Transit Girl

by Jamie Shupak

  “So was that the guy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The guy—the one you talked about in, I mean … the inspiration for your video?”

  “Oh. Yeah. It was.” I don’t offer up anything else and he doesn’t press. I don’t want to talk about JR to anyone who doesn’t know us, and besides—I can’t trust this guy anyway. We continue walking, silently now, across town to Sixth Avenue, where we head north. It’s still mild, even for the middle of September, and I notice that everyone we pass looks relieved, both to be finished with the work week, and for the Indian summer warmth in the air. I take in each person’s face I pass, small toddlers to the elderly, and everyone looks so happy. They’re bopping their heads to the music in their earbuds, or tossing their head back in laughter at a joke, or swaggering down the street with such confidence you’d think they were in the middle of a street-style blog shoot. I, on the other hand, feel like I’ve been run off the road and am waiting for the airbag to inflate and shield me from all the cheery chaos in front of me.

  “So I talked to Jake the boss-man while you were laid up in the hospital.” Ben’s voice interrupts the one in my head.

  “Oh yeah—did he ask you to get a shot of me with this thing on for your next post?” I pointed to the deconstructed back brace he’d insisted on carrying when he’d insisted on walking me home. I’m only kind of kidding about the post.

  “Yep—got a good one while you were sleeping with a nice trail of drool running down your cheek,” he says as he leans over and brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. I pull away and he quickly shoves his free hand back in his pocket. “No, I told him what a Ping-Pong master you were and the terms of our agreement.”

  “And?”

  “And he said we need to keep the text of my post up, but we can take the video down. Oh, and he’s a big fan, apparently.”

  There it was—the airbag I’d been waiting for since my life hit the guardrail. Maryann and Joe were going to be so happy. I was so happy—I’d saved my job. I took both of my hands and shoved him hard, Elaine from Seinfeld–style: “Get out!” He stumbles backward a few steps before catching himself.

  “Pretty strong for a girl with a broken back.”

  Is he flirting with me? I haven’t spent this kind of time with someone new, someone I just met, someone single, in god knows how long. Years? So I am clueless. Maybe it’s just been forever since someone teased me in a fun, playful, positive way. I have to admit, it feels pretty good, and I feel pretty comfortable around him, but I have to keep my guard up. These Banter guys motivated by that glowing screen of Web traffic are creeps. Maybe I feel so relaxed because I’m not attracted to him at all—I mean, he’s definitely not my type. Not that I have one, unless you consider drug-addicted, averse to showering a type. Or maybe it’s the painkillers still working their way through my system. But this walk home is the most relaxed I’ve been in months.

  “Hey Guiliana, didn’t you say you live on Perry?” I must have said so in my drug-induced haze, because I definitely don’t live there anymore. I look up and realize we had walked all the way from Houston to Jane, a good five, maybe six blocks past Perry. But this is perfect, because now we’re on Gemma’s street, and her couch is the only place I want to be right now.

  “Yeah, I do … I mean, I did. But I’m crashing at my friend’s place for now,” I say, not sure whether he’s going to start figuring this all out. “She lives right down this block, so …” My voice peters out as I extend my hand to take the back brace from him.

  “You got it?” I nod too many times as I try to think of what to say next.

  “Well, thanks for walking me home,” I pause and look up at him. If I’m five-foot-two, he must be at least six feet tall. I hadn’t noticed that before. Gotta love a tall man who double-knots his laces.

  “It was the least I could do after making you go viral.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I say, giving him a playful punch in the shoulder as I pivot towards Gemma’s.

  “So I’ll see you around?”

  “Probably not,” I call out over my shoulder. “Remember Dr. Macaroni’s orders?”

  “Ah, right—no more trouble. It’s going to be a boring week without you to write about.” I can barely hear him over the honking horns and barking dogs now separating us. I give him one last over-the-shoulder look.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  V-Dub is not happy. Actually, he’s fuming—and scaring me because I’ve never seen him like this. V-Dub is always the voice of reason, the guy who, in the middle of a bar fight, will get two drunk idiots to agree to walk away peacefully. He’s a kind, gentle guy, like a big teddy bear—though you’d probably hurt yourself if you crashed into his rock-hard abs. I know Gemma wishes he were a little tougher, but I just think she doesn’t know what’s good for her yet. Like I’m one to talk.

  I finally caved to her wishes—perhaps she’d want a stronger backbone for her best friend too—and told V-Dub the whole JR story. He’s been shaking his head so forcefully through each detail—from the smoking to the jail, to the text to the phone call, to her underwear to my bra—that I’ve been nervous about it popping off like they do in cartoons, and steam starts blowing out from the person’s neck. All of this would be unthinkable to anyone, but especially to a guy like V-Dub who is as loyal as a dog. And now, sitting across from him on Gemma’s couch, I’ve been waiting patiently, for what feels like ten minutes but has only been about ten seconds of silence, for him to respond. Gemma keeps asking him what he thinks, what I should do, and if he’s gonna kill JR … but so far, nothing. He’s staring into his hands, or the floor—it’s hard to tell—so focused that if I didn’t know better I’d think he wanted to kill one of us.

  He gets up and repositions himself closer to me, much closer in fact—in the same way Gemma and I sat the other afternoon, knee-to-knee. He’s so much bigger than I am and the warmth of his shadow makes me feel safe and secure. He places one of his giant hands on each of my shoulders, then takes a lung-filling gasp for air.

  He exhales, readying himself to finally speak.

  “You gotta go get that dog, G.”

  “What? Zelda?” I’m confused. I think maybe he’s confused. “No, no … I’m asking you about JR. What should I do about JR?”

  “You already told me what happened with JR. You told him it was over. Now you gotta go get that dog. She’s yours! You cannot let her live with those monsters.”

  “Wait, you think they’re living together?” I start to choke up again.

  “Who cares if they’re living together? That dog is everything to you, and she loves you, and your schedule is so much better suited to taking care of her. With their traveling and being god knows where for god knows how long at a time, no way. And the drugs in that house! No way in hell. Call him now and tell him you’re taking the fucking dog.”

  I catch Gemma perk up at the sound of V-Dub cursing and I can tell I have the same expression as she does. It’s like we just heard a priest curse. Neither of us have ever heard this anger, this sense of urgency in him. He leans over to the coffee table and grabs my phone. He takes a long look at it, knowing what he’s about to do is not going to be easy. He places it in my hand and takes an equally long look at me.

  “I’ve known you for a long time, G. You have to trust me on this. It’s the right thing to do. Call him. Call him now.”

  I look over at Gemma for I don’t know what—some reassurance, some help, maybe to get me out of it—but instead she goes along with his plan. “Zelda will stay here with us till you find a place. I already have a bed and bowls for her from the last time you went to visit him on a shoot.”

  “But it’s Sunday Specials,” I say, thinking of any excuse not to have to call him—at least not yet. “He’ll never hear his phone in there.”

  Every Sunday JR and his boys meet at Morton Street Tavern to watch football. It’s an all-day event, every Sunday, every se
ason. Not once has he asked me to tag along, even though I’m a huge football fan. None of the other guys bring their wives or girlfriends, he says, but I know these wives and girlfriends and none of them even like football. Still, every week I keep my mouth shut, put on a smile, and tell him to have fun. He usually stumbles home around eight, right as Football Night in America is ending, so we can watch Faith Hill sing the introduction song to the Sunday night football game. By then it’s almost nine, so I give him a kiss and say goodnight because I have to be up at 3:30 for work.

  “Try him anyway. If he doesn’t answer, you’ll go there and tell him in person. This can’t go on any longer—Zelda there with them, you here all alone. After what he did to you, he doesn’t deserve to have anyone love him, let alone poor innocent Zelda.”

  Gemma nods in agreement with him and they both keep their eyes trained on me, waiting to get up the nerve and dial. Each move of my finger to the phone feels like trying to lift that enormous set of dumbbells you see bulked-up guys at the gym bench-pressing.

  I slide the phone to unlock it.

  I look up at them.

  I hit the green phone icon.

  I look up at them.

  My hands and neck feel sweaty and my throat feels constricted. I go to click his name in my favorites list and pause again. I just can’t do it. I let the phone drop between the couch cushions and start to cry into my hands. I can feel V-Dub inching closer and then, wrapping his arms around me, he whispers in my ear that I can do it.

  “We’re here, G,” Gemma chimes in. “Do it for Zelda.”

  And with those words, I pick the phone back up and navigate right to his name, poking at it with my index finger. I place it to my ear and wait.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  I hear a click and I think it’s him. I gasp. But of course it’s not, who am I kidding?

  “This is JR, you know what to do.”

  Before it beeps, I hit end and throw the phone back down. I’m shaking and sweating, like I just escaped a mugging. But then I remember the caveat to V-Dub’s plan—that whole “go there and tell him in person” thing.

  “Alright, time to head to MST,” he says, back in his typical matter-of-fact tone.

  Guess he didn’t forget either.

  “I’ll come with,” Gemma says as she leans down to slip her shoes on.

  “No, I better do this on my own,” I say, surprising even myself. It’s true what V-Dub said—this isn’t about me, it’s about Zelda. I may not be able to stick up for myself yet, but I can surely stick up for her. I have to. I promised her that since the day we brought her home. I felt like we had ripped her from her family on the farm where we picked her up and were throwing her to the wolves—and by wolves I mean the loud, busy streets of New York City. She was petrified to poop in front of people, or at least that’s how it looked to me. So when she hunkered down to try on that first day—right in front of WXOU Radio Bar next door—I squatted right next to her on all fours, like a linebacker with his hands on the ground waiting for the quarterback to yell “hike.” JR snapped a picture of Zelda and me, position assumed, and it’s been my favorite photo ever since.

  No way am I going to let anyone else—especially her—play Mom to my baby. I raised her, and I’ll be damned if anyone takes her away from me. I lace up my sneakers and tell them I’ll be back in a little bit.

  As I open the door to MST, the smell of fried food and unshowered men hits me in the face. The place is full of loud TVs and even louder-mouth football fans. It’s probably at double capacity in here, making it even more difficult for the scantily-clad waitresses to make their way between the tables. They each have a Giants or Jets jersey knotted perfectly in the back, exposing their tanned, toned stomachs. Luckily, JR’s best friend Johnny is a redhead, helping me spot them pretty quickly, sitting at a round table in the front corner. I try to maneuver my way over.

  “Have some respect, lady, the Giants are playing.” I duck down and weave in and out of the traffic between their table and the one I’m trying to get to.

  “Hey Johnnyboy, how are ya?” I lean in and we embrace in our typical bear-hug fashion. It’s been this way ever since freshman year at UCLA. He’s always looked out for me like a brother.

  “Oh my god, G!” Johnny looks genuinely happy, but also very surprised to see me. “Wow, you never make it on Sundays—did you ditch yoga for li’l old me?”

  “I … I’m laying low for a couple days,” I say, not sure what he’s talking about. Yoga? I plaster on my spunky-morning-traffic-girl smile. I don’t know what JR’s told them yet, if anything.

  “Oh man, that was some video. You okay?” I smell the beer on his breath as he pokes his head around me. “Is JR with you?”

  “Um, no. Isn’t he …?” I stop myself. I look around the table and not only is JR not there, but there are no empty seats indicating that he’s at the bar or in the bathroom.

  And there’s that damn lump in my throat again.

  “Man, this is crap, G. He has to work every single Sunday. And you with your yoga—I never get to see you guys.” Johnny gives me a look of drunken endearment. “I miss you guys!”

  I feel like I’m going to vomit but I need to know more. I look up at the screen showing the Giants game and there’s sideline reporter Darren Clark, smiling, delivering the latest stats. The sun is bouncing off the metal bench he’s propped up against, giving him an angelic sort of aura. He seems so easygoing, so earnest, so honest, even. That’s the kind of guy I need to be with, I think to myself. Pretty sure he’s based on the West Coast, though. Not surprising. Things are always in the wrong place, even men.

  “Yeah, it’s been nonstop,” I say, clenching my teeth, but playing along. “That new series he’s working on is going to be the death of him.”

  “I know, right? I begged him to come today too. There are so many good games on, and it’s a huge week in our fantasy league. Like, dude, if you’re ever gonna see what Sunday Specials is all about, today’s the day to do it.”

  I can’t take it anymore; I’m so sick of being lied to. I grab Johnny by the shoulders and square him up face-to-face with me. “You mean to tell me he’s never been here for Sunday Specials? Not once?” The urgency in my tone gets the other guys’ attention, and for the first time since I arrived they turn from the TVs to us. Johnny looks around the table for help. He’s drunk, but I’ve just sobered him up enough to know that he’s fucked up. I can see his wheels spinning like he’s skidding over ice. “Listen, Johnny, I know he’s working.” I throw him a bone—it’s not his fault, after all—and I relax my grip on his shoulders. “He just always says he comes down for part of the games,” I say, trying to play my strongest sympathy card.

  “No, Guils,” he says, looking me dead in the eye. His drunken roar drops to a stage whisper, prompting the other guys to sort of lean in towards the middle of the table. Where before they were listening, now they’ve got to try and read his lips. “He’s never been here. Not once.” I wince like a boxer taking an uppercut straight to the jaw, but force myself to let him finish his thought. “When I called him today before the game he said him and Courtney were knee deep in developing a shoot schedule or something.” He pauses and gives me a long look. “Is everything okay with you guys, G? What you said on the video …”

  But he lost me once he said her name. Courtney. That was the only word I could hear. I let go of Johnny’s shoulders and take off out of the bar. Fuck him. How could he do this to me? I know I said it was over before, but now, this is it. No matter what I love you. They really are boyfriend, girlfriend. I know V-Dub told me to tell him that I was taking the dog, but now I’m going to dump off this goddamn ring, snatch Zelda, and be done with him once and for all. I don’t need to tell him shit.

  I start booking it up Hudson Street, replaying that text message over and again in my head—maybe even occasionally out loud too. It’s amazing how you can run down the street in New York City—not in workout gear, looking maniacally upset—and
no one gives you a second look. I make it to our place in record time with barely an ounce of breath left in me. My back is throbbing—I’m definitely not supposed to be doing anything athletic as per Doctor Macaroni, or whatever—and I’m huffing and puffing, but there’s no stopping me. I still have the keys on my key ring and as I grab them from the bottom of my bag, jingling on their way to the door, I can hear Zelda going wild. I’m here to free you, baby.

  You know how you can leave the room, come back a minute later, and a dog will freak out as if you’ve been gone forever? Well, it’s been days now, which in dog years is about ten forevers, so it’s quite the reunion. I roll around with her on the floor for a minute, kissing, petting, and snuggling like we’re in some kind of Disney movie. I’m so happy to have her tongue licking the tears from my face that for a second I forget why I’m here. From the floor, I catch a glimpse of my dusty Emmy on the mantel. Now I remember. “I’m taking you with me, baby girl,” I say in my best baby voice. “Don’t you worry. Mama would never leave you alone with him. Never ever ever.”

  Zelda follows me as I walk over to the counter, and I tell her to sit. “Mama needs a minute, okay?”

  I sit too, on a stool at the counter. The second my ass hits the seat, I really start to cry. Like the ugliest cry you’ve ever seen—lips quivering, nose snotting, and a symphony of moans and wails to soundtrack it all.

  I take a deep breath to calm myself and look down to Zelda. Like half my heartbeat pulsing from my ankles, I breathe, she breathes. I breathe, she breathes. We continue this way until I have enough oxygen pumping to my brain to think. As big tears slide off my face and stain my shirt, she keeps her eyes on me—and, without speaking a word, encourages me to do what I came here to do.