Citizen Girl (19 page)

‘Moldova,’ I say quietly, again attempting to gently place my hand on her small shoulder, ‘I’ll take over for a little while. Why don’t you go get some water?’

She throws me off, outraged. ‘No! I ask the questions – you pay me ask the questions.’

‘Yes, and you’re doing a great job. I just thought you’d like a break.’

‘Pay for the break?’

‘Of course.’

She shakes her hair back, the color returning to her cheeks as she points her fingers like a pistol and clicks her tongue, ‘Okay-dokay.’ She shoots a farewell at the traumatized room.

I take a deep breath and sense the group wishing they were doing the nicotine-enhanced same. ‘I’m sorry that we’ve gotten off track. I’d really like to ask you about
Ms.
for just a few minutes.’ They look skeptical.

‘The flier said
contemporary
feminism,’ someone groans.

‘Right, yes it did,’ I confirm. ‘So, which features of the magazine are your favorites?’

A girl on the aisle shoots up out of her seat. ‘My name is Lorelei? And I really resent being forced to sit here and listen to this crap? She had a choice and I resent being manipulated into retrograde feminist hype?’ The lip-gloss brigade nods furiously, their arms crossed even more firmly across their chests.

‘Actually, Moldova didn’t have a choice,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry about the digression. That wasn’t planned. So which features of
Ms.
are your favorites?’ I ask, anxious to get them back on track or I’ll be spending the weekend doctoring yet another stack of questionnaires.

The woman next to Lorelei chimes in to support her. ‘It’s just like, the whole magazine has such an ultra-narrow
view. The whole “victim” thing is so old. Moldova –’ she points towards the hallway – ‘supported herself. And I don’t feel it’s empowering to be so stuck in the negative – what we can’t do, what we can’t be – the
Ms.
thing is over.’

Chrissie, the same soft-spoken student who cheered on the Bunny Ranch, clears her throat. ‘Their sad stories make me want to crawl in bed and never leave my apartment.’ Her cheeks flush deeply to match the feather in her fedora. ‘I mean, I just really believe they exaggerate sexism to keep their readership. I kinda want to think of myself as more than just someone who’s here to be raped – thank you,
Ms. Magazine
.’

‘Amen,’ affirms Jason/Manson.

‘I see. Well, then how many of you are readers of the magazine? Can I get a show of hands?’

The women with the scrubbed faces throw theirs up.

Lorelei, apparently incapable of speaking seated, bounces to her feet again. ‘Don’t read it? Don’t buy it? Don’t support it? No thank you?’ She plops down to a wave of applause, mostly from Chrissie.

‘My Company is a much better model,’ Chrissie continues. ‘It’s about women being out and about in the world. Taking it on. Taking
care
of themselves in a
can-do
culture.’

‘It kicks ass.’

‘Thank you, Jason. And how many of you call yourselves “feminists”?’

The same four hands are extended. Jason/Manson adds his.

‘Why?’ I ask. The unraised arms remain clamped across chests, firm in their position. ‘
Why
wouldn’t you call yourself a feminist?’

‘We don’t hate men,’ one shrugs, speaking for the group.

I blink at them, my head filling with a dozen extraordinarily un-neutral tacks. ‘It’s not at all about hate. Or an enemy. It’s about equality and human rights.’ I grapple unsuccessfully for less leading language. ‘It’s about every one of you walking out that door, graduating, and leading a life where your gender doesn’t determine your salary, your welfare, your health care, or your safety. And there’s no reason that has to be at the expense of anybody else. Or your sexuality. It’s not a negative movement … it’s a positive one.’ I’m met with suspicious glares and a heaviness takes hold in my chest. ‘Okay, well then, that’ll do it.’ I force cheer and click off the tape recorder. ‘If you’d take a few moments to fill out the questionnaire, I’ll give you your payment. Thanks, everyone.’

I watch them scribble, pink fluff-tipped pens circling in front of their hunched-over faces.
Good news, Guy! We’ve got a bunch of half-naked
Ms.
-loathing, rather-be-labeled-Nazi-than-feminist Gender Studies majors just
dying
to be leveraged at the feminist company of your choice! And a whopping minority of four who’d rather stun-gun their soul sisters than have anything to do with you. No, it’s
totally
viable. Viable central
.

Cigarette in hand, Jason/Manson bounds out of his seat, squashing exposed toes with his work boots. He shoots me his best scowling come-on as he takes his money and the women strut after him, cell phones beeping
back to life and lighters primed. As the last stragglers file out heaviness gives way to panic. I tug on my coat and hear a familiar voice call from the double doors.

‘Darling!’ Professor Helen Wilcox exclaims warmly. ‘I was just speaking with your mother this morning and she told me those fliers all over the department are yours.’ Her winter white coat open and ivory scarf dangling, she strides elegantly down the aisle to embrace me. ‘Have I missed it? My seminar ran late.’

‘Helen, hi!’ I automatically kiss her cold cheeks and am met with a waft of Antonia’s Flowers, also Grace’s scent. ‘Yes, I cut it short after they disclosed their unmitigated contempt for
Ms.
’

‘The discomfort is intriguing, isn’t it?’ She smiles, adjusting her overstuffed white briefcase under her arm. ‘They seem to think sexism is something we invented to depress them. You look gorgeous. I see the private sector agrees with you. Here, walk me out. What were you looking to learn?’

I follow her through the doors, scanning the corridor for Moldova. ‘I was hoping to find a bevy of women who could help me figure out how to transform a beauty site into a feminist venture.’

‘Yes, Grace said you’re peddling Avon for Ann Coulter.’ She switches her briefcase to her other hip with a wry smile.

‘Oh, no, not at all. No, I’m heading up a philanthropic rebranding initiati— wait, sorry, she said
what
?’ My eardrums throb with adrenaline as my brain tries to repel Grace’s characterization.

‘Darling, a little rebellion’s good—’

‘Helen, I’m not rebelling. Does Grace think I’m rebelling? I’m not. I’m working.’ The bags strain against my fingers. ‘There aren’t a lot of job offers right now for “come, change the world”.’

Helen lets out a small peal of laughter. ‘Oh, darling, I know. Don’t mind your mother. She makes all the tough choices on paper. If she wants someone to have a job, she only has to write it in the margin.’ She pulls her scarf up and around her neck.

‘She wants me to start my own organization—’

‘She wants me to assassinate the dean.’ Helen kisses me goodbye as I pull the heavy plastic bags up against my chest. ‘But I’m content just to keep serving up heaping portions of depression for the third wave. Will I see you at the Chatsworth egg hunt this year?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Do. Take care, love.’ She turns into the stairwell, and I manage to summon up a farewell smile before starting towards the elevators. I spot Moldova down the hallway, tugging a bunch of brightly colored fliers for computer classes off a corkboard.

‘Going down!’ the elderly operator announces as I get in his car, decked out for St Paddy’s Day in green streamers.

‘Moldova!’ She leaps on, her eyes devouring the Doris-hued bouquet as the car drops. We jerk to a stop on every other floor, the metal arm clanging back and forth in time with the low thud of panic growing in my temporal lobe.
It must be viable. There
must
be feminist consumers out there
.

‘So! Gyirl! Tomorrow I begin?’

‘Begin what?’ I gulp cool smoke-tinged air into my lungs as we step onto crowded Waverly Place.

‘Work with you.’ Moldova grips Julia’s coat in both hands, the fliers jutting out of one pocket. I run my fingers over my eyebrows, returning to her and the jostling street. I move us into the park, past the dry fountain, through wafting clouds of pot, narrowly dodging a string of after-dark skateboarders.

‘I’m sorry Guy wasn’t clear, Moldova.’ I touch her cold fingers. ‘But the cleaning job is all that’s available right now.’

‘No! I
no
clean,’ she scoffs, twisting away. ‘I in cargo, no breathe. I go America work secretary and chain to bed. I no clean. I
no
clean.’ She slaps the back of her right hand into her left palm for emphasis. ‘Where you go from the clean? How you …?’ She shoots her hand up in a diagonal, like a departing plane, speaking in animated Slavic before stopping herself, searching my eyes. ‘Like your
Dynasty
. Like Joan Collins. I need good job. To be respect, to …’ She repeats the take-off gesture, holding her hand up in the air. ‘I have to. For my family. I have to! I no clean!’

‘I understand. Moldova, I understand about the cleaning. I want to help you, but I don’t make the decisions at—’

‘You got me cleaning job! Get me real job!’

‘I’m so sorry, Moldova, that is the “real job”. I had to pull strings just to get you the cleaning—’

‘Gyirl, I no clean!’ She jerks me around with her rough
nails. ‘I do many jobs! I very good work with the people!’ She shoves me back into the lamplight, Julia’s coat falling in a heap on the dirty cement.

‘Look.’ I raise my hand to loosen her grip so that I can bend to retrieve the coat. ‘I don’t have that kind of power—’

‘Fuck you!’ she spits, slapping it from my extended hand.

‘Fuck.’ I turn away from her.

‘If you’re Irish I’ll fuck you both,’ a male voice notifies us from behind a peeling tree.

Moldova bites the insides of her mouth as she lifts the camel wool and shakes it off.

‘Moldova, I’m so sorry.’ I take her arm, trying to move us out of the park. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘Fuck you!’ She jerks her elbow free. ‘I in your country – I come for work. I want real job.’

‘Moldova,
I
want a real job! I’m rebranding a company I know nothing about, run by a man who won’t even talk to me, for women I don’t even like!’

‘Thanks, Gyirl.’ She holds her palms up. ‘I no want to make you the trouble.’ She takes off running, followed by a stadium wave of catcalls from a line of hooded heads perched on steel railings.

‘Moldova! Wait!’ But she’s quickly gone from view.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I drop the bags, lower my face into my hands, and breathe deeply before gathering myself together and moving towards Sixth Avenue. Aware only of my sore feet and the frost swirling up my skirt, I find myself
turning into the warm glow of Babbo and shrinking into a corner of the bar by the window. Ordering a Scotch, I stare out at Waverly, watching weary commuters and students with dorms in prime real estate making their way home through the cold mist. How is Moldova even going to get home? I drain my glass and jog downstairs to the payphone. Got to get a cell.

‘Hi, you’ve reached Julia Gilman and the Magdalene Agency. Please leave a message.’

‘Julia, hi. I just wanted to let you know that Moldova came down to NYU to help me with a focus group and … she left from there. The thing is I’m not sure if she has a Metrocard or even cash. I mean, I’m sure you’ve taken care of that. But I thought you should know. So, if there’s a problem please call me at home. I’m so sorry I … let her leave without figuring out her transportation. I shouldn’t have … Right. So, I hope everything is going well and okay bye.’

The door to the ladies’ room opens and a couple spills out in a peal of giggles. His horn-rimmed glasses slightly askew, he devours her with his gaze as she straightens his tie, her face glowing beneath the heat of his attention. A last kiss and they undulate together back up the stairs, the force of their attraction encompassing the restaurant in its magnetic waves.

I feel Buster’s hand snaking up my spine, cupping the back of my neck.

That’s it. I need a boy-sized dose of distraction. My head needs a
night off
, my body needs a
night on.
So, I can a) get wasted and take on the bartender. Or b) just go get
what I’m gonna get from this boy. He’s made it clear what he wants. He’s made it clear what he’s available for. And I’m a Scotch, a failed focus group, and a whopping dose of maternal judgment into making this his lucky day.

I dial his cell. ‘Sam!’ Buster shouts into the phone to be heard over the competing music and laughter on his end. ‘Sam?!’

‘It’s G!’ I shout back, because one does.

‘Sam?!’

‘No, G!’

‘Dude, I got nothin’! The reception at my place is shit! Listen, it’s Three Forty-
Seven
Allen! Four A!’

‘It’s G! I wanted to see—’

‘You’re gonna miss your own party, dude! And yeah, bring whoever you want! See you soon!’

Yes. You. Will.

I dial him back, but his voicemail picks up. ‘Hey, it’s G. We just spoke, but you thought I was Sam. Anyway, I’d love to see you and it sounds like you’re having some people over, so maybe this isn’t a good time. But maybe I could just stop by for a drink and if it isn’t a good time then I could just, you know … wait in your bedroom. Or you could leave the party for five minutes, I mean, five minutes,
tops
. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. No strings. No talking.’ No way. I press ‘two’ to discard message.

I throw down some cash, knock back a second Scotch, and grab a hunk of sourdough as I depart, undaunted, to trek down Broadway.
Notgonnaoverthinkitnotgonnaoverthinkitnotgonnaoverthinkit.
I’m on my way to make something
happen and I’m not leaving Buster’s building until I’ve obliterated all my current anxieties with a whole new host of anxieties and see if they kill me. I’m going to throw myself into some inappropriate, ambiguous something with someone – Buster or a roommate or the building superintendent – that will keep my brain occupied for at least the next forty-six hours.

I round the corner to Houston and a group of men stagger into me wearing bright green bowler hats. As I delve into the Lower East Side, more revelers tumble onto the streets, brushing against me and flicking my hem as I pass. Then, at the corner of Delancey, a boy in a yarmulke, shamrocks painted on his cheeks, projectile-vomits green beer onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing my pumps. ‘Suck it, bitch,’ he croaks before the next heave. All hail, St Pat, local patron saint of sexual harassment.