Box Girl

by Lilibet Snellings

  Jan and Beth’s parents were standing at Mile 3 and Mile 10. Somehow they didn’t see me at either stop. “I thought we should call the hospitals,” their mom said after the race. Their dad said, “Nah, I told her, if anything, you were at the bar.” At Mile 3, I would have agreed that either were plausible options: Before I got to that finish line, I was bound to either collapse or quit.

  But somehow, by Mile 10, I was still clicking along. I did not feel like I was going to fall over; I did not want to seek shelter in a nearby bar. Along the route, hundreds of locals lined the streets, cheering on the race participants. Bands played, gospel choirs sang, cars honked their horns, children handed out orange slices on their front lawns. Strangers rang cowbells and shouted words of encouragement. “You can do it! You’re doing great!” they’d say, a child perched on top of their shoulders, holding a hand-painted poster for Mom. The scene was incredibly moving. I felt like the whole city was giving me a high-five.

  Perhaps I got swept up in the momentum of all the roadside support, but mile after mile, I began increasing my speed. I went from running something slower than a ten-minute mile, to nine and a half minutes per mile to something faster than a nine-minute mile. A friend had told me, “At Mile 13 you’ll feel great, and by Mile 18 you’ll want to curl up in a ball and cry.” (This was a grown man.) As I approached the half-marathon mark—the distance that had at one time rendered me in need of an IV—I was shocked to realize that he was right: at Mile 13, I did feel great. Not fine. Not okay. Great.

  Twenty-six miles is a long time to reflect on what exactly it is you are doing. Living in Venice, in one of the few walkable communities in LA, I rarely even drive twenty-six miles. There is something pretty remarkable about the fact that the only equipment I am using to travel this distance is a pair of shoes and my body, I thought. My legs, my lungs, that’s it. I started to hit a plateau of sorts, where my legs were turning over comfortably and confidently. To use a running cliché, I hit my stride.

  At Mile 16, there was a huge hill, the incline of which stretched for almost three-quarters of a mile. People were peeling over to the side, walking, some stopping to throw up. I pumped my arms and popped up the hill on the balls of my feet, focusing on the ground in front of me. Somehow, while summiting that hill, I still felt great. How is this even possible? I thought. Maybe it’s the mini Dixie Cups of Gatorade I’ve been drinking along the way? Maybe it’s the Goo packets? The Advil? I was at a loss. In what was most certainly a risky move, I decided to speed up on the hill. Save for when I blew by a row of Porta Potties, it was the first time I passed anyone. I picked off one person, then two, then many.

  Well that was fun, I thought as I whizzed past a pack of people. Suckers. All of a sudden, I was channeling that inner child who loved beating the Bugle Boys off the kids in my fifth-grade class. In the most unlikely of places, somewhere around mile seventeen, I was remembering what it was that I loved about running in the first place: It was fun. As children, we ran because it was our favorite way to get from one place to the other. It was instinctive, automatic. Have you ever seen a child walk toward a playground? Maybe if he was holding an ice cream cone. Maybe. As a kid, running was a reward, something we got to do when we busted out of the confines of our schools, or our homes. (Unfortunately, I think that fun gets hammered out of it around age ten when team sports become more competitive and running is turned into a form of punishment. “If you’re late for practice, you have to run five laps,” coaches would bark.) By channeling my Keds-wearing, sockless, fifth-grade self, I enjoyed running the marathon. This is a race, I thought. A race is meant to be fun. When children race, whether it’s while hopping in a potato sack or with their ankles tied together, it is something to look forward to.

  Plus, passing those people felt good. Suddenly the competitive spirit I had suppressed for so many years was finding its way to the surface. Who was I kidding? Of course I cared how I did. Of course I wanted to do well. I was not just the math teacher from Long Beach doing a marathon just to see if he could finish. I was a real runner, damnit.

  After the hill, the St. Johns Bridge crossed the Willamette River for most of Mile 17. A bunch of red balloons bobbed in the air forty yards in front of me, tied to the back of a pacesetter. He was surrounded by a large pack of runners trying to stay on target for a four-hour finishing time. I can’t believe I caught the four-hour group, I thought. For the first several miles, I was moving about as fast as a toddler crawls. Actually, I think toddlers are faster. Because I knew there was no way I could complete a marathon in less than four hours, I settled in behind the group and steadied my pace. Just keep it right here; follow them for the duration, I thought. But those stupid red balloons were taunting me: “Betcha can’t catch me.” Oh, I betcha I can. I sped up again, passing the four-hour pace group, and everyone else on the bridge.

  I know this sounds deranged—I must have been really dehydrated and totally delirious, like a lost backpacker in Death Valley who hallucinates a river, but in addition to being very hydrated, I felt absolutely, euphorically, amazing. So amazing that the marathon felt easy. Too easy. Again I berated myself. Maybe I am actually good at running marathons, I thought. Why had I so underestimated myself?

  Racing through Mile 18, I was overcome by the realization that I had barely trained, and yet, running a marathon felt easy. I was angry at this half-heartedness that had followed me through my life, that had plagued my college career. I thought back to my cousin’s valedictorian speech, bemoaning the “what might have beens.” Why didn’t I train harder? Maybe I could have been competitive? Maybe I could have qualified for Boston? Why do I always do this? Why do I give up before I know where I could really go with something? Maybe I shouldn’t have quit the team? Maybe, who knows, maybe I could have been an elite marathoner, like so many of my former teammates? What if? What if? Goddamnit what if?

  I grabbed a cup of water off a table at Mile 19, took a small sip, and tossed the cup behind me. I wonder if my brother ever tallies the what-ifs, I thought, steadying into my stride. He was something of a golf prodigy as a child, winning tournaments all over the country. He went on to play for the University of North Carolina, where he had a mediocre collegiate career. Now he watches as many of the guys he used to beat as a junior—Trevor Immelman, Bubba Watson, Lucas Glover—win The Masters and the U.S. Open. I am sure he must sometimes wonder what if. What if he had trained harder in college? What if he had given it his all? Could he, too, be winning major tournaments? I should ask him about this next week, I thought. But I never did. I knew he’d just give me some sarcastic response. That’s another thing he and I have in common: We use humor as a defense mechanism.

  I targeted the next pack of people in front of me. The what-ifs weren’t relevant now. Beating myself up over my lack of training wasn’t going to do any good at this point. There was nothing left to do but run as fast as I could. As I passed the twenty-mile marker, I focused on how many people I could pass in six miles.

  I focused on lengthening my stride, using the reserves I had leftover from my very conservative start. I quickened my pace and continued to pass people—as many as I could catch—for the rest of the race. Someone from the sideline yelled, “Great pace, green!”—I was wearing green—“Way to finish strong!” I wanted to yell back, “You know what, I feel fucking strong!” He was flanked by children, though, so I gave him a double thumbs-up instead.

  Even if it was from a stranger, I enjoyed this acknowledgement. As it turned out, I liked knowing that someone was watching. Why hadn’t I told more people I was running the marathon? Why hadn’t I made my parents come watch? But I knew why: In the event I failed, there’d be no one there to witness. I had fooled everyone—even myself—into believing I wasn’t going to try. That I didn’t really care. But somewhere along that twenty-six-mile journey I realized: I did care. Of course I cared. I will always care.

  With less than a mile to go, I pumped my arms and got up on my toes, which, in runner speak, means I
ran really fast. I rounded the last corner, where there was actually a fat lady singing—nice touch, Portland—and blew through the final stretch like it was my own personal Olympics. On the other side of the finish line, race participants were in various forms of crumpled. Those still standing walked like they were drunk. I know I sound like a mental person, but I could have kept running. It was just like that day in fifth grade, when I wished I had run faster and beaten everyone by even more.

  There’s a framed picture of me running across the bridge during the marathon, and people will look at it and say, “Are you smiling? You’re such a dork, I can’t believe you smiled when you saw the cameraman.” But I didn’t see the cameraman. I was just smiling.10

  10 In an ironic twist, in June of 2012, I was on the cover of Runner’s World. Not as a runner, but as a “fitness model.”

  I Love You!

  A very drunk man with a very thick accent somehow wiggles himself behind the concierge desk, trips toward the box, and bangs on the glass with both fists, bellowing, “I love youuuuuuuu!”

  The concierge grabs him gently by the bicep and says, “Sir, she cannot interact with the hotel guests. Please move away from the box.” I can’t help but feel sorry for the guy. The man steps back and almost falls over, then stumbles, one leg crossing in front of the other, toward the elevators.

  Diorama

  I just tossed my head back, slapped my thigh (which is bare, so it hurt), and let loose a wild deluge of laughter, swishing blonde strands across my back. I’m on the phone with Heather, and she’s pretty funny, but not that funny. Lately, I’ve been catching myself indulging in such theatrics while I’m in the box.

  Fearing that the artificiality of this whole situation has rendered me something less than human, I find myself overacting. See, people, I am real! When I’m reading something that’s funny, I laugh hard. Much harder than I would in my real living room. And that night when I cried in the box, I have to wonder: Did I enjoy it? Just a little? I think I did. Over here, people, see? I cry real tears! Look at them! They’re wet! And my snot is snotty! I am not just a cardboard cutout in a diorama! The false reality of this set has made me hyper-real—an exaggeratedly human version of myself who relies on explosive guffaws and dramatic, arms-stretched-high-above-the-head yawns.

  Bathroom Choreography

  I shouldn’t have brought this bottle of water into the box with me tonight. I’m not even halfway through the shift, and I already need to go to the bathroom. Here goes nothing.

  In order to get out of the box to go to the bathroom, I have to pull off the following tricky and somewhat humiliating maneuvers:

  1.Crawl across the box on my hands and knees.

  2.Push open the door with a rather forceful shove.

  3.Hang the top half of my body off the end of the mattress.

  4.While hanging upside down, reach below the mattress and retrieve the stepladder.

  5.Open the stepladder and place it next to the box, still hanging upside down.

  6.Fling my legs out from under me so I am facing forward in a sitting position, my legs dangling below.

  7.Step down the ladder while steadying myself with the handrails.

  8.Collapse the ladder and put it back into the storage space.

  9.Retrieve my jeans, shoes, and sweater or sweatshirt from my bag, which are stored next to the ladder.

  10.Dress myself in these items, pulling them over my uniform while standing next to the empty box.

  I have noticed this process attracts some attention. Because it is something of a production, yes, but also because the people in the lobby can’t believe this perplexing creature is allowed out at her own free will. (Or that she stays in at her own free will.) And that she wears regular human clothes. It will be during one of these transitions that I’ll see a group of guys elbowing each other, saying something like, “Dude, dude, check this out,” while pointing a beer bottle in my direction.

  I’ve decided it’s the same sort of fascination and horror fourth graders have when they run into their teacher in the grocery store parking lot. Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mrs. Belote has kids? She drives a car? She shops at the same supermarket as us? She’s . . . she’s . . . real? I know I felt that way. I guess I always assumed all the teachers at Farmingville Elementary School slept under their desks. It never occurred to me that they paraded about in the real world, buying iceberg lettuce and wearing the same tennis shoes as my mom. It’s unsettling to see something outside the only context you know. I hate to burst the hotel guests’ weird art installation fantasies, but I do not live in here. This is not my only outfit. I use the bathroom just like you! I can climb up and down ladders! I ate a Crunch Wrap Supreme from Taco Bell on my way to work!

  Outside the Box

  There’s a standup comedian in the lobby bar tonight. It’s hard for me to hear him. It’s also hard not to wonder if he’s telling jokes about me. I’m such an easy target in here. I eventually give up trying to listen and put in my headphones.

  A few minutes later, I get up to go to the bathroom. As I wheel around the corner, I almost trip over the people in line. This is a first. There is a line. Normally I can just zoom in and out; I’m back in the box before anyone notices.

  “Oh,” I say, and take my place in line, self-conscious of the fact that wearing jeans over my white shorts makes it look like I’m wearing a diaper.

  A man, fiftyish, standing in front of me asks, “How are you tonight?”

  “I’m good,” I say. “I mean, I’m in the box.”

  He must have thought this was a figure of speech like, “I’m in the zone.”

  “Are you enjoying the comedian?” he asks.

  “Well, I can’t really hear him,” I say, shaking my head.

  The man nods in agreement.

  “He’s not projecting his voice very well. You must be sitting in the back like me.”

  “Yeah,” I say and nod politely, not sure what to do with my hands with no drink, no purse, and no phone to fiddle with.

  A minute later a thirty-something guy with shoulder-length hair gets in line behind me. He points at me, then at the empty box, then back at me.

  “No . . .” he says. “You’re the girl in the box?”

  “Yep, it’s true, they let us out to go to the bathroom.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way.”

  “How long are you in there for?”

  “Four hours,” I say. “It used to be seven.”

  “Yeah, I remember coming in a couple years ago, and you guys were in there forever.”

  I smile, half-laugh, and go into the bathroom. When I come out, he’s still there, leaning against the wall, thumbing his iPhone. He stops me as I walk past.

  “Hey, sorry,” he says. “I’m just so curious.”

  “It’s fine, a lot of people are.”

  “So you can do whatever in there?” He seems genuinely bewildered.

  “Yeah, there’s Wi-Fi and everything,” I say, tapping my fingers over an imaginary keyboard.

  “And you can talk on the phone?” he asks.

  “Yep. There really aren’t any rules. We can even sleep.”

  A hotel employee walks by, so I start inching back toward the box. “Sorry, but we’re not supposed to ‘fraternize’ with guests.” I put air quotes around “fraternize.”

  “Well, I’m not a guest,” he says. “I’m a guest of a guest. I have a real home. I mean, I have a home. I mean, I don’t live here. I mean, I’m not a guest of the hotel.”

  He lets out an embarrassed laugh and asks, “Would you like to get a coffee sometime?”

  “I’d love to (I lie) but—”

  “Let me guess: boyfriend.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, right,” he says. “I had to try. You just look so good in that box.”

  Amsterdam

  I’m in the box sifting through old emails, the ones collecting dust at the bottom of the inbox, clicking “unsubscribe” whenever I can. I’m on
an unsubscribe spree—J.Crew, MoveOn, Rent The Runway, Alzheimer’s Association, Goodreads, Victoria’s Secret. I scroll to the bottom, find UNSUBSCRIBE, which is usually in caps but always buried at the very end, click it, enter my email address, breathe. Wait, maybe I don’t want to unsubscribe from J.Crew. They do have great sales . . . but they send three emails a day.

  This is what I’m doing when I hear the words that shattered my sense of separation and safety. Standing at the front desk, a man with an indistinguishable accent eyes me and curls a thick finger at the concierge to signal, “Come here.” He leans across the desk and asks, conspiratorially, “Is she for sale?”

  My eyes dart down at the man. His eyes are fixed on me.

  The concierge replies, “Oh, no, sir. No, no. She’s just part of the installation.”

  I stare at my computer screen, but my eyes won’t focus on anything. I feel totally naked. Does this man believe he can rent me by the hour? Take me up to his hotel room and have his way with me?

  Does he think this is like the Red Light District in Amsterdam? I went there while studying abroad in London, and I remember those streets and those windows—the rows and rows of ladies in waiting. For some reason, I remember one girl more than the others. Maybe because she was so young. She was wearing a nightgown and sitting on a stool in front of a vanity, combing her hair, waiting for a paying customer to pick her out like a puppy at a pet store. Probably not wanting to be picked out at all. That image and a single thought are burned into my memory: How did this beautiful young girl end up here? And now I can’t help but wonder: Are people thinking the same about me?

  All my nights in the box, I have never felt degraded. I’ve never seen it as something sexual or demeaning. I think of myself as part of an interesting experiment. But that man’s voice—so authoritative, so demanding—won’t get out of my head.