Citizen Girl (6 page)

Waa-waa
… the horn peals out as she strips off her bra top, her tassled pasties circling in figure eights.

Keenly aware of Buster’s touch, I look at Jack, who’s utterly transfixed by the large breasts, largely exposed, before us. Then I turn to Buster, who’s glancing sidelong at me, as if gauging my reaction, which I haven’t shown yet.
Boom-chicka-boom-chicka
. With a swift tug, Rosie jerks the G-string off her emaciated haunches and sends it flying toward our table. Jack’s hand reaches up as if we’re at Yankee Stadium.

‘You know,’ I say, intercepting his catch as she does a spread-eagle, her thorough wax job laid bare before us. The sequins drop to the table, unclaimed. ‘I think Jack’s a little tired.’

‘What?’

‘You’re tired.’ I kick Jack under the table. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.’

Buster pulls up his sleeve to check his watch and shrugs. ‘Okay … guess I’ll walk you out.’

‘Thanks,’ I smile nervously, pushing Jack ahead of me as he cranes his head, his eyes still riveted to Rosie’s
spread buttocks. I shuffle us out with Buster in tow, his expression unreadable.

‘Busted!’ Just in front of the exit a guy in an army jacket blocks our path, leaning across me to slap Buster a high five. ‘Dude, we’ve been waiting on line for an hour, but it looks like we got here for the good stuff.’ He turns to where Rosie is bending over again, her nose job visible between her muscled calves.

‘G, this is my colleague, Sam. Sam, G.’

Sam nods, eyes locked on the stage, as a waitress pushes past, her tray laden with steaming mugs.

A young woman squeezes into our huddle, blowing on her red hands. Sam’s attention still elsewhere, Buster makes introductions, ‘G, this is Camille, Sam’s fiancée.’

‘Hey. Oooh – Rosie’s on tonight! I fuck’n love her.’ Camille gently gyrates to the beat.

‘We have a table.’ Buster points to the seats we just vacated.

Camille gives him a thumbs-up and edges over to be eye-level with Rosie’s snatch.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say to Sam, whose fiancée probably has an extensive knowledge of football, which she exhibits while smoking cigars, and kicking his ass at Zarcon. Feeling deeply less than ‘down’ I give Jack a final push out the door and Buster follows, hunching his shirtsleeves against the cold.

‘Hope that was cool.’

‘Yeah, no, totally. That was totally cool.’ I nod like a Weeble. ‘Jack’s just tuckered, so …’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Actually, I’m tuckered. I went running this morning. Five miles. And then I went lingerie shopping … which I do, you know, once a month … just to be … not uptight.’

‘Where do you run?’

‘Around.’

‘Well, Sam and Camille are really awesome. Maybe another time?’ Shivering, Buster digs his hands deep into his pockets.

‘Yes, definitely.’

‘What else you up to this weekend?’

‘Mostly just camping out at Kinko’s.’ I nod into my scarf.

‘Hey!’ Buster points to a poster of Rosie promoting Monday’s Martin Luther King Burlesque Brunch. ‘We could meet for brunch. Ygames is closed.’

‘Oh, fun! Yeah, I’d love to. But,’ I inhale through closed teeth, exuding disappointment, as I scramble for any excuse to avoid sharing our childhoods over G-strings and granola.

‘She’s going to Career Services.’ Jack advances Grace’s agenda once again.

‘I am.’

‘How’re you getting up there?’

‘The train. I have to drop Jack back home for swim practice and it’s only a short bus ride from there—’

‘Hey, I have a car. I could totally drive you. I know this great clam place in Bridgeport. We could grab lunch on the way back.’

‘Oh, that’s so nice, but the train is really—’

‘Gross,’ Jack interjects.

‘Right, so let me drive you guys up.’ I get a split-screen flash of the return trip sans Jack; our entwined bodies passionately writhing in some sweet seaside motel; my mangled corpse bouncing along in his trunk.

‘Okay, great.’ Sex wins.

‘Cool. So, what’s your address?’

‘Four-oh-six East Seventh.’

‘Cool.’ He nods.

‘I’ll write it down.’ I fumble in my purse for a pen.

‘Nah, I’ve got it.’ Buster breaks into another wildly endearing grin. ‘Four-oh-six East Seventh. So see you …?’

‘Jack just has to be at practice by—’

‘One,’ comes Jack’s voice, muffled by the tightly corded fleece opening.

‘So, nineish?’ Buster asks.

‘Great! Wow, thanks.’

‘Okay, well, have a rockin’ evening. J, we have a game in development that could use test-driving. Think you and your friends might be interested?’ Jack bobs his head wordlessly. Buster clicks his heels together, giving me a little nod. ‘G?’

‘B.’

‘See you Monday at nine.’ He salutes.

Jack watches Buster return to the lounge, saxophone bleating out the door as he pulls it open. ‘Unbelievable. Un-be-fucking-lievable—’

‘Hey, language,’ I mumble as I tear my eyes away.

3. Make Lemonade, Dammit!

‘
Un. Be. Fucking. Lievable.
’ I bounce on my heels to keep warm as my watch registers 10.30, officially marking one and a half hours of standing in the freezing cold. I am furious. Furious at an epic level.

‘Language,’ Jack calls to me from where he sits on his duffle bag, munching a steaming knish.

‘Get up.’

‘Hey.’

‘Come on, Jack, we have to get going right now or you’re gonna miss practice—’

He stands and sticks the last of his snack into his mouth. ‘Just because Game Boy flaked, this isn’t my fault, so don’t get all—’

‘You!’ I glare at the sporadic stubble above his lip. ‘Don’t even – I can’t even – let’s just get a cab.’ He slings his bag onto his shoulder and follows me as I scurry over to Avenue A, weaving in and out of the street to flag a taxi. ‘Okay. Okay. So the upside, to borrow from our rainstorm-gets-your-clothes-clean mother, is that you’re getting to witness, to see what it’s like – what it
feels
like – when some man just waltzes into your evening and says, “Oh,
yeah! Sure !
Lemme drive you somewhere! Let’s have clams! Let’s watch a stripper!” With the, “Oh, I have a flyer to a nail salon.” How original is that, Jack? I
mean, I have, like, thirty menus to the same two Chinese restaurants. Does that make me charming? Does it, Jack?’ I throw his bag onto the back seat of the cab that’s pulled up in a stream of slush. ‘Slide in – Grand Central! – and then just not show up! Because you don’t want to
be
this person, Jack. You don’t want to leave people standing on a street corner at nine in the morning feeling rejected when it’s TWENTY DEGREES outside!’ I huff, crossing my arms in indignation as we snake uptown, the windows icing with the grime of civilization. I throw the door open at the station, jerking Jack awake as I toss a precious bill at the driver. ‘Can I have ten back? It’s not like we
asked
him. It’s not like I was
radiating
transportation neediness. So this is a lesson in watch-what-you-volunteer. Tell a woman she’s going to speak at a conference, let her speak at the conference. You can’t promise a ride and then have her make copies, Jack. You have to follow through. Raise your child outside the system, guess what she doesn’t know how to start, Jack?!
Her own system!
Because pasties aren’t art.’ We locate the train. ‘They’re pasties. That seat in the front—’

‘All aboard!’

‘It’s just no way to treat people.’ I offer my final thought as the doors slide shut.

Jack reluctantly pulls out his homework, his head slumping against the gray window. Making productive use of hours wasted primping, I borrow a cell phone from the businessman across the way, arrange for a ride from the station, and then feign napping to evade his expectant leer. Yes, as is the custom, in exchange for
your electronic graciousness, I will now pleasure you.

By the time we roll into Waterbury, the Robertses, one of Grace’s host of backups, are waiting in their station wagon, windshield wipers beating away the sleet. ‘Hey!’ Jack’s friend Xander waves from the car in a puffy yellow coat that makes him look like a hip-hop budgie. ‘Find her a job?’

‘Nah, gonna take more than a weekend …’

‘Thank you so much for the ride,’ I address Mrs Roberts, ignoring Jack’s depressingly astute observation. ‘My mom had a meeting with the trustees, so—’

‘No, no problem. My babysitter has the flu, so I’m chauffeur today. Okay, Xan,’ she says, addressing the rear-view mirror, ‘after swim practice, Dad’ll pick you two up – if he’s late, wait under the awning. Then you’re all going to swing by the Changs’ and collect Janie; dinner is pizza – remind Dad to pick it up and that Jack’s allergic to peppers. Oh, and I’ll get your new uniforms on the way home.’ I watch Jack and Xan nod along in the passenger-side mirror. Grace always did rely upon the co-parenting kindness of strangers.

When we pull up at the gym the boys pile out to join their friends dashing from idling cars to the cover of the concrete awning. Jack nearly runs off without paying my hug toll. ‘Um, excuse me?’ I catch him. ‘Come here, you.’ I lean through the window, wet snow falling on my hair, to give him a big squeeze.

‘Okay, you’re holding on tighter than Grace.’

‘Shut up. Listen, take it easy,’ I mumble into his hair. ‘Don’t let her drive you crazy.’

He pulls back and grins. ‘You’re gonna be fine, G.’

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. ‘I know.’

He pulls away from me until I’m just holding his sleeve. ‘Okay, so goodbye, then. Thanks for getting me up here.’ He tugs free.

‘I LOVE YOU, JACK!!!’

He sticks an arm back at me, his middle finger flipping skyward, as he jogs to his snickering friends.

‘So, should I drop you at Chatsworth?’ Mrs Roberts steers the car out the exit, harried in the middle of her daily routine, which clearly doesn’t break for a national holiday.

‘Actually, I’m going up to Wesleyan to tackle Career Services, so the bus station would be perfect if you don’t mind.’ I stare out the window at the sleet slanting down the fogged glass, feeling the absence of my brother. ‘Thank you so much for this.’

‘Not at all.’ She loops her headset around her ears with her free hand. ‘Wesleyan’s on the way to my client. Why don’t I just –’ she takes a chug of coffee from her travel mug before blindly returning it to its holder – ‘drop you directly?’

‘That would be amazing, thank you—’ But she’s already on her cell. I nestle back into the seat as she confirms her client’s address, a flower delivery to an in-law, a PTA fundraiser, a transatlantic conference call, and a dentist appointment. This woman has a
life, a family
, and a
home
, which I’m wagering isn’t predominantly held together with duct tape.

‘What time will you be done?’ Mrs Roberts pulls to a
rolling stop, sliding a sheaf of envelopes from her bag. ‘Would you mind sticking these in the mailbox for me?’

‘Sure.’ I pass off the bundle into the squeaky receptacle. ‘Um, about four o’clock?’

‘See you right back here at four!’ She screeches out of the campus parking lot.

‘Bye! Thanks,’ I call after her wistfully. Standing where the extremes of the Connecticut climate have warped the asphalt into small crags, I pull on my wool hat, insulating myself against the damp mist. As the fog eddies and swirls, the buildings of Wesleyan come in and out of view, an academic Brigadoon.

I recall sitting in my polyester cap and gown at graduation, imagining my return – the driver would help me out of my town car and I’d stride in, wearing a perfectly cut Gucci pants suit, to give a lecture on a burning issue of global importance. At the very least, I’d arrive for my ten-year class reunion the picture of triumph – accomplished, secure, debt-free. Important. Nowhere in my fantasy was I wearing frayed corduroys and side-stepping patches of snow. Nowhere had I been flicked off the finger of my employer. Nowhere was I poor, irrelevant, and freezing.

Determined to leave with at least four solid job leads, I clomp across the grass towards Career Services, past students groggily clutching their plastic mugs of dining hall coffee. I hold one of Butterfield’s side doors open for a cluster of girls dressed like Peruvians, who, come graduation, will be hoping their facial piercings haven’t left visible scars and spending their disposable income on
crap pantyhose with the rest of us. I follow them down the stairs to Career Services, surprised to find the steps lined with camped-out students. The waiting area is still painted the color of something left in the ice-box too long, but now the wood laminate bookcases hold dusty brochures from companies whose hiring freezes have made the
New York Times.
Despite the discouraging decoration, the floor is packed with eager collegiate mushrooms gripping the same questionnaire I filled out three years ago. Climbing between them, I take my place on line for the service window.

‘Excuse me?’ I ask, leaning in towards a prim, matronly woman standing behind the counter, her tight pin-curls secured with a slim grosgrain headband.

‘Yes, dear, what time is your appointment?’ she smiles as she highlights the next name on her list. ‘Forgive us, but we’re running a tiny bit behind today.’

‘That’s okay, it looks like you have a lot going on.’

The woman smiles, dropping her hands to the desk. ‘Goodness, do we ever. If you’re in the two o’clock hour you might want to go around the corner. We’ve set up some hot cocoa.’ Yes, that’s exactly what this job search has been missing: hot cocoa. And heated dorm rooms, a meal plan, and dollar movies.

‘So, what time?’ she repeats, her pencil poised to check me off.

‘Oh, I don’t have an appointment …’ Pleaseoh-pleaseohplease.

‘Well, let’s get you set up.’ Thankyouthankyouthankyou. She pulls out a large calendar. ‘Time permitting,
we take drop-ins on Wednesdays and Fridays for quick questions, but if you want to see the binders you can come back …’ She quickly flips several pages ahead. ‘How’s the twenty-first of March for you? Four fifteen?’

MARCH! ‘Actually, I came all the way up from the city today. I’m pretty familiar with the system, so if I could just poke my head in—’