Citizen Girl (22 page)

‘Who
THE FUCK
do you think you are?’ Guy shoves past me, the frigid leather of his jacket scraping my naked shoulder as he storms into my apartment. The shaken delivery man grabs a twenty from my paralyzed hand and shoves a plastic bag at me before taking off down the hall. ‘You’re here what – two months – and you think you have even the
slightest
fucking clue?! To go to
my boss
and tell him I don’t know
what THE FUCK
I’m doing?!’ he spits, red-faced, as he circles around like a caged Doberman in the flickering candlelight, his hands balled into tight leather-gloved fists. ‘What the fuck is
wrong with you
?!’

‘I —’

‘I did you a favor here, Girl. I went out on a limb for you – you have jack experience and this is how you thank me? By
fucking humiliating me
!!’

I recover a shaking voice, ‘Guy, no – that’s not at all what I meant —’

‘Nobody gives a fuck what you
meant
! ORhow you
feel
! I say “stop thinking”, then fucking do it! Don’t go tattling on me to Rex like a spoiled fucking brat!’ He faces
me in the darkness of the kitchen doorway, his voice a low growl. ‘It’s unprofessional, Girl. It’s amateur shit and it doesn’t speak well of you.
At all
.’

‘I’m sorry —’

‘You want to participate, you’re going to fucking participate.’

‘Thank you.’ Icy water slides down my spine and forms a puddle at my bare feet.

‘Thank Rex. If it was up to me, you’d be out on your ass.’ Guy pounds his right fist into the doorframe, dislodging the Man Ray still leaning where Luke left it. His gaze follows the nude outline of her body. ‘
Nice
,’ he hisses, stepping past it, then me, the door rattling shut behind him.

9. I Love LA

Proceed to checkout?

I click to an enlarged picture of Martha Stewart’s garden boots, racking up another half-hour of company time to the two weeks I’ve spent on-line, sexing up my résumé, and flat-out job hunting. Since the ‘stop-thinking’ directive, followed by the ‘if-it-were-up-to-me-you’d-beout-on-your-ass’ communiqué, and despite the endearing promise of ‘my-fucking-participation’ – nada from Guy. Guy, who hopped on a plane for LA promptly after leaving my apartment, who I haven’t heard a single word from since, and who hasn’t fired me – yet – even though he wants to.
A lot
. That Guy.

I glance over my screen for the billionth time at the occupied honeycomb of desks by the front. But no one –
no one
– is taking any notice. I’m physically so far removed from the MC action that Jordan’s latest offering could be moaning from my speakers and
no one
would venture over.

I give Grace’s birthday present unnecessary scrutiny, as it may prove to be the pinnacle accomplishment of yet another afternoon spent searching for the panacea to quell my Guy-induced Doris flash-backs.

Yes
, I click. I want to
check out
. Of this fear. This job. This economy.

As has become the daily routine since Guy’s departure, Stacey bounds across the office in her sagging raincoat, arms full of dry cleaning and mail, a shopping bag swinging from each elbow. While he’s forced me to idle, Guy has her running all over the city like a coked-up jackrabbit.

‘Hi, Stacey.’ I click back to a blank spreadsheet. ‘How’s it going?’

She passes my desk, pressing his loot to her chest as she fumbles in her pocket for his office key. ‘Here, let me help you.’ I jump up.

‘That’s okay, got it.’ She scoots inside, shutting the door.

I follow, leaning into the doorknob. ‘Are you sure I can’t give you a hand?’

She whips her head up. ‘You’re not supposed to be in here. Guy doesn’t want you involved with paperwork right now.’ She scoops up a stack of files and slides them into the cabinet behind her, locking it.

My cheeks sting. ‘When did he say that?’

‘Last week. Look,’ she ushers me out the door, re-locking it, ‘he’s pretty stressed managing LA. I wouldn’t read into it.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘No.’

‘I mean anything. If he said anything you can tell me.’

‘I just did,’ she sighs, moving away as she slings on her bag.

‘Stacey, I already know he wants to fire me,’ I admit to detain her. ‘I just don’t know when.’

‘Well, he hasn’t said anything like that to me.’

‘Oh. Okay. I guess that’s a good sign, right?’ I dart my eyebrows hopefully.

She picks the shopping bags back off her desk, bouncing them up against her chest. ‘Look, I have six hundred things I’ve got to get finished for him today, I’ve gotta get going.’

‘Okay,’ I say quietly, feeling the corners of my mouth start to twitch.

‘Girl,’ she softens, ‘he doesn’t really hesitate about stuff. If he was going to, he would have.’

‘Right!’ I say with false buoyancy.

‘Okay then,’ she huffs, winging back out.

And I’m back to being a good forty feet from humans again.

I stare through the glass into the empty museum of Guy’s office. Pacing the length of the transparent wall, I fight the reflection to make out anything that will reveal my fate – ideally a memo that says this is all building up to a surprise party in my honor – but Stacey has cleared every surface.

Back to
Hotjobs.com
. Casting my career net wider, I’m squinting at the ten-point font enumerating the requirements for joining the Army when my message light blinks on. This is it. He couldn’t even face me. With a sinking stomach I dial my code.

‘Hi,’ Guy spits through the earpiece. ‘We need a binder on the stuff you’ve got.’Kay? Great. Bye.’

‘
Yes!
’ I thrust the receiver victoriously in the air. I’m getting
actual
tasks – work I can
do
– stuff that I’ve got! A whole binder of it! Yesyes
yes
! Okay, the stuff I’ve got, the
stuff I’ve got …the
stuff
I’ve got? …
The stuff I’ve got??!!
I punch the air with my fists.
?!?!?!?

Torn between being the soon-to-be-fired asshole who sends everything and the soon-to-be-fired asshole who sends nothing, I dial his cell. Which blessedly he doesn’t pick up. ‘Guy, hi! It’s
so
good to hear from you. I hope you’re having a good trip. Hope the weather’s good. I’m totally happy to get you
what-ever
you need. Would you like me to include the focus group findings, or Magdalene’s prospectus, or the suggested changes for rebranding MC? Or are there additional materials you’re interested in? Just let me know and I’ll get right on it. Right on it! I’m at my desk. Thanks!’

In the minute it takes to assess the contents of my file cabinet and all the ‘stuff’ he could mean, my message light winks at me again.

‘Hi. Yeah. I don’t know how to make myself any
clearer
.’ Guy’s contempt is barely contained. ‘I want
signed affidavits
from
Magdiwhatsit
saying we saved their
fucking
lives. I want happy pictures of you presenting one of those
big cardboard checks
. I want a
full breakdown
of what my money is fucking
accomplishing
over there. Got that? All of it. Supplies, coffee, fucking taxi receipts, all of it. Bye.’

What his money
is
accomplishing –
is
as in present tense? Just kill me. I dial Guy’s cell again. Again he shunts me over to voicemail. ‘Guy, I would love to do that. Last we left off, this donation had not been made. Have you, um, made it or am I now authorized to do so?’

In a matter of seconds, the light blinks again. ‘Fuck, Girl, yes.’

I drop my head to my desk and pound it lightly before calling back. Voicemail.

‘Sorry, sorry. Yes, you’ve made it or yes, I should make it? Sorry.’ I cover my eyes and peek out between the slits in my fingers.

Bling! ‘You,’ he grunts.

I dial again. Voicemail. ‘Thanks, Guy! Great! No problem. So, as soon as you tell me who to pick the check up from, I’ll head right out.’

Hands clenched, I bite my lip and fix myself on the red light. Bling! I jam in my code and am met with a sigh of disgust. ‘
Not the real check
. Jesus, we’re not giving the actual donation
now
. Just go pledge it and get me some heart-fucking-warming presentation.
Okay?
Can you
handle that much
?’

I slam the phone back in its cradle, my heart fucking warmed.

‘Girl! Hi!’ Julia pulls back the door to her apartment, balancing a large accordion folder on her hip. Glasses low on her nose, wisps of blonde escaping from her loosened ponytail, cheeks flushed, she waves me in to complete what may be my last MC, Inc. task. ‘What a lovely surprise! I’m afraid we’re having a rather mad day.’ She gestures to the boxes filling the entryway. ‘Supplies just arrived. A load of paper products from Phillip Morris. Which is fantastic, but what we need is food to put on those plates. Guilt funding is so fickle.’

She walks away, leaving me to set down my prop-laden shopping bag and lean the absurd Ed McMahon-sized
cardboard check face-down against the wall – the check I practically had to dance atop the counter at Kinko’s to get on a two-hour rush, then practically had to blow a New York City cabbie to get in the cramped cab. I step around the cartons and follow her into the kitchen, which has been similarly overtaken. ‘That’s okay.’

‘I’ve essentially adopted thirty daughters, only our first family get-together revolves around immigration hearings.’ She flips through piles of papers on the counter.

‘How’s Moldova doing?’ I ask.

Julia sets down the accordion folder. ‘I’m paying for a room at the YWCA. It got to be a little too much over here, what with running operations from the living room.’ She pulls her glasses off and squints. ‘I do appreciate the cleaning job though. How does she seem to be doing?’

‘Her shifts are after hours, but Angel tells me she’s doing just great.’ I steeply upgrade his grumbles about finding her constantly on the computers instead of dusting them. ‘Julia, I’m so sorry about letting her run off without —’

She makes a wiping motion with her hand in the air to stop me. ‘She’s run off from me on more than one occasion. Don’t give it another thought. She’s a handful.’

‘Well, I felt really awful that I couldn’t get her anything clerical.’

‘She seems to be tolerating the cleaning.’ She smiles at me, acknowledging her overstatement. ‘And she’s extremely motivated – she’s already taken on studying for her high school equivalency exam.’

‘That’s great! Good for her.’

‘Julia?! Where did you put the pro-bono list?!’ a woman calls from the living room.

‘Blue folder! On the mantle!’ She grins at me. ‘Quite a p.a. system.’

‘Actually, do you have somewhere we can speak alone?’ I ask, eager to live out at least one moment of the fantasy that was this job.

‘Other than the bathroom?’ Tucking her hair back with her glasses, Julia motions for me to follow. I do, through the barely recognizable living room, where her elegant furniture has been replaced by three efficient workstations. Two young women and a young man, engrossed in their various calls and tasks, nod hello as I squeeze by into the long, box-lined hall.

‘I just need a minute, folks,’ Julia notifies them over her shoulder before we step into her beautifully appointed bedroom. She closes the door. ‘We’ll have to sit on the bed. It’s the only un-Magdalened corner I’ve left myself.’

I take a seat beside her on the pale blue silk duvet. Feeling an anticipatory rush, I turn to face her, one knee sliding up on the quilted fabric. ‘So I came to tell you that I, well, Guy – My Company has decided to award the funding to Magdalene.’

She shakes her head as if she hasn’t heard me. ‘Sorry?’

‘The million dollars.’

‘
All for us?
’ Her eyes widen. And I nod, smiling. ‘Oh,
Girl
! Oh,
God
!’ She wraps her slender arms around me in a tight hug. ‘Oh that’s
wonderful
!’ She pulls herself back
to hold me at the end of her outstretched arms, tears breaking in her eyes. ‘Thank you. Thank you, thank you,
thank you
! You have no idea, how much we —’ She shakes her fist in the air, her ivory bangles clattering together. ‘There is a God! And it’s you!’ She hugs me again, her infectious high making me laugh for the first time in well over a week. ‘Come!’ She pulls me by the hand and leads me briskly out to the living room.

‘Everyone,’ she announces, ‘this is Girl, Girl this is everyone.’ They wave tentatively. ‘AND SHE’S GIVING MAGDALENE ONE MILLION DOLLARS!’ She throws her arms up and her staff jump to their feet applauding.

‘Oh, no, please don’t,’ I blush.

‘I must open a bottle of champagne!’ Julia claps once more and jogs to the kitchen. ‘Now we can sign that lease! And buy food! And hire lawyers! What time is it? Can I still make it to the bank?’

‘Oh, Julia, I don’t have it with me,’ I call to her.

‘Right, let me get you our wiring information.’ I hear the clink of glasses being gathered.

‘No, this is just the pledge really, not the actual, um, donation.’

She appears in the kitchen doorway. ‘When will the funds be available?’

Four expectant faces stare. ‘I don’t know.’ If I’ll even get to be here for that.

Julia looks across the crowded space at me, but I can’t read her expression. Then she smiles, ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s still good news. We’ll have a toast.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say as the phone rings.

‘It’s Sasha.’ The young man reaches the receiver over to Julia. ‘She’s had her bag stolen at the shelter.’

Julia trades the glasses for the phone, her face clouded with concern. ‘Sasha? Where are you?’ The young man walks the flutes back to the kitchen, the toast forgotten, as the two young women resume working. While Julia talks Sasha through her options, I look over towards the entryway where my five-foot check awaits its photo-op.