Citizen Girl (5 page)

‘Huh,’ the Starbucks aficionado peruses her Palm Pilot.

‘I could watch it at your place and we could work during the commercials,’ offers the
Ellen
fan.

‘Can’t. I just sold my TV on eBay.’

‘I got three hundred for all my bridesmaid dresses, but I can’t give up my TV.’

‘I watch at the gym. Two, please.’ She waves her cigarette-free fingers at the bartender to indicate their drink order. ‘H.R. never cancelled my company membership and it’s been, like, a year.’ She passes off a cup, but they remain rooted in my path.

‘You know, I ran into a woman last week who’s selling her used underwear on eBay – she’s getting
over a hundred
a pair.
That’s
how you really make money.’ They crane their heads. ‘See any cute Smiley Faces?’

Running an appraisal of my meager sellables – the roasting pan I don’t have an oven for, the ancient laptop that sizzled to an ugly death, my lever-less toaster – I shimmy around them to grab my paper cup of booze. Jack leaps into the air from a nearby throng, waving a handful of cards over the heads of the legitimately stickered. Thus prodded, I down the free liquor, exhale, and plunge deep into the swarm, glancing at the chests of every passing soul. After a full loop of the room, I pause to get my bearings beside a thick-necked man whose lapels are sticker-free. We exchange smiles and he flashes his leather jacket open in my direction, revealing a Crown sticker on the down low. ‘Hi!’

‘What’s up?’ he asks, shifting his paper cup to shake my hand. ‘Do you produce?’

‘Yes,’ I say definitively, swinging my hair over my shoulder.

‘Really. What scope do you work with?’

‘Multiple scopes! Big, small. Just completed a
massively
scaled production for an event in Ohio – it was a national thing. You know.’

‘Cool.’ He nods, the black light illuminating his bleached teeth through his skin, creating two macabre stripes. ‘We’re looking for people who have experience instituting systems.’ He hands me a brochure from his breast pocket and I catch a graphic of a satellite.

‘I
love
systems. Yeah, I had to put together quite a system to get this Ohio thing to run smoothly.’

He leans in to be heard over the music, enveloping me in his Remy-soaked breath. ‘How do you feel about Sun? Or do you prefer Microsoft?’

Um … ‘I’m really a paper person. You know, To-Do lists, index cards, binders. But systems are really important. God, just so … important. For example, this production system that I set up for our Ohio materials …’ He looks a bit lost. I switch gears. ‘I feel great about the sun, though. Just really good. Great.’

Yup.

He scans above my head, prospecting greener pastures. I hold up the brochure hopefully. ‘So, I’ll call you.’

‘Sure,’ he says, already past me, his jacket flapping shut.

‘He’s a dick.’ I turn to face an openly Crowned Oxford, the pomaded Caesar and pleated khakis placing him in
his early thirties. ‘He just comes to these things to pick up women.’

‘Ah, good to know. How much of an epidemic is that? This is my first one.’

‘It’s our third.’ Two women jostle in, unsolicited. ‘But this one is
way
better than last time, donchoo think?’ They grin their toothy grins and I reach for a second syrupy beverage from the tray carried above our heads.

‘I’ve only been to a few myself,’ he confides. We lean closer to hear him over the din as two more women join the huddle. ‘Anyway, I’m Guy.’ His blue eyes smile warmly. ‘And I really am hiring.’

Loud yucks from the ladies.

‘Really Hirable, at your service.’ I slice the space with my hand, taking his in one firm up-and-down.

‘And what are you looking to be hired for?’

Windowslaundrytoilets
anything
—

‘Well, I’ve been in social services for the past few years, but I’m looking to make a transition.’

‘Me, too, from unemployed to employed,’ the redhead guffaws. ‘We all worked for Priceline.’ They wave in tandem.

‘How long?’ Guy asks, cup at his lips, and we all lean another inch closer, forming a sound wall against the deafening Prodigy track pulsing around us.

‘Since school. We loved it.’ They sigh. ‘There was a masseuse on staff.’

‘Yeah. Sounds great. Anyway,’ I say, ‘I want to gain expertise in the corporate sector and eventually bring it back to those who can most benefit from it—’

‘Oh? And who are they?’ Guy turns away to deposit his empty cup on a passing tray. ‘I bet the travel discounts were sick,’ he addresses the Priceline posse, momentarily derailing my response. A cluster of Flashlights, seemingly using this opportunity to vent their frustration by starting a mosh pit, pounds towards us, leaving a trail of elbow-rubbing casualties.

‘Yes,’ I say as we collectively side-step. ‘So, my efforts thus far have specifically targeted feminist organizations—’

‘Smack my bitch up’ a young man sings along in my ear as he knocks a fellow mosher to the ground.

‘—But I’m
totally
looking to branch out.’

I extend a hand to the fallen woman, who stumbles to her feet. ‘Smack my bitch up’ She hops off, arms raised, throwing herself even harder against her toppler.

Guy, unjostled, is lost in thought. ‘Feminist. Cool.’ He reaches for cards from his breast pocket. ‘Ladies, My Company.’ The O in Company is the female symbol. We each hungrily take one. ‘It was a pleasure.’ He breaks into a magnetic farewell smile. ‘But I’ve got to spread it around.’ He makes it all of three feet before he’s engulfed by another flock of Flashlights.

Half an hour later, as I’m whoring out my last breath to creatively package two and a half years of photocopying and becoming-one-with-my-non-desk, the black lights cut and everyone, their teeth restored to natural ivory, blinks up into the fluorescents.

I lift onto the balls of my feet, scanning for Jack, and
lock with green eyes beneath tussled blond hair. ‘Excuse me, have you seen a fourteen-year-old trying to fleece people out of their business cards?’

He glances just above my head. ‘About yeay tall? Wesleyan sweatshirt?’

‘Uh-huh.’

He breaks into a Dennis Quaid grin. ‘No. Never seen him.’ I follow his extended finger to where Jack is talking to the DJ.

‘Thanks.’

‘Sure.’ We take each other in, smiling, the creases around his lovely eyes bringing a tingle. ‘Hi,’ he says.

‘Hi.’

‘So,’ he glances at my heart, ‘you’re a Flashlight.’

‘Yes.’ I raise my eyebrows, feigning job search enthusiasm despite his sticker-free chest. ‘Are you recruiting?’

‘Nah, I just came for moral support.’ He slides his free hand down into the pocket of his Diesels, hunching his shoulder up. ‘My roommate’s been laid off twice in the last year, so …’

‘You’re kidding.’

I’m shoved into him by the last of the tenacious moshers and he reaches out to steady me, leaving his hand on my lower back as he takes a nervous swig of his Remy. He glances over his drink into my eyes.

‘You were saying?’ I ask, flushing.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your roommate?’

‘Luke, right.’ He leans in, his warm breath tickling my
ear. ‘Kiss of death for any company. If you want to go under, hire Luke.’

‘Well,’ I slide back to smile at him, ‘there are so many companies looking to go under right now. He should definitely highlight that font on his résumé.’

He laughs.
And
she’s funny. ‘So, any leads tonight?’

‘Not really. Did your friend have any luck?’

‘He may. He left with a young lady who was seriously shit-faced.’ Charming.

‘Come on, this is getting lame.’ Jack bumps my arm. ‘Let’s go.’ He withdraws two fistfuls of business cards from his sweatshirt pockets and dumps them into my purse.

Green Eyes clears his throat. ‘What direction are you heading?’ he asks.

‘Thompson Square Park,’ Jack volunteers, pulling his sweatshirt tabs and closing the hood to a small puckered hole.

‘Oh, I’m meeting some friends at the Slipper Room. I can walk you up,’ he offers tentatively. ‘Or not. I mean, I don’t want to intrude or, um, anything,’ he stammers.

‘Uh, oh-kay,’ I say.

‘Okay,’ he says.

‘Okay, whatever. Let’s go!’ Jack pushes his face back out from the confines of his hood.

We weave through the crowds toward the exit, stopping where the coat racks have toppled, a heap of black wool on the Remy-sodden floor. ‘Shit,’ I mutter as I look down at an unaffordable trip to the dry cleaners.

Green Eyes squats amidst annoyed Blue Lights and begins to rifle the wet cloth with gusto. ‘The most important thing is to check the pockets. Last winter, I got back from B-bar and realized I’d worn some lady’s NorthFace home.’

‘So, what happened?’ Jack asks.

‘Well, her cell phone was in it, so I tracked her down –’ and now she’s your fiancée, great story – ‘but I never saw my ski parka again.’

‘I’m safe. No one else has a pink toggle coat.’

‘Pink?’

‘Yeah, pink,’ Jack confirms, shrugging on his recovered down vest.

‘This it?’ Green Eyes thrusts his arm elbow-deep into the pile and surfaces with peony-colored wool.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘Now you can remember me as the boy who rescued your coat.’

‘I’m not shit-faced, so that should help.’

His cheeks redden. ‘Ouch.’

‘Yeah. Kind of upsetting.’

‘I was just being a smart-ass. Not so attractive, huh?’

I shrug. ‘Not so much.’

‘Ah-ha!’ He stands, victoriously raising a black pea coat in one hand and pulling a sheet of paper out of the pocket with the other. ‘Show me another man here who’s carrying a flyer for Pinky Nail!’

‘Dare I ask?’ I pull on my own slightly damp coat, the sticky red Remy of my job search obscuring the coffee stain of my former employment.

‘Just can’t turn down a flyer.’ Now genuinely charmed.

As we shuffle with the exiting crowd into the stark cold I instantly regret ditching my pantyhose. ‘Who’re you?’ Jack plods between us, chewing his drawstring.

‘Buster,’ he says, fishing a wool cap from his pocket as we walk in tandem around the piles of frozen garbage bags. ‘Who’re you?’

‘Jack.’ He drops the tab out of his mouth. ‘Like Kerouac. G’s brother. What’s up?’ He pulls his hand out of his vest pocket and swiftly swipes Buster’s palm.

Buster pauses his gait to extend his hand to me. ‘Nice to meet you, G.’

I smile as I slide my glove into his, warmth permeating through the layers of wool and leather.

‘Ygames.’ Jack acknowledges the emblem on Buster’s cap.

‘Yeah.’ Buster drops my hand as we resume walking. ‘I design for them. You played Zarcon yet?’

‘You kidding?’ Jack tries to cover his awe. ‘Hey, how do you get to Level Eight?’

‘The bludgeon’s in the third chamber. Past the droid.’

‘That is so f’ing cool. I can’t believe you just, like, know that.’

‘I put it there.’

Back to me – ‘Fifty bucks for the droid with the job behind it.’

Buster laughs. ‘For hard cash I’ll see what I can do. Here’s my stop,’ he says as we reach the no longer aptly named Orchard Street, the lines outside the grungy drag bars just forming. Buster swivels around in the glow of
the Slipper Room’s blinking lights. ‘Hey, why don’t you two come in and warm up? On Fridays they do this retro show – it’s really fun. And they make a killer hot toddy.’

I hesitate, having not been on a date with Jack since the beach rental in Misquamicut. But Buster’s lovely forehead furrows entreatingly and the Brat Pack-styled lounge, a tonic to the earlier grungefest, glows behind him. ‘I could go for a hot toddy.’

‘Finally, some real nightlife,’ Jack mutters for Buster’s benefit as we step into the swiftly moving line of platinum-and ebony-haired women. They wrap their vintage furs close, stomping their combat boots to maintain circulation as we huddle above the steaming grate.

At the front of the line I offer my Connecticut driver’s license and the bouncer nods. ‘Not the kid.’

‘He’s with me, Al,’ Buster says, bumping fists in greeting.

Jack’s eyes widen at our escort’s cachet as Al waves us into the bustling warmth of the dark gold-toned room. Scott Joplin tinkles above the heads of the mingling audience, while, on stage, a refreshingly robust young woman tap dances in a wholesome ruffled bra and shorts, the sailor suit on the floor suggesting the earlier part of her act. We follow Buster as he snakes past the ring of vinyl booths decorated with glossies of by-gone starlets.

‘My friends aren’t here yet.’ His soft lips graze my ear. ‘Let’s just grab a table.’ He pulls out chairs for us at a small café round and sets us up with two toddys and a cider. Meanwhile Jack and I pivot our chairs to face the small stage, our toes tapping to the syncopated beat. As
the last few bars of ‘The Entertainer’ peal out, the dancer slides down into a split, arms in a V.

I lean over to Buster, who’s also grinning at the latter-day Shirley Temple. ‘Thanks for inviting us.’

‘Thanks for coming.’ He squeezes my hand.

‘I’d heard about the show, but I had no idea it was this enchanting.’

‘They’re reviving burlesque,’ he says, lifting his hand from mine to help pass our steaming drinks from the waitress. The next act begins, dimpled knees fanning in and out as she Charlestons her way across the stage in a flurry of ribbons.

For an hour, feather boas, playing cards, and pastel balloons flutter to the worn floorboards while I’m borne on a mellowing current of hot brandy. Between acts a man in a zoot suit and fedora jumps up to the stage. ‘Thank you, Cindy!’ People heartily applauding, Cindy peeks her ringlets out from the curtain for a final wave as Jack drops his head on the table and lets out a stream of bored air.

‘What?’ I lean over to him. He turns his forehead on the tablecloth to face me and rolls his eyes.

‘Don’t tell me you’re not having fun,’ Buster says. Jack jerks back up, feigning enthusiasm.

‘Well,
I’m
having fun,’ I say. Buster puts his arm around the back of my chair, his palm resting on my arm, and I find myself leaning in as if we’re the room’s oldest couple.

‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ The man in the zoot suit takes center stage once more. ‘And now … the star of our
show … Please clap your paws together for a little lady who needs no introduction … the delightful Rosie La Boom.’ A classic bump-and-grind horn-driven melody comes waa-waa-waa-ing out of the speakers as the next act struts on stage, her silhouette an exaggerated hourglass, immobile silicone straining beneath the sequined string bikini. Clearly we’ve made a departure from her sweetly themed predecessors. Jack sits up pointer-straight as Rosie bends over.