Transit Girl

by Jamie Shupak

  “Just like I tell V-Dub it’s just work. Or just like Jake Spears watching your video is just work. Whatever you say,” Gemma sasses.

  “I bet Jake Spears is a great fuck,” Angel chimes in.

  “Oh man, what I would do to that guy,” Gemma adds.

  “Alright, that’s enough, you two. I’m wearing these,” I say, holding up a pair of dark, tight jeans.

  “Fine,” Gemma says. “Just please put a little more makeup on. He’s used to TV G.”

  I slip on my favorite off-the-shoulder gray sweater, and because it hangs off me just so, I put on the one red bra I own. There, the red that Gemma wanted. As I apply my eyeliner and add another coat of mascara, I realize I may look the part, but still have no idea what I’m doing. I feel like Zelda when we first brought her home from Ohio. She was so clumsy, sliding around the apartment on her puppy paws. She was so nervous, trying to get acclimated to the loud city streets. So naive about the life she had just begun. I miss Zelda.

  “I have to head home, but Gemma says she’ll walk you there,” Angel says, interrupting my thoughts. “But show me this guy’s avatar again. He’s hot, right?” I slide to unlock my phone and open Twitter to bring up his profile picture for examination. It’s small and blurry.

  “He is kinda cute, right?” I ask. “I mean … from what I can see.”

  Gemma switches her gaze from my phone to her own. “Here. He spells Straits like Dire Straits, right?” She starts typing his name into Google. “You need a better idea of what he looks like before you walk into this bar.” As we wait for the results to load, I glance at the time. 6:53.

  “Shit, you guys! I’m gonna be late!” I grab for my keys and purse and dash for the door. Out on the street, I kiss Angel goodbye—he loves that one-on-each-cheek-kiss thing, like he’s European or something. Then Gem and I head in the opposite direction but slow to a brisk pace. I don’t want to seem desperate, or sweaty—and we still need time to catch up on the Dylan Pierce–V-Dub situation.

  “You’re not a horrible person if you want to end it,” I jump right in. We turn onto Greenwich Street to head towards the Meatpacking District, and I can already almost see the Gansevoort Hotel, where Tanuki Tavern is, so we don’t have much time. “But I just … I don’t think you should. He’s so good to you.”

  “But he gets so crazy jealous every time I have an event with Dylan,” she says, waving her hands in the air angrily. “It’s work, why can’t he see that?”

  I feel like I’m hearing JR’s refrain from the summer. I need to get that point across without making the direct comparison. “Sometimes work relationships can become more than just work relationships.” Okay, maybe I need to work on my subtlety.

  “I am not like them.” She looks at me with those scrunched eyebrows, pissed at my accusation.

  “But you’re spending more time with him than you should. That’s all I’m saying. Think about it from V-Dub’s point of view. When the event is over, you can leave, but you choose not to.”

  “Maybe I just want to be single,” she says, giving me no chance to respond, because we’ve arrived at the bar. I get a sinking feeling inside, wondering if JR said the same thing to anyone, just as nonchalantly.

  “Don’t do anything drastic while I’m in here,” I say. I’m like an Olympic gymnast, trying to find the balance between supporting and warning her, straining to keep a straight face even though my legs are wobbling beneath me.

  “I won’t, I promise.” I see her crack a smile and think maybe I got through to her. “I’m gonna sit here for a few and respond to some emails before I head home. It’s so nice out tonight! Text me if you need me.”

  I wish I had time to see what Gemma’s Google image search had turned up on Taylor, but instead I take a deep breath and push open the door. I think I know what he looks like, but I’m not totally confident. I squeeze by the people sitting at the bar and hope he’ll spot me first. A handsome man, probably in his early forties, catches my eye as I shimmy past his table. “Guiliana.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. This guy doesn’t look much like the picture I saw on Twitter, but that was about as big as my thumb.

  “Taylor? Hi!” I lean down as he stands up and the cool, casual cheek kiss I had planned lands awkwardly on the left side of his mouth.

  “Well, at least buy me a drink before you try to get me in bed.” I’m horrified, and he can tell, but at least Gemma would be proud: I’m wearing a red bra and a red face. “Here, sit.” He pulls out a chair for me, smirking. “How slammed is the Staten Island Expressway right now?” Whoa. We set this meeting up on Twitter, not Craigslist. As I’m struggling to come up with a response, another handsome forty-something gentleman approaches our table. “Guiliana?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hey, I’m Taylor.” He leans down and successfully kisses me on the cheek. “I see you’ve met my friend Jake.” I nod as Jake continues to smirk.

  “Jake is the editor in chief over at Banter,” Taylor says, while folding himself into the remaining chair. “I see you two have, um, met?” He looks at me and continues. “Surprised you haven’t tried to kill him for posting that ‘Blurred Lines’ video of you.”

  “I don’t see why,” says Jake as he turns to look me dead in the eye. “If I looked that good in neon, I wouldn’t be embarrassed about anything.”

  I guess Ben wasn’t lying about catching him watching it in his office. But I have to say something. I have to make light of this whole thing. “I bet you look great in neon.” Not exactly what I had in mind, but I see Taylor chuckle. I need to work on my witty comebacks.

  “Excuse him, G, he was just leaving to meet his wife for dinner.” Taylor gives Jake a nod and then gives me a shrug. Wife? Okay. “He can’t help it that he’s a dirty old pervert—that’s what running a gossip rag does to a man.” Nodding, Jake pushes back from the table. “It’s true, I can’t help it. Great meeting you, Guiliana. I so enjoy you on NYNN in the morning. I told your boy Ben that. Did he pass along the message? If not, I said those tits of yours have given me great pleasure …”

  “Alright, Jake,” Taylor says, interrupting him. “Get outta here.”

  “Alright, but only because I’m a gentleman.” He turns from Taylor to me. “Guiliana, again it’s been a pleasure.” I offer him my hand this time, instead of my cheek, and he kisses it tenderly. An electric current snakes up my spine as he pulls away. What is going on with me these days, I think as I watch Jake disappear into the crowd. Even older married men are turning me on.

  I place my just-kissed hand on Taylor’s shoulder as a friendly gesture. “Let’s get some drinks, shall we?”

  He miraculously gets a waiter’s attention and I go first, ordering a Patron on the rocks with a splash of lime juice. Gemma insisted I get a dirty martini (“That’s what single girls drink” and “Guys think it’s hot”), but that seemed too desperate and cliché. I’m glad I got the tequila so I could sip slowly. I am learning to drink like a single woman—no more vodka tonics or draft beers that I drank for years with JR. This is a new Guiliana, a Guiliana who drinks real, adult cocktails. Taylor follows my lead, ordering a Hendrick’s on the rocks. Over the first round, we make small talk about NYNN and Eric, of whom he is a huge fan. But by the time our second drinks arrive, we’re knee-deep in the JR breakup story. I’m trying to skip ahead to the part about the Banter post so I can find out exactly what he wants from me, but he seems fascinated by the details.

  “I just can’t believe you found out he was cheating on you, and then you showered and went to work,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You are something else.”

  “I can’t call out an hour before work,” I say matter-of-factly. “Who else would they get to do the traffic? And besides, I didn’t want to stay in that apartment at that moment anyway. Work was the perfect escape.”

  “I’m just so sorry all that happened,” he says looking at me now like my dog just died. She sort of did, I guess. But I hate when people look at me like th
at.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” I say smiling. “I’m much better off.” Time to change the subject and get on with it. “So you liked the post?”

  “Liked?” he says, smiling. “We loved it. And did you see how many uniques it got?” Great—another guy whose mind revolves around clicks and pageviews. I need one of those like a fish needs a bicycle. I shrug my shoulders, “I just think it’s hilarious that people care about what I do. I’m just a normal girl who happens to be on TV.”

  “Well, we would love for a normal girl to write a normal dating column for the magazine. Tell us what you see, what you like, what you don’t like … whatever happens … we want to know about it.”

  “Wait, what?” I almost cough up some tequila in shock. “You want me to write a dating column? But I know nothing about dating!”

  “That’s the point. It’ll be so fresh. So honest. So you. People already feel like you’re their best friend from watching you do the traffic. They’re rooting for you, Guiliana.”

  Rooting for me. Huh. I love how Twitter is starting to feel like my giant cheering section, making me feel like I can do anything—making me feel less alone. “Well, I’m honored. Thank you. I’d love to say yes, but I need to ask my agent and see what NYNN says too. They’re usually pretty cool about people doing outside projects, but I’m not sure they love how I’ve been spending my free time lately.”

  “Totally. I’m more than happy to talk to any of your bosses for you, if you need.” He raises his glass and nods his chin, gesturing me to lift mine as well. “Let’s say a premature cheers to Level’s new dating columnist.”

  I raise my glass and clink it to his. “Let’s hope that’s the only premature thing happening in my future.” We laugh, then say our goodbyes. He says he needs to use the bathroom before heading home, so I walk out alone and literally have to rub my eyes to make sure I’m not seeing things. I’m definitely tipsy from two drinks, but not that drunk. Jake and Gemma are sitting on the bench together—the one I left her on, alone, over an hour ago.

  “Look who I met,” Jake says in his typical perverted tone.

  “It’s so nice out and we figured, hey, it’s October. There won’t be many more nights like this, where you can sit outside without a coat.” Gemma’s the worst liar.

  “Well, it’s past my bedtime,” I say, putting my hand on her shoulder. “Ready to go home?”

  She looks at me like a kid not ready to leave the playground. “Well … we were …” I squeeze her shoulder super-tight as she stutters. No way I’m leaving the two of them alone. “… just saying goodbye. We were just saying goodbye.”

  As we walk away Gemma jumps into a recap of her entire conversation with Jake, and I’m only pretending to listen. I take out my phone and scroll through emails and Twitter. Then I realize I never even listened to Greg Advertising’s message, but my ears perk up when I hear her say something about getting drinks with Jake this weekend.

  “You know he’s married, Gem.”

  “He’s going through some stuff. And so am I.”

  “Well, take it from Level’s new dating columnist. I don’t care what kind of stuff he’s going through. If he’s married, then he needs to go through it with his wife.”

  “Wait, what?” She turns to me, shrieking with excitement. “Dating columnist?” She jumps on me, squeezing me like that same proud mama bear after I had sex with Greg Advertising.

  “If NYNN says okay, then yeah. And my first piece of dating columnist advice is if you even want to think about making out with Jake Spears—like, even consider the possibility—then you better break up with V-Dub first.”

  PART II

  CHAPTER 19

  I’m standing on the corner of Thirty-Fourth Street and Seventh Avenue, teeth chattering, legs shaking—though I’m not sure if it’s because of how freezing it is or how nervous I am waiting for J-Baker to arrive. I just hope I don’t miss him among the throngs of tourists clogging the sidewalks, shoulder-to-shoulder commuters on the escalator out of Penn Station, and excited Knicks fans heading into Madison Square Garden for tonight’s game. Not helping the dizzying amount of traffic are the mountains of hardened snow piled high on every street corner from last week’s Thanksgiving storm. Each is surrounded by puddles of freezing cold slush that, like moats around a castle, prevent you from accessing the curb. Taxis and buses blowing by are kicking up the dirty sludge, right onto my new wool coat.

  My plan was to stand here looking cool as I waited—I even brought the Business section of the New York Herald with me so he would think I’m up on the latest news from his real estate investment world. I’d much rather read the Arts or Styles section, but this is Jared Baker we’re talking about—the guy every girl wanted to be with at UCLA. He was one year ahead of me, but because he was in my brother Richard’s fraternity, it meant hands off. Not that I wasn’t with JR anyway. Remember that guy? He would die if he knew not three months after us breaking up that I was on a date with J-Baker. Especially since they’re polar opposites, what with J-Baker looking like he was ripped from a page of the latest J. Crew style guide. Everything about him is perfect—the body, the hair, and that smile. It’s not one of those full-grin, high-wattage ones like Sloane “Smiley” Riley, but more of a pleasant, confident smirk that seems effortless. The only problem is that his emails are just as nonchalant. That’s how he first got in touch with me, by replying to my acceptance of his LinkedIn request.

  from: jaredbaker@gmail.com

  to: guiliana.layne@gmail.com

  date: December 6

  subject: re: Jared Baker wants to connect with you on LinkedIn

  hey guiliana,

  been a while. saw you and Eric bantering about yesterday’s knicks game and you made me laugh with your comment about carmelo anthony. aren’t you a celtics fan?

  I’m a knicks season ticket holder, so careful not to offend.

  —JB.

  I immediately forwarded it to Gemma and my friend Lucy Klein, who had the good fortune of making out with him one night at UCLA. The fact that he never acknowledged her after that night didn’t matter; she touched the untouchable, conquered the unconquerable. At least in the seven or so years since college she hasn’t lost her sense of delusion.

  from: lucy klein

  to: guiliana.layne@gmail.com; gemmastyling@gmail.com

  date: December 6

  subject: re: fwd: Jared Baker wants to connect with you on LinkedIn

  REEEDIC. can’t deal. he wants you! he totally wants you! listen, he may not be the most warm, affectionate guy … but he’s hot and that’s all you need right now. and—more material for your dating column.

  Material, right. I wonder if he knows I’m writing for Level. My first column was just published yesterday, so maybe he hasn’t seen or heard about it yet. There was so much chatter on Twitter about it, though, that it’d be weird if he didn’t. Maybe I’d do well to be with a guy who isn’t on social media, or at least doesn’t check it incessantly. Then again, maybe I should have been a stand-up comic instead. I’m just glad the response was overwhelmingly positive to my Three First Date Don’ts. My NYNN bosses approved, my parents got a kick out of it, and even Ben—Mister Incessant Checker himself—agreed with number two, that you shouldn’t be on your phone on a date.

  I get it; you have a lot going on. We all do. But for the few hours we’re together—and it’s not like it’s a surprise we’re meeting up (you did schedule this, after all)—put your phone away.

  I take mine out when I feel it buzzing from inside my pocket, and based on the text message J-Baker just sent me, it looks like he definitely didn’t read my column. Number one: Don’t Be Late. We were supposed to meet at seven o’clock and it’s already 7:10 and he’s saying he’s going to be ten minutes late. I guess that’s not counting the ten minutes that have already passed?

  When he finally swaggers up to the corner, I don’t even remember how long I’d been waiting or how much I hate it when guys are late, because
he looks even hotter than I remembered. Every hair is perfectly in place on top of his head, his camel-colored coat looks freshly dry-cleaned, his black button-down shirt freshly pressed, and he’s wearing dark jeans with a Goldilocks fit—not too big, not too small, but just right. And he’s sporting old-school white Stan Smiths, which melt any tomboy’s heart. “I love your earrings,” he says with one hand just barely touching the bottom of the dangly sparklers I borrowed from Gemma. He places his other hand on my shoulder, drawing me in for a kiss on the cheek.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” I say, smiling. I still can’t believe this is happening—a first date with J-Baker to see my Celtics take on his New York Knicks.

  “Even out of the doghouse for being late?” he asks, still with one hand fixed on my shoulder, sending warm blood singing down to my fingertips. This time I’m certain—it’s not the chill in the air, but definitely him. “Sorry about that, got held up finishing this deal at work.”

  I nod, dismissing any care I would have about him being late. I’m just happy to be slinking past the crowd into a VIP elevator that takes us straight to his club box. He opens the door for me and I gaze around the room—from the trays of sushi and crab cake sliders lining the marble counter along the back wall, to the bartender with Playmate-style platinum blonde hair twirled up into a bun on top of her head. Her Knicks jersey looks like it could fit one of my old Cabbage Patch Kid dolls. No wonder he has season tickets. There’s a crowd of five or so finance-looking guys in polished suits with their ties undone, each holding what looks to be a scotch or whiskey on the rocks. One of them breaks free—with a huge grin on his face—to come say hi.

  “Dude,” he says, giving J-Baker a high five, “you didn’t tell me you were bringing the traffic girl.”

  “Todd, this is Guiliana,” J-Baker says, beaming. I never ride the coattails of my gig, but if it makes him smile like that, I’ll take it.