The mornings were miserable enough. Rachel and I sometimes carpooled to work, and she started calling my evil morning alter ego “Lilly,” after the name I’d give the Starbucks baristas to write on my cup. I’ve never understood why Starbucks employees don’t realize their early-morning customers have not yet had their early-morning coffee and are not yet perky or peppy enough to chat. If I ran a Starbucks, I would tell my employees that, before 9:00 am, they had to be grumpy and irritable. It’s much more relatable.
Most days, “Lilly” drove to work by herself. My roommates would cheerfully announce that they had gotten all of their East Coast phone calls done on the way to work. But in the morning, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Some mornings I’d listen to music on the radio, or to NPR, or, more mornings than not, nothing. Just staring, in silence, at the endless bumpers before me. The agency’s office was off of Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Those first few weeks during the drive from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills, every sign I passed seemed like a prop in a film. Beverly Hills wasn’t a real place, was it? And Rodeo Drive? I mean, come on, that was just where Julia Roberts went shopping in Pretty Woman. Even Wilshire Boulevard sounded sort of regal, not at all real. It was disorienting and, though I desperately tried to suppress it, depressing.
During those first months in LA I reported back fanatically to friends and family on the East Coast:
“I absolutely love it!” I’d say.
“We live only blocks from the beach!” (Twenty-six.)
“I can ride my bike everywhere!” (I didn’t even have a bike.)
“Traffic? Ha! I haven’t seen a bit!”
I concocted these lies because I couldn’t bear to admit the truth: many a morning, I welled up thinking about the leaves on the trees in Connecticut. It was October, and I desperately missed fall foliage. I missed leaves of any color, for that matter. I missed trees. I thought for the first several months that the thermometer in my car was broken because it always said 73. I hated the sameness. I hated that it was always sunny. I wanted it to rain. Though I had abandoned my longing for a cozy wool sweater, I wanted to at least be able to wear pants. Or put on a pair of socks. While my East Coast friends were wrapped in fleece watching football, I was sticking to my seat in stop-and-go traffic. I thought nothing was more depressing than mid-day, mid-week in Los Angeles—so hot, so bright, too still—nothing but sharp angles and exaggerated shadows. High noon was an unsettling, sunshine-y nightmare, and I totally, completely hated it.
Bam
Like a zookeeper, the concierge comes to shut me in the box. There’s no handle on the inside, so I can’t shut myself in. The door always seems swollen, no matter what the weather, and requires a rather startling BAM to shut.
After placing my book, laptop, and notepad in a neat stack (if I am going to break the “one item at a time” rule, I figure I need to keep it tidy), I tap on the glass to get the concierge’s attention. He turns around, and I write with an imaginary pen in the air. He nods, then writes the hotel’s Wi-Fi code on a piece of paper and holds it up to the glass. I jot it down on my yellow legal pad and give him a thumbs-up.
I enter the Wi-Fi code. It doesn’t work. I enter it again. Still, nothing. I knock quietly on the glass. No one notices. I knock louder. No one notices. I knock again, this time really rapping on the thing. People in the lobby probably think the Box Girl is having some sort of emergency. And you know what? I am having some sort of emergency. There is no way I am sitting in here for seven hours with no Wi-Fi. The concierge turns around. I wave toward myself and mouth, “Come here for a second.” He jerks open the door and I tell him the code won’t work. He goes back to the front desk and returns a minute later, explaining that he forgot a number when he wrote it down the first time.
I didn’t mean to cause a scene, but I cannot sit in here for seven hours with no Internet. I will go crazy.
But maybe without it, I’d actually finish a book. Maybe, come to think of it, it would be like a seven-hour vacation. Maybe I’ll take this piece of paper with the Wi-Fi code and use it as a bookmark. That’s what I’ll do. Watch me go. I’ll be done with this book in no time.
I read a page and a half. I am distracted because my laptop is staring at me. That little slit on its side is “breathing” its creepy electronic breath at me. Also, the Apple logo looks so strange from this angle. Had I ever noticed there was a bite taken out of it? I don’t think I had. My laptop looks so funny all folded up like that; I rarely see it closed. It’s so slender when it’s shut. Like a rectangular silver clam. A clam with wonderful little pearls of procrastination inside. A clam with . . . okay, enough with this clam metaphor. Just give me the damn laptop.
I reach for it. I open it. It lights itself up, so delighted to see me.
I shut it. I’m not doing it.
I read three pages. The stupid computer is still breathing at me. Its breath seems labored. Is it dying? Is it lonely over there?
I bookmark my page with the piece of paper with the Wi-Fi code on it. I open the laptop. I retrieve the piece of paper from book and enter the Wi-Fi code. I click on Safari and I start to scroll. The lines have been cut. I am officially untethered. I’m out to sea.
Now the book looks abandoned, shoved behind the mattress. I pick it up, caress its cover as if to say, “I’m sorry,” and use it to prop up my laptop.
The Various Positions in My Rotation
Typically, when I first get inside the box, I slide onto my stomach and face my laptop with my legs crossed at the ankles. Reaching behind me, I pull out my hair so it spills over my shoulders. I wipe the excess lip gloss from the corners of my mouth and rub what I removed into the back of my hand because there is nowhere else to wipe it. I get my shorts just so. I like the elastic band rolled over and hiked down so a sliver of skin shows between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my shorts. I’ve decided this is slimming. I’ll stay this way for about a half hour—until my back or elbows or neck or all three begin to ache.
There’s no perfect position in the box. Without a chair, I’m working with a very limited set of options, and the most comfortable positions are not the most flattering. The ergonomically-correct-yet-aesthetically-pleasing tango is sort of a nightmare.
Thus, I have outlined some of my favorite yoga-inspired box positions. Except I don’t do yoga, so I have a very limited knowledge of the poses. I think there’s one about a dog and one about a child, but other than that, they all look like some sort of one-legged bird to me. But don’t despair, I can work around this, and with practice and patience, even you can master the most challenging Box Girl poses.
The Slender Typist
We’ll assign this name to the dependable default position I described above. For the yogis out there, this position is reminiscent of “chaturanga” (I looked that up), except you will find it much easier than chaturanga because you in no way have to hold yourself up. This position engages absolutely no muscles and is definitely bad for your neck.
PROS: Slimming.
CONS: Neck pain, elbow numbness, loss of feeling in fingertips.
The Indian Princess
For this pose, sit facing the front of the box with your legs crossed in the position formerly known as “Indian style.” (I hear nursery school teachers are now going with the more politically correct “pretzel style.”) This pose is akin to the “lotus” position in yoga (I think), except you don’t have to fold your feet up on top of your thighs because that would be weird. Thus, you will find it much more comfortable. Once in the position-formerly-known-as-Indian-style, place your laptop on your lap. While this pose risks exposing a certain private area, it can be sustained for many hours.
PROS: Good for typing over prolonged periods of time.
CONS: Crotch shot. Laptop can get very hot on bare legs. Makes you look sort of squatty. See also: neck pain.
The Downward reader, with the Side-reader Variation
The Downward Reader is an excellent option if you are reading some
thing that is lightweight, like a paperback or a Kindle. This position is very simple: Lie on your back and hold your book in front of your face. This pose cannot be sustained for very long, however, because your arms will get very tired. First, they will feel hot, then heavy, and then eventually like lead. Plus you will sort of look like a dipshit holding a book right in front of your face. If you are experiencing any of these sensations, I’d suggest moving into the Side-Reader Variation pose. For this, roll onto your side, lean your weight on one forearm, and hold your book in the corresponding hand. This will free up your other hand to turn the pages. This position comes in handy if you are reading something heavy. Unfortunately, after about fifteen minutes, the supporting arm will start to tingle, and after an hour, it will go completely numb.
PROS: Slimming. Reading is good for you.
CONS: Loss of circulation to arms. Possibility of looking like a dipshit.
The Sleeping Booty
The box-adapted sleep poses will remind you most of the end of a yoga class. Sleeping positions in the box are tricky. There are four variations, none of them good. You can lie on your back, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You will look like you’re dead. (Consequently, this is called the “corpse” position in yoga.) This will be alarming for guests. You can lie on your stomach, but this is not very comfortable, and hasn’t your mother ever told you it gives you wrinkles? You can lie on your side, and face the lobby in a borderline fetal position, but then your open mouth is also facing the lobby, which is awkward if you drool and/or snore. Unless you look like the people in the Lunesta commercials when you sleep, I wouldn’t recommend this position. You can lie on your side and face the back wall in said fetal position, though while your drooling and snoring mouth will be hidden, your butt will be on display for the entire lobby.
PROS: Sleep is good for you.
CONS: Too many to list. Drink an espresso before your shift.
The Nutcracker
The Nutcracker is an emergency position that was developed in a moment of desperation. When it was “that time of the month,” I got my shift covered for reasons so obvious, they need not be stated here. One incredibly unfortunate night, however, I got my period while I was in the box and had to ask the male concierge if he could find me a tampon. For the rest of the night, I sat with my legs sealed together like a wooden nutcracker doll. This pose is very confusing for hotel guests who will wonder why you haven’t moved from the same position for several hours. Some might even wonder if you are, in fact, made of wood.
PROS: Good for posture. Strengthens lower back.
CONS: Mortifying. Confusing to hotel guests. See also: mortifying.
The No-Show, aka The Called-in-Fat
Say it’s Super Bowl Monday, say it’s the Wednesday after Christmas, say it’s a regular Tuesday. It doesn’t matter. This get-out-of-jail-free-card can be cashed in whenever you need it. If your thighs are not feeling quite toned enough for the unforgiving overhead lights, fear not. We’ve all been there. Pretend you have an audition. A very late audition that doesn’t start until eight o’clock. This is the yoga equivalent of not showing up to class.
PROS: You can sit in whatever position you want in your real living room.
CONS: You feel fat.
The Sly Pick
In the event you have any sort of itch to itch or wedgie to pick, you must do this very discreetly. I suggest fixing these things on the fly, while transitioning from one position to the next.
PROS: Problem solved. Comfort.
CONS: There’s really no subtle way to pick your wedgie in a glass box under a spotlight. I am just trying to make you feel better.
She’s Got a Good Booty for a White Girl
People in the lobby assume I can’t hear them when I’m in the box. Perhaps it’s from watching too many crime-scene TV shows, but there is something about a glassed-in room that makes people assume it’s soundproof.
It’s not.
If I choose to listen, I can hear everything. I can hear the drunk couple at the end of the night—her hanging on his arm like a koala on a branch—asking how much for a room for the night. I can hear the group of guys debating between The Sky Bar, the Chateau Marmot, or the strip club, as well as the unanimous decision: “Strip club. Done.”
Most interestingly, I can hear any and all commentary about “that girl in the box.” Me.
Tourists, especially those with Southern accents, seem to ask the most questions. They’ll lean forward on the front desk, their bags still slung over their shoulders, and demand to know, “Well how in the hell long is she in there for?”
Sometimes, concerned parents ask, “Is it hard to breathe in there?”
But, the most-asked question by far is, “Can they go to the bathroom?”
When anyone finds out I’m a Box Girl, this is always the first thing they want to know. It is such a ludicrous question, I can’t resist giving a ludicrous answer: “No.”
“Are you serious?” they’ll ask. “For how long?”
“Seven hours,” I’ll say.
“What?” they’ll demand. “How do you do that?”
“Some Box Girls go in their pants, but I prefer to avoid liquid for twenty-four hours prior to my shift. Just dry out like a raisin,” I’ll say.
Of course we are allowed to go to the bathroom.
Like the questions, I also hear a lot of observations about, well, myself. One night, a young African American guy leaned over the counter and said to the male concierge, “She’s got a good booty for a white girl.” I lay there on my stomach, my booty behind me, stadium-like lights shining down upon it, and stared at my book, frozen. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Though I’m no expert, I’m fairly certain this means I have a “large” booty for a white girl.
I much prefer the question I’ll hear if I’m lying very, very still: “Is she real?”
This always makes me happy because I know mannequins don’t have cellulite.
Underdog
BOX GIRL RULE #5: Ultimately this is a modeling job and you must take care of your body. If you have severe bruises, bandages, or casts, you must wait until your body is healed and then ask to be put on the schedule.
My legs looked like a Jackson Pollock painting: several sharp slashes of red here (cuts from various thorny things), a drizzle of dots there (mosquito bites), a mysterious patch of puffy pinkness (poison ivy, probably). I emailed the box coordinator to get my shift covered. I didn’t explain why, saying only, “I don’t feel well.” I felt fine. But the problem was too hard to explain, especially to someone in Los Angeles, where there is no grass. My legs were torn up because my dad had asked me to mow the lawn a few days before, while I was home in Connecticut.
My dad, firmly planted in the one percent, cuts his own grass. He says it’s good exercise, but let’s be honest: It’s because he doesn’t want to pay anyone else to do it. He is an old-school man who’s worked for every dollar he’s ever had and refuses to waste a penny of it. My dad mows his own grass, drives his cars until the doors fall off, and organizes his own garbage to take to the dump.
While he is happy to spend money on things he really cares about—family, food, golf, a good Scotch—he absolutely loathes wasted money. Hell hath no fury like my father when he found out a Blockbuster movie was turned in late and we were charged an extra dollar per day.
He asked me to cut the grass because he had recently undergone knee surgery and couldn’t do it himself. His knee had been injured during a misunderstanding with a purebred Newfoundland in The Hamptons. He and my mom were spending a weekend with some friends who have a summerhouse in Southampton, and my dad was doing some late afternoon laps in the pool. Apparently his style of swimming—the two-armed flailing with a modified frog kick, which he calls “the backstroke”—alarmed the Newfoundland. (As it turns out, they are rescue dogs.) I can’t blame the dog, really, because with all the gasping for breath, the excessive splashing, and the arms straining over head, my dad’s backstroke does
sort of look like he’s drowning. Called to action, the two-hundred-pound dog dove into the pool to save my dad. In fending off the giant Darth-Vader-looking beast, my dad tore his meniscus. This, of course, was devastating to his golf game, and he would later joke that the damn dog should be put down. I think he was kidding.
In the fifth grade, my class created fish tanks out of two-liter soda bottles as a science project. This was every student’s favorite part of the whole year because we got to take home the tanks—and our very own goldfish. I dreaded this day for many weeks before, sick to my stomach thinking about having to flush a little translucent body down the toilet after I no doubt did something to kill it. When fish-tank day finally came, I lied and said my parents wouldn’t let me have one. Which probably wasn’t a lie.
My family’s relationship with animals has been historically lukewarm. When approached by someone’s dog, I attempt to speak with that syrupy talking-to-a-dog inflection. “There’s a big boy!” I’ll say, and pat, with four stiff fingers, the top of its head, never quite sure where it wants to be petted.
My mom doesn’t even attempt to pet the dog. She instead does a sort of skip-skip-shuffle-step and holds her hands above her head, which everyone knows is the universal canine sign for “Please get up on two legs and jump on me.” At which point, she really panics and proceeds to yelp like a dog that would fit inside a purse.
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