Transit Girl

by Jamie Shupak

  One new message from Twitter.

  @BanteringBen: WHAT’S UP WITH THIS CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC, @GuilianaLayne?

  Hmmm … looks like someone’s not worried about whether everyone at Banter—or anywhere—knows that we talk now. But I’m not sure I’m ready to engage with him publicly (and I’m definitely not in the mood to be witty or cute right now), so instead I send him a DM.

  OFF THE CLOCK NOW AND NOT FEELIN SO HOT, SORRY. CHECK THE BEAT THE TRAFFIC APP? WHERE YOU TRYIN TO GO?

  Forty-five seconds later, an alert pops up. One new message from Twitter.

  Direct Message from: @BanteringBen: WAS GONNA GO TO CNN TO SCOPE OUT THIS STORY, BUT GONNA DETOUR TO THE WEST VILLAGE NOW. YOU OKAY?

  WEST VILLAGE? FOR WHAT? I’M HANGING IN, JUST A LITTLE STOMACH ACHE.

  As soon as I hit send, I second-guess myself. No guy wants to hear a girl whining.

  One new message from Twitter.

  Direct Message from: @BanteringBen: WHAT KIND OF SOUP DO YOU LIKE?

  I pause and think about what I should say. Do I tell him what kind? If I do, does that mean he’s going to come over? I really don’t want him coming over here. Not when I look like and feel like this. I close my eyes just for a second; why not let him wait a few minutes while I figure out what to say? Well, here’s why not: The next thing I hear is my doorbell ringing. I dozed off! Shoot, what time is it? I leap out of bed, grab for the sweatshirt that was sitting on the end of it, and head to the door. I tiptoe over and open the peephole. Ben? Am I really awake, or is this a new nightmare? I check to make sure my boy shorts are fully covering my tush, I wipe the crust from my eyes, take a deep breath, and open the door.

  “This is why I live in a doorman building,” I tease him. “To keep strangers, and strange people, away.” We both laugh, and I notice a small brown Whole Foods bag in his hand.

  He lifts it up and presents it to me. “Soup delivery!”

  “You didn’t have to do that, ya know.”

  “No, but I wanted to. If you’re sick and out of work, who am I gonna write about?”

  “You just wanted to see the inside of my apartment. And how’d you get up here, past the doorman, anyway? And in what …” I check my phone. “Seventeen minutes?”

  “I have my ways,” he says. “And I do have to still get up to CNN for that story, so I’m not coming inside today anyway.” Today. So he’s planning on another time? “It was faster for me to take the subway the rest of the way from here anyway. Or I might CitiBike up the West Side Highway if my key works. It’s been giving me problems lately.”

  “I wish my CitiBike key was my biggest problem,” I say, peering inside the bag for the first time. I don’t want to get into it with him about Courtney and Zelda. “So what kind did you bring me?”

  “Since you ignored my question, I got three for you to choose from,” he says, starting to walk away.

  Three. For me to choose from. Is he crazy? I’ve never had a guy do that for me. But I don’t want to show him all my cards, not this guy, so instead I just smile. “Doesn’t everyone just go with chicken noodle?”

  “I’m not everyone, Guils. You should know that already.”

  He smiles back. “Thanks. I needed this. I have to be on my game tomorrow; a Toast reporter is coming over to spend the day with me. They’re doing a little profile on me and my new place.”

  “Oh look at you, Miss Fancy-Pants. So maybe I am coming inside today. I better make sure it’s okay for the Toast!”

  “Not a chance, Banter boy. Don’t you have to get uptown anyway?”

  He looks at the time on his phone. “Oh shoot, you’re right.” He starts off down the hall. “Let me know which soup is your favorite. I hope you don’t mind I tasted each one already. I’m clean though, swear!”

  Two nights, twenty-two logistical text messages, and three pitchers of Patron margaritas on the rocks later, we—Angel, two of his Filipino friends, Gemma, and me—are strutting into G Lounge You might think it’s Halloween and we’re dressed up as the Spice Girls—with our tight, colorful spandex and sky-high heels—but this is just another Saturday night at the infamous gay dance club on Nineteenth Street in Chelsea. The bass from the techno soundtrack thumps through the floor and into your body so forcefully that you feel like you’re dancing even when you’re standing still. There are fog machines in each corner with strobe lights attached, beaming straight up at the oiled-up bodies of hired male dancers. It’s baffling how their torsos can look slick enough to use as a Slip ’N Slide, but still their mini G-strings remain dry. At least from the outside they look that way, though it’s hard to see much of anything in this place except toned bodies grinding up against one another.

  “Look at him,” Angel screams in my ear, while pointing to a guy just a few feet away placing dollar bills into a dancer’s underwear. He is wearing a black muscle tank that perfectly showcases his sculpted biceps and jeans that look like they’d be too tight for me—and I’m half his size.

  “Let’s get some drinks first,” I announce to the crowd, and they all follow my lead toward the bar. We squeeze through the crowd and belly up to the see-through glass bar, highlighted by fluorescent neon lights that look like spaghetti strands of glowsticks. I order a round of tequila and tonics for the group, and the bartender lines up plastic cups and proceeds to fill them with ice cubes and then pour some bottom-shelf, no-name tequila atop. He splashes each with a thin layer of tonic, and when I look up to commiserate with Gemma over the cheap drinks, I see her face in her iPhone, fingers tap-tap-tapping away at a text message. I was there when she said goodbye to V-Dub earlier, so I doubt it’s him. Plus the look on her face tells me she’s up to something much more devious than simply updating her boyfriend on the scene at Splash.

  We head back to the nerve center of the dance floor, swigging down our cheap gulps of tequila, and form a mini circle, singing our hearts out to the dance version of Rihanna’s latest hit. It feels good to let loose. It feels good to sing and dance and sweat it out. I understand now that the dancers in the corners aren’t totally slicked-up from oil, but also sweat. It feels like a sauna in here—but instead of a room filled with women in hair turbans and cucumber-covered eyes, it’s hot, sweaty men with ravenous sexual appetites. A new group of boys approaches us with each new song, mostly from behind—Angel says this is how gay guys communicate, by thrusting their pelvises into our asses while holding our hips, moving to the beat of the music. I could get used to this. Nothing about it feels threatening, because they’re not into me and Gemma—not like that, at least. So we continue to dance with a round-robin of men—each more colorful both in their personality and outfit than the next—until Gemma grabs my hand to accompany her to the bathroom.

  But when we feel the fresh air wafting in from the open front door of the club, we decide to take a turn and go outside instead. Before we get to the door, I bend over and flip my head upside down, gathering all my sweaty hair in my hand to spin into a bun atop my head. It feels as slick as it does after spin class, dripping with sweat, so it takes me an extra second to sort of comb through it with my fingers. When I finally have it all within my grip, I bend back upright, flipping my head quickly to secure the bun, and call out to Gemma to make sure I haven’t lost her in the crowd.

  “Ge—,” and I stop, unable to believe what I’m seeing. It’s Jake Spears—with his arm around my best friend.

  “This is some Saturday night you got here,” he says with his typical sass. He looks hot in his zip-up wool sweater that’s unzipped just enough to reveal the top two buttons of his pale blue shirt, that compliments the slightly darker blue tone of his eyes. Before I allow myself to take in the rest of him, I shoot Gemma a look which should read something along the lines of What the hell are you thinking?? But she’s happy to pretend that this is normal, and welcome.

  She’s looking up at Jake, batting her eyelashes. “I never thought you’d actually show up.”

  So that’s who she was texting. I stand there sil
ently, feeling the alcohol that just moments ago was spurring pretty impressive dance moves now churn through every cavity of my stomach. The two of them turn to each other and there’s a look between them that I recognize—one I had forgotten about till now—a gaze so strong it would electrocute you in a storm. It’s the same illicit stare that poor tormented Courtney would give JR when neither thought I was paying attention. The thing is, people giving these kinds of looks don’t think anyone else notices. They think they’re being subtle. But they pack so much emotion and tension that they’re actually as loud as bloodcurdling screams. I am now deafened by what I see and tell them I’m going to continue on my route outside to get some air, but that they should go get us drinks.

  The cold is sobering, and my hands are now shaking as I grab for my phone inside my purse. The line to get into the club snakes around the corner onto Seventh Avenue so the bouncer is screaming at the drunken crowd on the sidewalk to either stand against the wall so he knows they’re in line, or continue walking. Since I’m standing still looking at my phone on the periphery of a group of partiers, he’s now directed his attention at me—“Hey you, girl in the pink, keep it moving!”—so I scurry through the group of honking cabs to get across the street. Once there, I decide to leave. It’s too hot in there and there’s too much drama I don’t want to be a part of. I text Angel to let him know and ask him to please keep an eye on Gemma. I start walking down Seventh Avenue towards home and decide to text Ben. He’s the only one who’ll understand this nonsense. And he brought me that soup the other day, so he’s in the business of comforting.

  YOUR FUCKING BOSS JUST SHOWED UP AT SPLASH.

  One new text message from Bantering Ben.

  HOLY SHIT. JAKE’S GAY?

  NO, BEN. HE CAME TO MEET GEMMA! WHO BTW, STILL HASN’T BROKEN UP WITH V-DUB YET.

  One new text message from Bantering Ben.

  WHERE ARE YOU NOW? COME MEET ME AT HUDSON DINER—MY BOYS ARE LEAVING, BUT I’LL STAY. IT’S ON YOUR WAY HOME.

  A few minutes later, I push open the door to the neighborhood greasy spoon and slide into the booth opposite Ben. I take a deep breath, with the smell of bacon and coffee permeating the air. It’s oddly comforting—the wafting scent of breakfast and the sight of his kind eyes. As I exhale, he places his hands on top of mine and looks me straight in the eye.

  “You okay, Guiliana?” he asks, now looking down to my hands, which we both notice have a slightly red, slightly purple tint from the cold.

  “No, I’m not fucking okay, Ben,” I say, looking around and realizing I need to lower my voice. “Jake fucking married Spears just showed up at Splash and is all putting his arm around Gemma like they’re all boyfriend, girlfriend or something.” As I’m whisper-screaming about what just happened, my phone begins to vibrate from inside my purse. When I see who it is, I take it out and throw it onto the table in front of us.

  One new message from Twitter.

  Direct message from: @JakeSpears: WHERE’D YOU GO? I WAS READY TO BE THE MEAT IN THE MIDDLE OF A G-SANDWICH.

  “And now he wants to have a fucking threesome with me and my best friend.”

  “Gotta respect a guy that tries,” Ben says, smirking. I wish I were in the mood to laugh.

  “She saw what JR did to me.” Now I’m waving my arms in the air, using hand motions to make up for whatever lack of decibel in my voice. “Why would she go and cheat on V-Dub? With a married man, no less?”

  “I doubt she thinks of it that way—in terms of JR, I mean,” he says, changing his tone to one that’s much more sympathetic. He looks at me the way I imagine a parent might look at his graceless, musically talentless child when that child has just asked if she’ll become a famous pop star. “And besides, we don’t know that they’re going to do anything tonight. They might just hang out and not be making out.”

  I shake my head in disbelief and pick up an extra fork on the table, sampling the cold leftover hash browns on his plate. It’s nothing like the sampling of hot soup from the other day, but it’ll do. “And right before our joint birthday party next week too. Poor V-Dub.”

  “Yeah, what’s the deal with that? I’m gonna be on the other side of town, and you know how hard it is to get a cab on New Year’s.”

  “Don’t even sweat it,” I say. Might as well pile on the disappointment now. It would have been fun to have him there—he’s really growing on me—but I know this much is true. “You wouldn’t want to be there in case Jake Spears shows up anyway.”

  “You think he’ll come? No way. Not when it’s Gemma’s boyfriend’s birthday!”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past her at this point,” I say, rolling my eyes and putting down the fork after cleaning his plate of any remnants of food. I tell him I’ve got to get to bed. He offers to walk me home, and for a minute, I hesitate. Part of me would love to have him in bed with me, just lying there—not even making out—but just to talk and well … be there. But I know I can’t. We’ve become some sort of friends now, and even though there’s an unspoken tension between us, I just have to be smart. I still don’t know what his motives are and if he’d write about me again on Banter. So I wait for him to hail a cab, and I stroll the few blocks home by myself. It’s better this way anyway, because I need as many good night’s sleeps as I can get before our big birthday–New Year’s Eve party. But my mind is reeling as I curl up under the covers and plug my phone into the charger. So before I flip the tab on the side to turn it on silent for the night, I toggle into my messages to text Ben. I just can’t help myself.

  YOU DON’T THINK GEMMA AND JAKE ARE MAKING OUT RIGHT NOW, DO YOU?

  One next text message from Bantering Ben.

  GUESS WE’LL FIND OUT SOON ENOUGH.

  CHAPTER 21

  “This is your first birthday as a free woman!”

  Gemma’s shouting, peering at me through the 0 and the 1 of those crazy, but always necessary, oversize glittery sunglasses in the shape of the new year—2013. I love that unusual, quirky behaviors are acceptable—nay, encouraged—on New Year’s Eve. There’s always an overwhelming sense of hope on this night; we get all dolled up and drink to forgive and forget the mistakes of the past year—and maybe make one more before midnight—then resolve to be better people in the year to come. I love my birthday for the optimism that, like a postsex glow, radiates from each drunken person’s face. And there’s plenty of tequila flowing tonight, which is helping Gemma and I reacquaint after our little tiff. Though this one wasn’t so little since it hit so close to home. She swears nothing happened that night at Splash. I said him just being there was something. She said I was being outrageous. I said she was being a whore. Then we didn’t talk for a few days.

  And here we are now, forgiving, forgetting, resolving—or, more accurately, drinking. She, V-Dub, and I pick up our round of chilled tequila shots. “Cheers,” I say, and look at each of them, knowing very well the two of them haven’t had as much luck getting over the Splash–Jake Spears thing yet—not that V-Dub even knows it’s about him.

  “Cheers,” V-Dub says. “To what shall we make it about?”

  “To you,” Gemma says, looking at me, smiling. “New year, new you.”

  “New year, new me!” I exclaim, and we all throw back the shot. As I place the tiny, empty glass back down on the bar, I feel a big, warm hand on my shoulder and I know exactly who it is as I turn around. “Ocean, hiiiii!” We kiss on the cheek and he places his hand on my lower back, drawing me in for a tight, long hug. I invited him here tonight to distract me from J-Baker. Even though our last encounter was somewhat awkward, I still can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t know what it is, but I’m drawn to him. And tonight I don’t want to call him, text him, or do anything dumb, and I knew Ocean would be the only one to hold my attention. I’ve always been into him—since the first time I met him, back maybe five, six years ago when he was working on an HBO documentary with JR. I was blown away by his soft voice and even-keeled temper. It seemed like nothing could rattl
e this guy. And his smile—he has these giant, bright-white teeth that shine like car headlights, in a good way. Just as easily as those lights are flicked on, so is my ability to make him smile, or so he tells me. He’d always pay me such simple compliments with such strong implications—like a hit pop song on the radio that sticks in your head immediately, and then hours, days later you find yourself humming its tune. And he has these sun-kissed highlights sprinkled perfectly throughout his blond hair that make him look like he just got back from a beach vacation—fitting for a guy named Ocean.

  He was one of the first of JR’s friends to reach out to me after the breakup. I think it was in October. He didn’t try to hit on me or mention the Boom Boom Room fiasco; he just asked how I was doing and quickly moved the conversation to a neutral topic: the New England Patriots. In the following weeks, he would text me every Sunday with his own play-by-play: “Can you believe that call?” or “We need to work on stopping the rush” or “Touchdown!!” Every Sunday I looked forward to his messages and would light up as bright as my iPhone screen when his name popped up. Or at least that’s what Gemma would tell me. Our text-based relationship turned into an actual one around week four, when he called to tell me he’d scored tickets to the Pats/Jets game. Those tickets are hard to come by—and they were box seats, no less—so I did what any levelheaded Pats fan would do when faced with this situation: I called out sick from NYNN and went.