Transit Girl

by Jamie Shupak

  “You’re supposed to tell me it’s going to be okay again.”

  He smiles. “Of course, it is. It’s just that … well, Bantering Ben also chimed in.”

  “What? That asshole!” I grab for my iPhone and stab at the Banter icon. Eric leans forward and I navigate to the homepage.

  “I’m sure that Jake Spears made him follow up …” Eric says, but I’m not listening to him. My brain is busy trying to digest the bomb that’s lighting up the tiny screen in my hand.

  From the Boom Boom Room to the … Big House? It just got even uglier for New York City’s cutest Trans-It girl, Guiliana Layne. Really ugly. Her (ex-)fiancé—about whom Layne was seen rapping her own lyrics to “I Got a Feeling” just this last Wednesday night—tried to have her arrested for dognapping. Yep, dognapping. And it doesn’t stop there. No, our favorite morning personality decided she wasn’t going out like that, so she rammed her diminutive frame into the arresting officer’s chest and locked him out. After a brief standoff, she was finally taken down to the station, along with her dog, and charged with assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest, and yes, folks, dognapping. The New York Toast isn’t reporting whether or not Layne made bail last night, so the question I—and everyone else—want answered is this one: Will she be on air this morning, giving us an alternate route out of the snarl on the Gowanus? I don’t know, but I sure am going to tune in to find out. And one more question, while we’re at it: What will her bosses, who were none too pleased with her antics the other night, have to say about this new rendezvous with the law?

  Editor’s Update: If she does show up to do the traffic, we can only hope she’ll be sporting orange, so we can get a glimpse of what she would look like in a jailhouse jumpsuit. As always, we will post any updates from What the Fuck is Guiliana Layne Wearing? throughout the morning, and G, if you’re reading this, remember, you can put a collar around us and tell us to “sit,” “stay,” or “heel” anytime you want.

  I fall back in my chair, defeated.

  “You have to admit, it’s a little funny.”

  “It’s not funny at all, Eric! And it’s 4:26—half hour to showtime—what am I going to do? Put on an orange sweater and get on air?”

  “Go for black and white stripes—it’s funnier.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Eric gets up, but keeps my gaze in the mirror. “I’m totally serious. Put on some jailhouse stripes, do your job, and be ready to laugh at yourself. That’s the best thing you can do right now.” He walks towards the door. “Don’t worry about Maryann and Joe—I’ll talk to them after the broadcast.”

  I sit there for a second—not really stunned, not really surprised, just kind of numb. And then because I can’t think of anything better to do, I decide to follow his advice. I dart up to my studio and rummage through my closet where I keep extra outfits in case of a stain, until I find a black and white striped shirt from H&M. I tuck it into my dark red pencil skirt as I flip on all my TVs. Four minutes later, Eddie in master control comes in over the mic. “And you’re live in five, four, three, two …” I hear Eric in my ear, setting me up as I stare the camera down. “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, did you see this adorable video of a guy from Queens reuniting with his dog that had been missing for two weeks?”

  I mastered the art of choking on the inside and smiling on the outside a long time ago. Time to showcase my skills. “You bet I did, Eric. What better way to start off your Monday morning than with this cuteness? Who doesn’t love a good dog/owner reunion?”

  “Exactly. Well, it is the first commute of the work week, so what do you have for us?”

  “We’ll take a look at the roads in a moment, but first on the rails we have a few problems to tell you about. There’s police activity at the Bedford Avenue station in Williamsburg causing delays on the Manhattan-bound L train, but all your regional rail lines are on time.”

  I take a breath and catch the clock in my peripheral vision. Thirty-eight seconds left.

  “The scene on the roads is a fairly quiet one, especially if you’re heading out on the West Side Highway where a disabled vehicle just cleared southbound by Ninety-Sixth Street. In the Bronx, we’re cleaning up overnight construction at the George Washington Bridge, and the same goes for the lower level of the Verrazano heading onto Staten Island. Alternate side meter rules in effect today citywide, and stay tuned, we’ll be right back.”

  “And you’re clear.” Eddie’s back in my ear. “See you again in thirty minutes, Guiliana.”

  Breathe. I did it.

  Just then, Angel walks in, smiling and clapping. “Well if it isn’t the little jailbird herself. I have to say, I’m impressed you made it in after all that.”

  “They’re gonna fire me, aren’t they?”

  “I hope they at least wait a few days, so we can see how this all plays out on Banter. Did you see how many clicks Ben’s post got? I mean, come on, G, I haven’t seen that kind of number since congressman what’s-his-name sent pictures of his junk to an intern on Twitter.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Angel. And they took Zelda—they’re giving her back to JR. I lost everything.”

  “You know what you need?”

  “A vacation.”

  “No, G baby. You need a night out at Splash with me and the boys. Forget about JR, forget about Zelda, forget about everything in the world and come party with your favorite gays. I promise it’ll make everything better.”

  I can’t help but laugh at his suggestion. Angel always knows how to lighten the mood and make me smile. “Splash, sure. Whatever you say. Let me make sure I still have a job, then we’ll plan a celebratory night out.”

  He hugs me, then quickly prances out of the room, and I don’t see another soul until noon, when Eric walks into my studio. I’ve had to pee for about two hours but I’m afraid of who I’ll run into in the hallway so I keep my legs crossed, the way I did when my Dad wouldn’t stop at the rest stop on our family vacations. “Alright, G. I think we have at least something to work with … for now. Maryann is going to talk to you later on, maybe tomorrow.” He fidgets with some papers on my desk. “I did my best to calm her down, but she’s pretty upset.”

  The pit in my stomach overtakes my desire for a pit stop. All morning I’d been surrounded by the comforts of my routine—weather reports, sports scores, traffic updates—and somehow in those seven hours I’d convinced myself that everything was back to normal. I did show up for work, hours after being in jail. That has to count for something.

  “Hang in there, okay?” He pauses before he’s out the door. “You were really good up there, by the way. Very poised—for a criminal.” I throw my makeup bag after him and he reappears with it, tossing it back to me. “Oh, speaking of redemption—I forgot to tell you: I hope you can write, because I got your boy Ben to agree to let you write a redemption post on Banter.”

  “A what?”

  “A redemption post. A first-person account from the Trans-It Girl herself.” He grins. “He did give you an option B, but I don’t think you’ll be into it.”

  “What, record another video?”

  “Close. He says he’d be willing to write it for you in exchange for a date but I said that’d be a tough sell.”

  “Seriously. That’s all I need to do right now, start dating another asshole.”

  “Well I guess you best get to redeeming yourself, then.”

  CHAPTER 14

  It’s my last day of suspension before going back to work at NYNN, and I have so much to do. Eric did his best to calm Maryann down, but she still booted me for two weeks. I could have lost my job altogether, so I guess I can’t complain. Catching up on some sleep has been nice. And so has moving into my new apartment. A cute one-bedroom opened up one floor above Gemma, and I jumped on it. We may have stalked the couple since we heard them talking in the elevator about moving. They got pregnant and would need ano
ther bedroom; they would also need my best homemade brownies, as it turns out. Hey, anything goes in New York real estate. Plus this would give me full, easy access to Gemma’s wardrobe and shoe closet. It’s also good to have her around for decorating advice.

  I have one foot on the step stool, one up in the air—balancing like a flamingo—trying to hang way above my bed the one picture I brought with me from my old apartment. I push up through my tippy-toes and stretch my arms to full extension, hammer in hand, nail clenched between my front teeth.

  “Little more to the left. But be careful, G,” Gemma says warily. “If you fall your back is shot.”

  “Shhhh, I almost got it,” I murmur through pursed lips. And then my phone rings, snapping me out of my focus. I lose my equilibrium and tumble onto my bed.

  Gemma sees that I’m okay, then leans over to the dresser and grabs the phone. “Greg Advertising? Who’s that?”

  My eyes widen when I hear his name. “I told you about him. Just hit ignore. I’m not talking to him on the phone! What would I even say?”

  “Good girl. Never answer the first time they call,” she says. I’m getting decorating and dating advice. “What is this, 1997? Let him text.”

  “He already did the other day, after I ran into him at Trader Joe’s. I was getting all the stuff to make my spicy guacamole for Richard and Adam when they were helping me move furniture. You remember, I met him last year at a work event. He does advertising for the parent company of NYNN. I didn’t know his last name—and you can’t ask someone that sort of thing—so I put him in my phone as Greg Advertising. We wound up talking for a lot longer than I expected, and he helped me pick out ripe avocados.”

  “Now this is hot. Avocado picking.”

  “Oh stop, Gem.” I give her a look. “He caught my naked ring finger, and I caught him smiling at it. Then he straight-up asked me if I was single, and it was weird ’cause I don’t think I’d said it out loud yet.” I look up at her and can tell she’s praying that I didn’t mention JR’s name to him. “Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything. I just said yes.”

  “Wait, this is HUGE. You had a conversation with a guy and didn’t mention JR? How could you not tell me this? Is he hot?”

  “Oh yeah. He’s like six-three, six-four maybe, with a smile as wide as the watermelons next to us,” I say, sitting up and putting my hands in the air to demonstrate how big I mean. As I continue to describe him to her—every line on his face and slang phrase from his mouth I can remember—it occurs to me that this is the most fun part of being single so far. Recounting the run-ins with guys to Gemma is so much better than the actual run-in itself. The excitement, pride, and hope in her face is all the encouragement I need to keep going. “And he has this whatever attitude, like nothing matters. It’s so refreshing. And you would love his surfer boy hair—laid back, no gel, no fuss.”

  “Man, my next guy’s gonna be a surfer boy. I wish V-Dub wouldn’t wear as much gunk in his hair.” She puckers her lips and does her best Zoolander face to sort of mimic how perfect V-Dub always looks.

  “Stop it. So he texted me: ‘Great to see you, I hope next time it’s not just a random run-in at the produce department.’”

  “Oh my god, G,” she says, excitedly. “He totally wants to bang you. I’m texting him back right now for you.”

  “Wait, what are you gonna say? Let me write it,” I say, grabbing the phone from her. “Shit. What am I supposed to say?”

  “Just say, come over and do me.” I give her a look. Not a second later we crack up, because we both know that’s exactly what I want to say. Instead she grabs the phone from me and scrolls through to catch up on our conversation from last week.

  “Oh, he’ll totally come over tonight if you want him to. He said he loves Tortilla Flats! I mean, c’mon. No one loves Tortilla Flats except a guy who knows that a girl he can make out with lives around the corner.”

  “You think? What do I say?”

  I lean into her as she starts typing. HEY YOU, BUSY DECORATING MY NEW APARTMENT. WHAT’RE YOU UP TO?

  One new text message from Greg Advertising.

  RIGHT, HOW IS THE NEW PAD? YOU FREE FOR A DRINK TONIGHT?

  “See?” She starts doing a little dance with her hands in the air, hips thrusting in front of her. And then she breaks out into song: “Someone’s getting laid tonight. Someone’s getting laid tonight.”

  I can’t help but laugh, but we have other business to take care of first. “What are you gonna say back?”

  “Nothing yet! G, you have to let him sweat it out a little. He can wait an hour … or two or three. Trust me. You need to write this Banter thing, anyways. And let’s finish hanging this stuff.”

  My excitement about Greg Advertising quickly turns to anxiety. Sidesplitting nerves, actually. I can feel my stomach muscles clench like after a tough Physique 57 class. I look around my new apartment and think, Maybe I’m not ready for this at all. The texting, the game playing, the sex—who am I kidding? I’m not even settled into this place yet. It’s like adjusting the driver’s seat when you get in a rental car. First you move the seat forward and back, then up and down. Then you adjust the rearview mirror, followed by the side-view mirror. But each tap of the button moves it just a tad too much one way, and you have to tap it back with just the right amount of oomph to get it where you want it—not an easy thing to do, finding that sweet spot.

  Not that I don’t love living alone. I don’t wait up for anyone, and I don’t wake up for anyone. I watch what I want on TV, I order what I want for dinner—or sometimes just pour myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios—and I am the master of my own thermostat. Some nights I am out until 3 in the morning, when normally that’s when I’m waking up for work. And you know what the best part is? I don’t have to explain it one way or the other to anybody.

  But I am still trying to get used to not having a dog in the passenger seat, tongue wagging out the window as I cruise along. Life without Zelda is hard. Even though I can now stretch my legs out to what feels like the Middle East on the other side of the bed without getting tagged “bed hog,” it feels empty there without her. I miss the small but powerful heartbeat emanating from my ankles. I miss her fur brushing up against my arms. I miss her wet kisses in the morning when she was ready to go outside. I know I did everything I could to keep her, but I just can’t help but feel as if I abandoned her. But it was the only way I could get JR to drop the dognapping charges. He had the audacity to have his lawyer call me and relay his terms: “Mr. Wright is willing to drop his civil case against you if you relinquish all custodial rights to the dog and promise to stay 500 feet away from both Mr. Wright and said dog …” Her name is Zelda, you prick. It killed me—but I had to let him have her. When I bought her, I filled out Zelda’s pedigree registration with JR’s name. I thought it would the icing on an already awesome birthday gift. But now in the eyes of the American Kennel Club and, apparently, the law, JR is her legal owner. Jason told me to fight it, to keep her, and even offered his legal services to help me win her back. But I was walking on eggshells at work—dry, fragile, ready-to-crack eggshells—so I had to put this thing to bed quickly.

  I had been so concerned with the don’t lose your job and fiancé in the same day thing that I hadn’t even thought about what it would feel like to lose my baby Zelda.

  So I’ve been distracting myself with home decorating for the past two weeks and trying not to think of her cuddled up with Courtney—that homewrecker—watching TV. I’m also trying not to think about this Banter post I’m supposed to redeem myself with. I’ve had time, but the two-week suspension has flown by. And it was actually useful. Usually, when you move, you buy some new stuff to mix in with the old stuff you brought with you. But I didn’t want anything from my old apartment. I didn’t want anything that JR ever looked at, touched, or bought with his money. I took my clothes, shoes, and jewelry and left everything else for him to do with what he wished. Except for that yellow painting from my Mom’s childhood bed
room, everything is new, new, new. Everywhere I look—from the new tan curtains, to the new lime-green jewelry case, to the new green tea scented soy candle on my nightstand—says new. It’s all there, screaming at me, waiting for me to catch up to its excitement.

  Gemma finishes hanging the painting for me and, catching my wandering eye, knows exactly what I’m thinking. She sits down next to me on the bed and puts her arm around me. “It’s going to all feel normal soon. I promise.” She hands me my phone, which is vibrating again.

  One new text message from Bantering Ben.

  HEY GUILS, HOW YOU HOLDING UP WITHOUT ZELDA? HOPE YOUR BACK PAIN ISN’T KEEPING YOU FROM WRITING THAT REDEMPTION POST :) KNOW WHEN YOU’LL BE DONE?

  “Dick. Why does he have to bring up Zelda? And my back?” I hold the phone up for Gemma to read.

  “Maybe he’s just trying to inspire you, help you relive your topic …”

  “All he’s inspiring right now is a post about how much I can’t stand men who text smiley faces. What’s up with that? Trying to be cute,” I add, “but there’s just nothing cute about it.” My phone lights up again.

  One new text message from Bantering Ben.

  AND REMEMBER, THERE’S ALWAYS PLAN B.

  “What’s he talking about?” Gemma says, reading over my shoulder.

  “He told Eric he’d ghostwrite the post for me—if I go on a date with him.” Repeating those words aloud gives me a new resolve. “Gem, I’m gonna write him back and tell him I’m working on it. Maryann said she wanted the post to go live tomorrow anyway so people are buzzing about it the next day when I return to work. I’ll call you when I’m done so we can figure out what to say to Greg Advertising about tonight.” She smiles, sensing a confidence change in me. “I have got to get laid already.” Hearing me say the words she’s been waiting for, she jumps on me and gives me the biggest bear hug, like a proud mama sending her little cub out in the wild for the first time alone.