Transit Girl

by Jamie Shupak

  Today Erica and Angel are an obstacle course of people and conversations I’d like to avoid. I look around the vast room of desks and cases of awards and plan the route I’ll take to my office. I decide to hug the perimeter, cutting a path outside the spacious offices occupied by some of the station’s higher-ups: news director, assistant news director, and managing editor.

  The newsroom ceilings are high but they’re covered in low-slung fluorescent lights, which are all off at this hour because no one who works in this part of the newsroom comes in until at least 7 AM There’s nothing glamorous about this room, or any part of the station, in fact. It’s just like our on-air product: no flash, all function. The walls look like they were originally painted a sunny yellow—one of the station’s logo colors—but the last time they’ve seen a paintbrush must’ve been at least a decade ago. They’ve since faded to a dull ecru, giving the place an even older, retro feel. Depressingly off-white might be a more accurate description, which is exactly the shade I am as I catch a glimpse of myself in a makeup mirror on another reporter’s desk I walk by.

  I head slowly down the hallway to the other part of the newsroom, where the morning team is feverishly typing scripts and cutting video for the morning newscast. I can hear the click-click-click of the keyboards and the back-and-forth between Erica and Angel about which stories should lead, which will have a live reporter assigned to them, and which should be killed. I brush past their quad of desks, sort of nod my head, and quickly turn the corner. Angel tries to catch my eye, but I avoid his gaze. He will lose it when he hears this, but I just can’t drop this bomb on him—not here, not yet. I’ll just keep to myself today—I can do this.

  I’m in the middle of my third internal pep talk when I finally get to my office, which doubles as my studio. I can breathe now, at least for a moment. I flick on the lights and grab for the remote to turn on all six of my TVs: my main NYNN TV, a smaller one for our sister channel on Long Island that I do traffic reports for, and four mounted on the wall that I keep on competing stations to see what they’re covering. To the uninitiated, it is an overwhelming setup reminiscent of the TV showcase in a Best Buy—so many screens, so much noise. But I know my way around this organized chaos, and nothing can throw me off my game here. My finger lingers on the mute button this morning, savoring the din.

  Beep. Beep. Beep. My phone cuts through the noise like a truck horn, and for a second, my heart stops.

  One new text message from Mom.

  SOUNDS GOOD, SWEETIE PIE. CAN’T WAIT TO CHAT!

  Mom again. God, if only she knew. Her text message prompts me to start replaying the other one—yea, that one—over and over again in my head. I’m so sorry you’re in jail baby. We’ll get through this, I promise. No matter what I love you.

  I feel a tickle in my nose, a lump in my throat, and I start to cry.

  As I walk back downstairs to the makeup room, I think about a time when JR said those words to me, back when we were sophomores at UCLA. I’m straddling him in his top bunk in his room in the frat house that he shared with two other guys. The ceiling hangs so low that when I extend my arms above my head to touch it, they bend at the elbow—a perfect way to stabilize myself during sex. I move myself back and forth on him, moaning louder with each thrust. He helps to control my motion with one hand on my lower abs, the other at the bottom of my back. We pause to laugh about how we didn’t even make it to the football game because we shotgunned too many Natty Lights at the tailgate. But when else can you have sex when you live in a triple? I take this intimate opportunity to pry into his psyche, as unsure college girls do, and say, “It’s just … one day we won’t be skipping football games to screw all day. I’ll be saggy … and …” I pause when I catch his hazy eyes, taking me in—all of me, from my tousled hair to the perfectly waxed hair below. We’re still moving lightly against each other, maintaining our rhythm like joggers at a red light, when I ask him if he’ll still love me when I’m old and saggy.

  “No matter what I love you.”

  There’s something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold. I wipe my wet, tearful eyes and check the time. 4:10.

  Once again there’s a light out here in the makeup room—a room that, much like the newsroom, looks like it hasn’t been painted or touched for ten, twenty years. Not an ideal setting to transform sad-looking eyes into TV-ready glamour, but I have no choice. So I start into my daily routine: primer, concealer, eyeliner, then eyeshadow. Next is foundation, then powder to set, followed by filling in my eyebrows and dabbing extra concealer under my eyes. Today I’m shellacking this stuff on. Then bronzer, then blush. The final step, though, is what I am most fearful of today. I’m not sure how I’m going to put mascara on and make it last, without looking like a crazed raccoon who forgot to take her antianxiety meds. But I know that just as I showered, got dressed, and made it in here, so too shall I get through mascara-gate.

  Eric walks in as I’m lifting the L’Oreal Voluminous wand precariously to my eye. “No music today, G? What is this?”

  Eric Stone is not your stereotypical anchorman and definitely not like the ones I had worked with at other stations. For one, he’s not a smarmy egomaniac like Stevie Morris from Chicago. And he’s not a dirty old man like Brad Kinney in Miami who would mentally, then verbally, note the neckline of my shirt or dress each morning. Nope, Eric’s reputation is as perfectly polished as each strand of chocolaty-brown hair on his head. As I look at his bare face and slightly undone tie, I see regular-guy Eric, not TV Eric, and I almost start telling him what just happened. But I can’t. I’m still getting to know him, and I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of drama queen. Plus I can feel more tears waiting to escape from a ball in my throat.

  “Wow, sorry. I’m a little tired today. Here, let me …” I say as I fumble with my iPhone. Every morning I DJ the makeup room for us with a shuffling of songs through the decades. It depends on my mood, but some days it’s an Otis Redding tune from Dirty Dancing. I love Otis; he’s my favorite. Well, next to Ray LaMontagne, I guess. Other days it’s the latest Jay-Z/Kanye West collaboration. Whether it’s the Grateful Dead or Lady Gaga, it’s always turned up to maximum volume until Eric walks in, when I bring down the decibels so we can discuss anything that’s occurred since the previous morning. (Nope, nothing to see here; keep moving.)

  I hit play, and of course “Part-Time Lover” comes on. Eric starts humming along, and I can’t find the next button fast enough. Sorry, Stevie, not today. My finger stabs at the pause button instead, and I feel myself starting to freak out as I frantically search for something to play—something preferably not about clandestine affairs. I pause for a minute and pretend to scan an email. “Oh shit, I have to reply to this …” My voice trails off as I grab my makeup and my hair iron before Eric has time to ask who’s urgently emailing me at 4:30 AM.

  “See you on TV,” I call back over my shoulder.

  Back in my studio, I wire myself up with my microphone and IFB—the earpiece TV people wear in order to hear the producer or director during the show. For me, it’s those two people, plus Eric, who I talk to each morning. Just like the din from my TVs, it feels nice to have someone else’s voice in my head for a while—someone other than Courtney’s, or even my own. I stick a wet Q-tip under my eyes to make sure my mascara hasn’t turned on me already and apply another quick coat of lip gloss. I look in the mirror and take a deep breath. You can do this, Guiliana. You can do this. I step into the bright lights in front of my even brighter green screen and adjust my hair and necklace around my microphone, just like I do every other morning. But it’s not every other morning. It’s September 13, and I just found out the man I love, the man I was going to marry, is sleeping with his twenty-two-year-old assistant.

  “And you’re live in five, four, three, two …”

  I don’t feel nervous when I hear Eric say my name, cueing me up through my earpiece—I’m in cruise control. “But before we get to the weather, let’s go
to the traffic center and Guiliana Layne with a look at the morning commute. Hey G, starting to feel that change of season, huh?”

  As the green on-air switch lights up, so do I. “Yep. Things felt pretty different when I stepped outside this morning, that’s for sure.”

  Breathe, G, breathe.

  “And unfortunately I don’t have much better news on the rails. The A train is suspended from West Fourth Street to Forty-second Street because of a police investigation, so keep that in mind if the A train is part of your morning commute. As for the roads, it’s a busy one this Wednesday morning.” I take a breath.

  “We begin at the Lincoln Tunnel, where a car fire is blocking access to the north tube trying to leave the city, so you’re gonna have to take the Holland or George instead, heading to New Jersey.”

  Breathe.

  “To Brooklyn we go, where the northbound BQE is jammed from the WillyB to Queens Boulevard. And if you’re hopping on the Belt Parkway by JFK Airport, get ready to sit in big-time slow downs westbound all the way out to Flatbush Avenue. Alternate side is in effect today citywide. Eric, back to you.”

  Breathe.

  “And we’re clear. See you again in thirty minutes, G.” I’ve never been so relieved to hear those words. I look at the clock. I got all that out in one minute, right on schedule. I take a quick peek in my hand mirror. Mascara? Check. I’m struck by how normal I look, like it’s any other day. On the monitors glowing in front of me, it is any other day. The traffic is ebbing and flowing, inching forward and then swarming together in clusters of red. I sit down at my desk and watch, waiting for the clusters of red to break and things to start moving forward again. I’m looking for answers.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  One new text message from Gemma.

  WHAT HAPPENED, G??!?!?!?!? COME OVER

  I have to lean all of my body weight into the heavy revolving door of Gemma’s building on Jane Street to make it spin around. I feel like a toddler trying to push their dad down during football lessons in the backyard—it’s almost impossible. I’ve circled through these doors almost as many times as I have those to my own building, but the familiarity does nothing to calm any of my nausea or confusion. Since Gemma quit what she thought was her dream job (being the right-hand woman to a certain stylist-to-the-stars) and moved back from L.A. about five years ago, I’ve been coming here almost every single day, so I don’t have to tell the doorman who I’m here to see. He knows I’m heading to 24J.

  As I get off the elevator I check my phone (12:16 PM) and say a little thanks that Gemma runs her own business, which means she’s home in the middle of the day to field my emotional crisis. I’m so relieved to have made it through work and to her place that I fling open the door so hard it bounces off the wall and almost back in my face. She embraces me the way only a sister can, though technically she’s not related to me at all, of course. She holds me as I lose my breath, then my balance, and eventually all ability to even stand. I’m like a rag doll in her arms. She guides me to the couch and all but tosses me into my favorite corner of her tan suede L-shape and grabs for the blue fuzzy blanket behind me. It’s barely chilly outside and it’s actually pretty warm inside here, but I’m shaking.

  “I’m freezing.”

  “Let me get you some water, Guils. You don’t look so hot. Have you eaten anything?”

  “I can’t … wait, Gem … let me …”

  She walks over to the fridge and my eyes follow her every step. As she opens the door and it swings in my direction I wince as I catch a glimpse of the framed picture of us clipped into a magnet. I remember that night like it was yesterday. It was Gemma’s birthday two years ago. We got so drunk because JR and her boyfriend Luke were both out of town for work. Our faces are smushed together—“like two Gs in a pod,” as our moms like to say—and our two intoxicated smiles are almost joined into one. “Will you be my maid of honor?” is spelled out in brightly colored sticker letters along the border. As if I even had to ask her.

  Gemma grabs for my shaking hands under the blanket and makes sure I have a firm grasp on the glass of water before she lets go. Then she puts the blanket back down over both of us. We’re sitting knee-to-knee, Indian-style. I glance down at my phone in my lap: 12:32 PM.

  “I’m gonna kill him, G,” Gemma says. “And if I don’t, Luke will. Tell me. Tell me everything.”

  I take a deep breath and start to cry. “Gem, I c-c-c-can’t … believe … this is happening. Wait, p-p-p-please can you promise me something first?” She nods. “You can’t say anything to anyone about this because once everyone knows, they’re gonna want me to pack, end it, and move out. And this might be a huge mistake, what he’s done. I mean it, no one. Not my mom, no tweeting, no nothing.”

  She nods again. “I mean, Luke saw the look on my face when we were Gchatting this morning. So he knows something is up. But I won’t tell him anything else …” She pauses, looks at me, then continues. “Yet.”

  Luke van Walken (or “V-Dub” as we often call him for short—“V” for van and “dub” for double-U) has been around almost five years now, and he looks as buttoned up as his name would suggest. I think he’s a classy dresser, always professional-looking in a perfectly tailored suit. Gemma says it reads too uptight-old-man for her, that he should lose the tie clip or pocket square. They got together right around the time JR and I moved in together, and although they don’t technically live together, he spends most of his nights at her place. He says it’s more convenient to get to his office in Midtown, but he’s not fooling anyone. Likewise Gemma says she wants to wait until her styling business is a bit more stable before they get engaged. The two of them are like the worst poker players ever—we all see their bluff.

  I don’t have it in me to argue with her about how much she says to Luke, so I keep stuttering through my tears. “F-f-f-f-irst of all, I don’t even know when he’s coming home. He was arrested again; he’s in jail.”

  “Oh my god, it’s exactly like your graduation! Remember? You called me on your way to bail him out at the police station, that son of a bitch.” Told you she doesn’t hold back.

  “I know. He had that same annoyed look in his eyes this morning. It was like, screw you and whatever plans you have, to go to graduation or work or whatever. The rules don’t apply to me. I can smoke pot where I want, when I want.”

  I look up from my glass of water. I had been staring into it, wondering what it would be like to be the water—to feel no emotion, no heartache, no betrayal—wouldn’t that be nice.

  “I just don’t know what to do, Gem. She texted him ‘no matter what I love you’ and she was with him when he got arrested. I mean, they’re like boyfriend, girlfriend.”

  “Wait—so you were sleeping, and the cop came and woke you up? And what the hell is she doing with him at three o’clock in the morning? Then what, she goes home and texts him? I can’t. I can’t! What a dumb little whore. I’m gonna kill her.”

  “I mean, I should have known. They’ve been so close for so long now. Remember when I went to visit them last year on the set of The Real Housewives of Dallas and she picked the room right next to his in their production house, the only two rooms on the basement floor? She told me they would get high together every night and go over the shoot schedule for the next day and it was perfect because the rest of the team wouldn’t bother them. When I told him that it wasn’t cool—them smoking together, sleeping on their own floor, while I was back in New York—and that he should be sleeping with the rest of the guys on the team upstairs, he told me I was crazy.”

  I can tell Gemma’s furious. She’s got the most thick, gorgeous eyebrows—the kind every girl plucks, brushes, and wishes for her own—but she does this thing with them when she’s mad: she scrunches her face so tight that the two thick, beautiful lines over her eyes come together to form one giant unibrow. It’s the only time you’re not jealous of them.

  “The only crazy one here is him, G. Crazy not to know he’s the luckiest guy on the f
ucking planet to have you as his fiancée after all the shit he’s put you through.” She’s standing up now. “Crazy to think he can screw around with this little girl and not get caught.”

  “Do you think they’re sleeping together? Has he been cheating on me this whole time?”

  “I mean, Guils. I remember the day you met JR, your very first day at UCLA. You called and told me this gorgeous guy came up to you at a party, you talked all night, he walked you home, and then you stopped him from trying to make out with you because you were still going out with David.”

  “Oh, David. Life was so much simpler back in high school. I wonder if David’s on Face—”

  “Guils! Come on. When you told JR you had a boyfriend, he said, ‘Who cares, I have a girlfriend.’ He doesn’t get it. He never has!”

  “But I wound up breaking up with David a week later after I went with JR to his lacrosse tryout. Plus we were seventeen and eighteen years old! We were babies. He’s my family, Gem. Families go through rough patches. They don’t just break up.” Now I was the one scrunching my eyebrows in fury.