could almost taste Lysol on my lips. “Hey, wait up!” I looked back
to see Lilly the intern, her heels clacking on the marble floor,
her knees buckling inward as she jogged along attempting to catch
up with me. She really was awkward, and yet she reminded me of some
tropical bird.

“
I figured we could share a cab or
walk or something,” she said breathlessly, obviously trying to be
my friend.

“
Sure,” I said, though I really
wasn’t thrilled with the idea. I had been looking forward to a few
minutes of mindless meditation.

We walked out and made our way towards Michigan
Avenue. The Magnificent Mile was home to some of the swankiest
shopping in the city, as well as the Art Institute of Chicago,
Millennium Park and many other points of interest. It also served
as a major transportation hub because of all the landmarks located
there. “So, you must love working here at Fordham,” she said. “I go
to DePaul. I’m a design student, and I was really lucky to get this
internship. You must be over the moon with your job, being an agent
and everything.”

“Sure, if you love working with snobby, insecure
people who lack depth, take this industry way too seriously and are
okay with depriving yourself of all real knowledge in life because
your head is so filled with meaningless trivia. If you want nothing
more than to be surrounded by starving beauties, then yes, this is
your heaven.”

“
Oh wow, that was honest,” she
said. “So. . . why do you do it, then?”

“
After college I lived in Italy for
a while and I made some connections in the fashion industry. Then I
helped a friend from Milan get into modeling here in Chicago when I
got back, and one thing led to another. . . I found out I’m good at
it. I’m really into contract law, for one thing. I’m good at
connecting people with other people. . .” At least in my
professional life, I thought. In my personal life, I felt insecure
and inept. “And I’m a good advocate for my clients,” I went on. “I
tend to get them good terms, you know? Because I don’t mind a
fight. I stand up for people.”

At least for other people I do, anyway, I thought.
For myself, when confronted with any kind of conflict, I tended to
curl up in my shell like the Cancer I was. “And the design aspect
of the industry is cool, too. Working with some of the great
artists, photographers, designers. . . I’m not that artistic or
anything myself, but I really appreciate beautiful things and the
people who create them.”

“
Well, I want to be behind the
camera, not in front of it.”

“
I guess that’s the best place to
be,” I said, thinking of how happy Oliver seemed to be, taking
photos for a living.

As if she had been reading my mind, Lilly said, “I
really like that guy Oliver’s photos. How old is he, anyway? He’s
so cute. I feel like he should be one of the models.”

“
Olly?” Her comment surprised me. I
thought about his silly strut in my office. “He’s not really the
model type,” I said. I pictured him, how he looked a couple of
weeks ago, when his shirt pulled out of his belt as he lifted his
arms above his head and rolled his hips in an exaggerated
figure-eight. His moves weren’t bad, I reflected, and the glimpse
of his bare torso above his low-slung jeans had showed a
surprisingly hard-looking plane of muscle. But cute? Sure, Olly was
cute, with his open, curious expression, his ready, crooked smile.
That’s exactly what he was, cute. Not devastating, mysterious,
dangerous. . .

Like Charlie.

We were almost to the Chicago Red Line stop when
Lilly said she was going to hop on the L and take it up to Rogers
Park, but I decided to walk. When I first moved into the city, I
thought the mass transit system was extremely convenient because it
meant I didn’t need to even own a car. But it didn’t take long for
me to see the value in walking between destinations. There was a
lot to see, especially at night when the city’s hustle and bustle
was at its height, and the vigorous exercise of walking longer
distances had helped to boost my mood lately..

Under Ella’s influence, I had taken up dancing
again, going with her a couple times a week to classes -- jazz,
hip-hop, and ballet. Now that my mother wasn’t making me go, I
found I actually enjoyed my dance classes. It was all very
familiar, yet new and exciting. And it was fun to go with Ella, who
was clearly in her element, looking like a Barbie in a beigey-pink
tank and tights, and a slouchy fisherman’s sweater she took off
after warm-ups to reveal a slender but muscular athlete’s body.

We tried to get Ivy to come with us, but so far no
success. “I only dance with a drink in my hand,” Ivy said. Barbara
and Meryl wanted to try a class, but they always had something
going on-- charity work, family and friends, Barbara’s weekly swim,
Meryl’s writing workshops. They kept busy.

Chapter 8

“
Hello. Anyone home?” I called as I
unlocked the door of my flat. As I walked into the beautiful
three-story building, I realized how quickly it had come to be
home. I saw Barbara’s light on in her living room, but the lower
level looked dark and quiet. I switched on the light, and I felt a
glow of happiness. Home. It was definitely feeling like home. If
only the feeling wasn’t accompanied by a corresponding loneliness.
It was great living here with the girls, but I missed being in a
relationship. I missed love. I missed a sense of true purpose in my
life. Purpose, was a bit ambiguous, more like I was obsessed with
putting all my energy into a worthless relationship.

In my room, I slid out of my shoes, putting them
neatly back in the box. I unzipped my dress and grabbed a pair of
boxers, along with a big white sweater. My feet were freezing, so I
slipped on my knit socks. I was dying for a warm drink. Nothing
sounded better than hot chocolate and Bailey’s.

That’s when I heard banging on my ceiling. Thump,
thump, thump. “Hello?” Barbara’s theatrical voice called down the
stairway.

I ran to the door. “Barbara, it’s me, Bobbie. The
other girls are gone,” I hollered up to her.

“
Come up for pie!” she suggested,
and I heard Due bark, as if to second the offer. It was one I
couldn’t refuse.