Bicoastal Babe (6 page)

“You’re kidding, right?” she scoffs. When I don’t respond, she flings away her towel and stands there, buck naked, looking down at me like a spider she wants to kill, but is too grossed out to go near it.

My face crumples. “What do you mean?”

“Lindsey. First of all, anyone who says that
anything
is the new
anything
is so last year that it’s not even funny.”

“But…at Glimpse they all said—”

“Lindsey. Glimpse is where Wall Street posers go to look like they’re in the scene. How would they know about what’s trendy? They’re too busy counting their cash wads.”

“Well, they didn’t look too shabby to me.”

“I’m not saying they do. But a trend is something that starts in hot cities and trickles down. It’s one thing to smoke the house in a white Chanel pantsuit, but it’s another thing to imagine the housewives in Bumfuck, Ohio, trying to copy the same look at their local Wal-Mart.”

I watch Jen as she stands, still naked, admiring her tiny little body in the mirror. She turns to check herself out from all angles, pinching her nipples so they stand at attention. I see now that she has three tattoos, one on her shoulder, one on the small of her back, and one on her left hip. I sigh as I look down at my flannel Hanes pajamas. She’s everything I’m not.

“Are you going to put some clothes on?” I ask dryly.

“Why should I?” Jen turns to me and smiles sweetly. “It’s just us girls.” Then her look turns sympathetic. “Look, Lindsey. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. But come on. I’ve got this trend thing already figured out, and Liz knew that when she hired you.”

“What are you saying?”

“That she needed someone to, you know, kind of go along with it. With me, I mean. And hey – it’ll be a lot easier for you this way. You don’t have to be responsible for coming up with the great ideas. You just have to show up.”

My brow darkens.

“Piece of cake, right?”

“But–”

“Look, get yourself in the shower. We’ve got a lot to cover today, because I’m leaving tomorrow morning for L.A. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll get you up to speed in no time. But you’ve got to get the stars out of your eyes and stop thinking that just because something lives and breathes in Manhattan, it’s somehow the cool new thing.”

She heads for the door, and I watch as her naked little ass jiggles down the hallway.

What was this again? Oh, yeah. A piece of cake.

•   •   •

An hour later we’re walking through the streets of SoHo, approaching the subway entrance on Prince Street. The sun is bright and warm, and the air is filled with the scent of hot dogs, soft pretzels, and sugared almonds from the sidewalk street vendors. I feel a rabid desire to explore every inch of New York City. I’m glad to have a tour guide, even if it is Jen, and even if she did reject my idea to discuss the mechanics of trend-tracking from the top of the Empire State Building.

“Spotting trends is all about instinct,” Jen says as we walk down the concrete stairs to the subway tracks. “It’s like a sixth sense – being able to recognize a trend right when it’s starting, or hasn’t even started yet.”

“One token, please,” I say at the token booth.

“Two dollars.” The woman yawns.

“I’m going to Times Square,” I announce proudly.

“Good for you.” She slides a token through the window.

Jen is still rambling on about trends. “A lot of things come and go within the cool set that never catch on as particularly trendy. It’s important to learn the difference.”

“So who was that guy last night?” I ask. “Your boyfriend?”

“Are you listening to me, Lindsey?”

“Of course I am. So he’s your boyfriend?”

“No, he’s not my boyfriend.”

The 6 train pulls up and I follow her in. It’s jammed with people, so we step forward and I watch Jen slide her hand around the rail for balance. Good God. She obviously played hooky on the day in fourth-grade science class when they taught about the millions of filthy microscopic parasites that inhabit and multiply on doorknobs and other places where many people rest their germ-infested hands.

“Lindsey, grab the handrail.”

“Uh… that’s okay. I’m fine.”

“Lindsey, you’re going to fall over when the subway starts.”

“No, I won’t.”

Jen sighs, exasperated. I look around, and quite suddenly the number 6 train car has become a quarantine camp of severe nasal congestion. In all directions people are sneezing, coughing, and wiping their snotty noses in their bare palms, every one of which slides right up on the hand loops and rails as the subway doors pull shut. And then, of course, the train lurches forward and I fall into the lap of a smelly old guy with chunks of something stuck in his beard.

“Hey, get off me!” he shouts. “Hang on to the fuckin’ handrail, lady!”

I see Jen’s eyebrows rise in amusement as I struggle to my feet, but this time I just don’t care. These New Yorkers do look a little gaunt – and it’s not from the shade of the skyscrapers. It’s the dormant influenza they’re passing back and forth through their habitual phlegm exchange on the subway. I slide my arm around the rail, allowing the inside of my elbow to secure my balance. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and I’m not getting sick my first day on the job.

“So you were saying…” I smile at Jen, who has got to think I’m a complete lunatic by now. “He’s
not
your boyfriend?

“Listen, Lindsey. I’m taking you to Times Square because it’s a great place to watch how tourists react to new styles and ideas.”

“I was hoping we could pick up some show tickets for a musical or something.” I see the look on Jen’s face. “Or… not.”

“When you get to L.A. next week, we have to start pooling together ideas for the newsletter. The month goes by faster than you think, and there’s no time to screw around.”

“Who’s screwing around?” In a perfect world, I’d leave Jen with the subway sneeze posse and go explore Rockefeller Center right about now, but she does have a point. I’m not getting paid to enjoy myself.

“You need to get in there and talk to people. Find out what’s on their radar – new things they’ve bought or tried or heard about. What are
they
talking about with their friends? Not just the cool people, but the tourists too. That’s why they come here, to be closer to the ideal. If you can understand them, then you start to learn how trends catch fire and finally seep down to the mainstream.”

Jen may well indeed resemble a pinprick in the eyeball, but she does sound like she knows what she’s talking about. And let’s face it – I don’t. I’m still fuming about her arrogant suggestion that I am the filler meat of this trend-tracking superduo. That’s not the impression I got from Liz Gordon, that’s for damn sure. But Jen seems to have tenure, and what’s worse, it appears that she actually has earned it. And once she’s gone to L.A., I am on my own. So with the greatest of begrudging effort, I begin to listen to her.

As it turns out, the whole trend-tracking thing is pretty interesting. Noticing little kernels of social energy and movement toward a particular activity or style or outlook – then capturing them in a way that people pay big bucks for. A trend can take so many different forms: slang terms, cocktail ingredients, birthday-party themes, studded belt buckles, you name it. Being considered hip and cool is high on people’s social priority ladder, and staying on top of things can be a full-time hobby. As Jen continues to talk, I start to realize just how much money people (even me) spend each year just trying to keep up with trends. Accurate trend predictions can be an advertiser’s gold mine. I can see why Gordon-Taylor wants this newsletter to succeed.

“You either have an eye for trends or you don’t,” Jen tells me. “I, of course, do. Let’s hope you do too.”

Let’s hope.

“The part that sucks is confirmation. Once you’ve spotted what you think is a trend – or an upcoming trend – you have to confirm it with numbers. Which means standing on the street corner and interviewing cool people about whatever it is. I usually write up a little questionnaire that includes as many as possible, so I’m not wasting time.”

“What street corner? How many people?” I’m envisioning myself looking like the big fluffy chicken standing in front of El Pollo Loco, clucking and passing out chicken burrito coupons.

“Any one of these corners. Wherever there’s action going on and you’re going to get the right kind of people. Trendsetters. You’ll start to recognize them when you see them.”

“How many?”

“Try for fifty. It’s not a great number, but if Gordon-Taylor wants a quantitative polling, they should hire us some lackeys.”

Actually, it doesn’t seem so terrifically daunting of a task to pull this stuff together. All I have to do is hang out at some clubs and stores and nose around a bit. No problemo. I can do this! I may even be good at it.

We spend the rest of the afternoon all about town. Jen whirls me through the Central Park cafes, Park Avenue boutiques, the fashion district in Midtown, and the crazy scene at NYU. We hit happy hour at the chic bars in the meatpacking district and end up back in the Village, people watching from a sidewalk table at Tortilla Flats.

That night Jen tells me to do my own thing, and to please make myself scarce between the hours of ten and midnight. Apparently she wants to meet up with the guy who’s not her boyfriend for another round of deep, penetrating conversation. Fine with me. I splurge on a cab back up to Times Square, where I purchase a gyro from a sidewalk vendor, and one
Phantom
of
the Opera
ticket from TKTS discount ticket booth. I love the show, and Times Square is beautiful at night.

As I stand watching the tapestry of light and color above and around me, I begin to feel myself falling in love. With New York—the energy and commotion of this city, the crazy edge that’s missing from other big cities I’ve visited. I want to be here, to stay here. It does have a slight issue with the germs, I’ll admit, and it doesn’t smell so great in certain places… but those are minor downsides compared to the thrill of it all. The possibilities seem as vast as the island of Manhattan, and I feel like my life has just begun. Which is new for me. Back in Chicago I was plagued with a constant sense of waiting – for my real life to start, and for me to finally start living it.

I get back down to the Village around eleven thirty. The un-boyfriend should be packing it up just about now, but I’m not quite in the mood to go home yet. I’m feeling this strange emotion I vaguely remember to be something resembling happiness – and I want to share it with someone. Before I even realize it, I find my feet walking toward Glimpse, and, because I’m still far enough away to change my mind, I decide to follow them.

Okay. Once again I’m not dressed for the Wall Street crowd. But what are the chances of them (i.e., Victor Ragsdale) being there two nights in a row? Pretty low, right? But he could be there. Stranger things have happened. Will I look like a complete loser going in by myself, twice in two nights? I’d obviously be looking for him – and he’d obviously know that. But he seemed to like me. He did buy me a cocktail. An eighteen-dollar cocktail, mind you. Then again, if he liked me so much, why did he let me walk out the door? Why didn’t he ask for my number? This is outstandingly foolish and desperate. There’s no way I can go in there. There’s no way.

In my attempt to reason this out, I haven’t been noticing where I’m walking. I look up to find Glimpse right in front of me, and the same bouncer from last night watching me with an amused smirk.

He knows. I can see it on his face. I’ve got “pathetic woman prowling for Victor Ragsdale” written all over me.

“Back again?” He smiles.

But he can’t know. How does he know who I talked to in the bar? And just because Victor frequents this bar doesn’t mean the bouncer knows him personally. How could he possibly remember the name of every person who comes in here?

“No, I… uh…” I stammer.

“You’re still on the list, you know. Lindsey Miller. I remember.”

Just what I need: a cigar-bar bouncer with a photographic mind.

“You remember every person who comes in here?” I ask skeptically.

“Most of ’em.”

“Right. Great. Well I, uh… have to be getting home. I live just around the corner.” I point in the direction of “around the corner,” as if to illustrate the fact that I have good reason to be walking by, and am most definitely
not
stalking this bar.

“I see.” He smiles again. “Well, come back soon, Lindsey Miller.”

When I return to the apartment, Jen is still in there with her dude. “Come back in a half hour,” she shouts through the door. At first it seems like fate—the perfect time for an eighteen-dollar martini.

But I don’t go for the drink. This time, I wait on the steps.

W
hen I wake up the next morning, Jen has already left for the airport. My relief is exhilarating.

I jump out of bed (the pullout futon, where I was stuck sleeping on the wet spot next to a thong-clad Jen, who snores, by the way) and realize that I haven’t really looked around the apartment yet.

And “apartment” is stretching it. For seventeen hundred dollars a month, at least we don’t have cockroaches. I know that in Manhattan, this is considered a really nice place to live, but it’s not much bigger than a walk-in closet. The three-by-four-foot “kitchen” consists of a mini-fridge, one cupboard and a hot plate. And the “bedroom” is the designated corner of the “living room,” which has enough leftover space for a small television, a coffee table (on which my suitcase is spread out like a gutted animal), a tiny hutch that fits a laptop computer, and perhaps a few pencils.

For a moment I feel a twinge of nostalgia for my beautiful suburban Chicago one-bedroom, which has probably been condemned by now due to the material buildup from my recent venture into nesting.

But why go there? No use in complaining. When you ask for New York, New York is what you get. Six months from now, when
The Pulse
has earned Gordon-Taylor millions of dollars and an impressive list of new clients, perhaps we’ll step up the living conditions a bit.